The NoSleep Podcast - S17 Ep8: NoSleep Podcast S17E08

Episode Date: January 23, 2022

It’s Episode 08 of Season 17. Our spells will grab you and never let you go.“The Bonhomme Sept Heures” written by Manen Lyset (Story starts around 00:05:50)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – David Cummings“A Study in Solitude” written by Mark Nixon (Story starts around 00:18:20)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Zoe – Erika Sanderson, Zoe – Penny Scott-Andrews, Postman – James Cleveland, The Hollowed Man – Andy Cresswell“Smoke Trailer” written by Hannah Walton (Story starts around 00:35:30)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Kristen DiMercurio, Eleanor – Nichole Goodnight, Maisie – Danielle McRae, Mrs. Hyles – Wafiyyah White, Fireman Dave – Mick Wingert, Patrick – Kyle Akers, Crystal – Sarah Ruth Thomas“The Other Side of The Bridge” written by V.C Fern (Story starts around 00:56:35)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Mike DelGaudio, Chelsea – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Radio Host – Atticus Jackson, Paul – Graham Rowat“Under” written by James Carpenter (Story starts around 01:08:10)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator – Jessica McEvoy“The Tickers on The Train” written by C.E Bunyan (Story starts around 01:24:40)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Cory – Erin Lillis, Kayla – Mary Murphy, Jackson – Dan Zappulla, Milo – Kyle Akers, Elliott – Matt Bradford, Intercom – David Ault“What Waits Below” written by Maxwell Marais (Story starts around 02:05:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Peter Lewis, Captain Allard – Andy Cresswell, First Mate – James Cleveland, Crewman #1 – Graham Rowat, Crewman #2 – Jake Benson, Crewman #3 – David Cummings, William Audley – David AultThis episode is sponsored by:Truebill - Truebill is the new app that helps you identify and stop paying for subscriptions you donít need, want, or simply forgot about. Start cancelling today at Truebill.com/nosleep. It could save you THOUSANDS a year.Betterhelp - Betterhelp's mission is making professional counseling accessible, affordable, convenient - so anyone who struggles with life's challenges can get help, anytime, anywhere. Get started today and get 10% off your first month by going to betterhelp.com/nosleepClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamFollow The NoSleep Podcast on Twitter, Instagram, & FacebookExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“The Bonhomme Sept Heures” illustration courtesy of Mark PelhamAudio 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

Season 17 resumes with episode 8. We've got so many spooky tales in this one. It's like we're out of control. Out of control? Whoa, slow down there, boss. Let's get things under control. I was just exaggerating. You know, getting hyped for the episode.

Oh, so you weren't talking about taking control of your spending and finances? No, just the episode. What about subscriptions? Do you have any idea how many subscriptions you unknowing pay for every month? You probably don't want to know the answer. So why not skip to the part where you use True Bill and identify where you can stop spending and start saving?

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you thousands a year. Truebill.com slash no sleep. Well, I'm glad we got all that under control. Now we can bring on the chaos. You got it. It all starts right now. In times long gone.

In days of your There are legends and tales of dark folklore. Round candlelight and fireside, the tales are shared. Enchanting dark secrets in hushed toads declared. And from those days, both present and past, We beseech you now to brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Sleepless tales commence, fellow travelers. I'm your guide, David Cummings.

Well, season 17's long winter hibernation has come to an end. Feels like a good long, sleepless rest. And it is long when you've been trapped in a temporal prison, here and there, on the whims of a multiversal witch with unknown but sinister plans. And that's the thing, isn't it? This witch of the season of the witch fame, otherwise known as Joanna from season 16. Well, she's been lurking around. Mostly she's been committing minor crimes and inconveniences against me and the team, like disrupting our schedule, deleting our sound effects libraries, killing our voice actors, you know, small things like that. But trust

me. Her shadow is looming over everything. And if you ask me, it will be until the season's end. She's a dark presence, is Joanna. I can't even imagine a bigger threat. Ah, well, but things have been going well here at the No Sleep podcast headquarters as we head into 2022. As you may know, we celebrated our 500th episode last week, and going forward, we're working on many exciting things. We'll be opening those days. We'll be opening those doors later in the year. We're also preparing to launch one or two new initiatives, utilizing things like our Twitch and YouTube channels, social media accounts, and the podcast feed itself. So there has never been a better time to follow us on all those platforms, the links to which

can be found in this week's show notes. Ah, but here at the No Sleep podcast, one thing above all which has always been top priority for us is plot. And so we move from teasing upcoming projects to sharing this week's terrifying, tangled webs. In our first tale, we receive a timely reminder of this season's theme, folk horror, those tales of legend that linger in the consciousness of everyone who lives in a given area, a single village's superstition that might seem ludicrous to anyone passing through. But in this tale, shared with us by author Manon Lyset, we're reminded that even the most implausible urban myth can exist for an important purpose. So join me as I recount this particular incident.

Normally, we encourage you all to stay sleepless, but in this case, I must urge you to be home by seven so you can get to bed on time. Otherwise, you might meet the bonhomme set here. I've always been fascinated with folklore and by how people respond to it. Tell someone you saw Bigfoot or that you're, your apartment is haunted and they'll laugh or try to discredit you. Share a piece of folklore with someone and they'll sit there and listen with riveted interest. I used to wonder why folklore gets a free pass, but I think I get it now. Folklore is history. It's part of our cultural

fabric. It's far enough removed from us that while you can't say any of it is true, it's still a story worth sharing because it's part of where we came from. The age of a story gives it weight, kind of like how an 18th century haunted house has more credence than a haunted RV. Take the folklore out of its historical context and apply it to modern day, however, and you start getting those weird looks and snickers from people again. I found this out when I was a kid, and even though my parents were the ones who warned me about him, they wouldn't believe my run in with the infamous Bonom Settil. For those of you who don't know, the Bonhomme Seteur is a character from Quebec folklore. Translated, his name means the 7 o'clock man. Most regions have their own take on the Bonom Seteer,

but the way he was described to me as a kid was a tall, lanky old man with a long, crooked nose who'd roam the streets at night carrying a large burlap sack. He'd snatch up any child that stayed out past their 7 o'clock curfews. few, stuff them in his bag, and quietly leave town. The children would never be seen or heard from again. He was similar to the Sandman, in that the end goal was for children to be in bed by a certain time, but more frightening to me because there was nothing magical about him. He was just a guy with a sack and a knack for finding kids at night. He could have been real, I thought. And for the longest This time, the idea of him terrified me.

But then I got a little older, and my fear faded. It was nearing the end of December when it happened. With the sun setting as early as 4 p.m., it was hard to gauge time. My friends and I had gone straight to the frozen pond, turned outdoor skating rink, to play hockey after school. We started off five against five, with a few extra kids swapping in and out as parents came to poach others away. Eventually, it was down to just four of us, and by then we were all getting cold and hungry. Rene and Jean-Pascale took off together down Rue Principal, or what you would call Main Street, leaving Machu and I alone on the ice.

I hadn't quite learned to read the exact time on my analog watch, but I could tell it was getting close to seven. Now, that might seem a little odd to all those helicopter parents out there, who dragged their kids around on literal leashes and put GPS tracking software on their phones. But I was born in a very different era and in a place with an equally different culture. Back in my day, it was perfectly normal for kids to be out late into the evening. This was before parents started checking Halloween candy for nails, and when you actually knew your neighbors, rather than being afraid of human contact. I lived in a kind of rural suburban town hybrid,

native to Quebec. I don't think there's a real English translation for the word, but I suppose the closest you could get to it is a township. Our plots of land were big, but not so much that we couldn't easily run to a neighbor's house, if necessary. It wasn't quite farmland, but it also wasn't a bustling city. There were two main roads, one going north-south and the other east-west, a single school and only a couple thousand residents. Us kids would mostly get around on foot or on one of the two school buses servicing the entire township. The pond, the favorite winter get-together spot for us living on the north side of town,

was about a 25-minute walk from my home, and as my stomach screamed out again, I knew it was time to go. I waved my goodbye to Metchew and took off down the path of flattened snow. I looked behind me only once and saw him dragging his feet along as he walked circles around the rink. He'd once told me his dad liked having alone time after work, but I knew better. We'd all seen the bruises. He was in no hurry to get home. It was quiet that night, but I wasn't afraid.

The moon was high in the sky, and it's already refracted light refracted a second time off the blanket of snow. covering the landscape. Even as I entered a strip of woods, quartering off the town proper from our homes, I could still see clearly. I was going at a leisurely pace and feeling safe, until I heard a distant shriek cutting through the naked tree line. I think my cowardice saved me that night, because if I'd stopped to investigate, I'm sure I wouldn't be here telling you this story today. Thankfully, as luck would have it, my immediate reaction was to run, and oh boy, did I run. It doesn't matter how long ago this happened. I can still remember how it burned to breathe in the cold air as fast as I did, and I can still remember the sound of snow crunching with each

footfall. I kept up my pace as long as I could, but eventually slowed to a walk. Alone in the middle of the woods, I strained my ears to listen for any other screams. I was on edge and felt as though my body was wrapped in an electric current, which constantly flickered and drew my attention to benign things. Twigs, owls, rocks, everything was a danger. But the more danger you experience, the more desensitized you get to it. I slowly got comfortable again. Everything was fine.

I released the tension I'd built up in a loud sigh of relief. It was just a normal, quiet winter night. I was safe and alone. I stopped to catch my breath, and at first I didn't notice the sound of my footsteps persisted. But how could I hear the crunch, crunch, crunch of snow under my feet if I was standing still? The static of fear fizzled in the nook of my neck. The footsteps were heavy and slow.

They came once for every two I would normally take, but as I started running in terror, it was more like one for every four. Unless I listened carefully and searched specifically for them, they seemed to disappear in my chorus of footfalls. I would have looked back if my neck hadn't become stiff with fear, and if my mind hadn't been focused on keeping my pace, I would have looked back, if only to know how close or how far the source of the footsteps was. Maybe it was best not to know.

I cleared the forest, and I could see my porch light beckoning me like a lighthouse in the dark. A ten-minute walk away, but I could make it in five if I kept running. Even if my stamina should have failed me three times over, I still managed to maintain my pace. The stories my parents had told me of the Bonhomme Seteur ignited my engine, and the fear of being caught fueled my run. Finally, I jumped the wooden stairs up to my porch and swung open my front door. My parents didn't ask, or didn't notice, I'm not sure,

why I ran up the stairs into my bedroom and threw myself under my covers. I wanted to sleep, but I was wired. And then I felt a prickling sensation, like the feeling that tells you to check your closet for monsters. Mine told me to look out the window. Wrapping my blanket around me like a hooded cape, I slowly crept out of bed into the window, peering between the blinds.

And that's when I saw him. That's when I saw the bulls. Bonhomme Seteu standing in the street. The stories had it right. He was tall, but not inhumanly so. Old, wrinkly, wore tattered clothes but for an immaculate black preacher hat, and carried on his back a large brown sack. Some would tell me I imagined him entirely.

Others would say he was just a wanderer passing through. But everyone, and I mean everyone, tells me I'm wrong. about his sack. They tell me I couldn't possibly have seen it writhing and twitching as though someone inside were trying to break free. A bony old man, they reasoned, would never be able to carry a bag of children on his shoulders. Funny how they don't question that part when they hear the folklore,

only when you tell them it's true. He smiled at me and waved, sending a funnel of cold to drain out all the, the warmth in my body. Still holding the bag in one hand, he stretched out the other and gently tapped his wrist, as though motioning for a watch, and then wagged his finger disapprovingly. I dove for my bed and closed my eyes, praying he wouldn't come for me. I pretended to sleep, even as my parents came in to get me for supper. I stayed on that bed until morning, thinking it was the only thing keeping me alive. I only shared what happened when I found out the next day

that Mathieu had gone missing. No one believed me, of course. It was too far-fetched. Legends aren't real. After interviewing friends, family, and teachers, the police eventually arrested his father. I'm not sure what ultimately happened to him, since Matthew's body, was never found, not even to this day, as though a northerly wind swept him away. I'm the only one who believes the truth. The only person who knows the legend of the bonom setter is real. Being alone can be both a gift and a curse. For some, getting away from everyone can be a thrilling prospect.

For others, though, being alone means being lonely. Or worse, afraid. But in this tale, shared with us by author Mark Nixon, we're reminded that sometimes one thing can become the other, no matter how much you might think you enjoy the silence. Performing this tale are Erica Sanderson, Penny Scott Andrews, James Cleveland, and Andy Cresswell. So close the doors and lock the windows.

It's still isolation if there's a wall between you and them, right? Find out when we conduct a study in solitude. They cut down half the forest when they expanded the motorway in the 20s. Before then, I'm told animals like deer were a common sight outside the villages nearby. But since then, nature seemed to take the hit and withdraw. Nothing seemed to come out of that forest anymore. I grew up just outside one of these villages. My earliest memory is waking up at night and seeing a barn owl on my windowsill.

It seemed to wonder why I was awake. Of course, I don't know how it used to be, how the wood had seemed to grow in all directions, how it spread around the villages with only minor roads and occasional farmhouses such as ours to hold it back. These tales were just old stories, and you can't move in England for old stories. The only thing I ever noticed is that when my dad would cut down a tree for firewood, there never seemed to be any fewer trees the next year. Our house stood alone, separated just far enough to get its own postcode. If it wasn't for the occasional passing car, you could feel tough.

alone here. It's your shit! This was my third little scratch on the car. But it would be okay as long as I could hide it from my dad. He spotted these things righter. Oh, right. Alone. Aha!

Mostly superficial. Take that, Dad. Never mind the melancholy. Solitude was what I was here for. I was near the end of my second year of university. You know the year? You meant to party all through the first and then really settle down for a second. But if it only worked that way, eh?

Don't get me wrong. I've been working hard, but they've been far too much distraction. So naturally I'd fall into a constant state of panic. And after yet another stress call to mum, she suggested that a house sit while they were away. One three-hour drive later, here I was for seven days with no distractions. And the way the weather was going, looked like I were going to be snowed in too.

So I really had no excuse but to simply crack on. Hello, how? Well, that's it. I've already finished editing what I've written back there in... Jesus Christ, it were bad. Oh! It was like I'd just... Oh, vomited on the page.

Oh, come now. Honestly! But I did that in what? Two and a half hours. Yeah? This is actually a great idea. What's up? Oh, my books are all over the floor. My mum would have a fit, but everything was where I needed it to be.

Ah, can you keep still, actually? Uh, why? You keep cutting out. The signal's really shit. Oh, I'm too full of energy. This is what happens when I know I've got the right words in me. Well, should I call the landline? Ah, I'd got rid of it. Only people who used it were cold callers.

Hmm, good point. How long are they away? for anyway? Just a couple of days. Yeah, no, got a move, sorry, bud. I shouldn't chat for long anyway. Okay, sure. But yeah, I'm glad you found your headspace.

Lonely, though. All alone by the deep, dark wood. Not really, but it's nice at the moment. It's snowing and... Oh, it's snowing? Yeah. Did you get there okay then? Yeah, it wasn't as heavy as before, but it's really coming down now.

Oh, it's nice. What's that? You cut out again? I said, it's nice. How's your dissertation going anyway? Can you hear me? It's going pretty well. I came across something about your area, actually. I thought you were writing about Scottish folklore.

I am, but it blends into Northumberland, too. There's something about a hello man In the woods there There's some cracking illustrations actually Sam I can't hear a thing I can't hear a thing Sam I can't hear a thing

Hello Hello? Well, there goes the signal. Probably for the best anyway. Right. My productivity was soaring. I felt better about my existing work, and the words were practically flowing out of me.

Breaking only for the occasional glass of wine, I was soon another 5,000 words into my dissertation before I knew it. Then 6,000, 7,000, 8,000 even. But burnout began to rear its ugly head, and I eventually drifted off right there on the floor. Christ, must have... Oh, my, she'd drifted off. Oh, God, please tell me I saved.

Oh, thank God. Wait, what? They'd stopped snow in during the night, apparently, and it lay at least a foot deep. In the snow lay a trail of footprints, human footprints, footprints coming out from the wood and leading right up to the glass.

doors. The prince closest to the glass were deeper, as if someone had stood there for a while, looking in, looking at me while I slept on the floor. The prince also led away, in the opposite direction back to the wood. But the worst part, they were barefoot. I mean, it was morning now and it was freezing inside since the fire had gone out. But someone barefoot had walked out of the woods right up to the glass door and actually watched me. I had to at least show this to someone. Luckily, the internet wasn't as flaky as my mobile service provider. Of course, the internet signal had always been crappy or two. Didn't even know if it could legally be called broadband.

Like, you had to really want to watch a YouTube video to bear the slog. While I waited for the browser to load, I looked back out the glass. It must have been a drunk. The nearest pub was about half an hour walk away, but, well, you know what they say about northerners, not feeling the cold. Who we are? 10.30 last night. Sorry we got cut off on.

Hope you got lots of work done. Garris says hi. Winky face, winky face. Obijin. Winky face. Idiot. Oh, 1040. Here's what I was telling you about.

Creepy stuff. Okay. Forever waiting. I opened the email app and jotted a quick message to mum and dad. Miss you guys. Can I convince you to come back a day early? I'm sort of spooked.

No, wait. It's lonely here than I thought it would be, and, uh, just miss you. I was not about to tell my parents about mystery drunk footprints. They'd have a fit. Hopefully a soppy message would bring them home sooner. Christmas shopping in York can't be that fun anyway, and I'd certainly feel better. Oh, finally! So what on earth is this, Sam?

North East England's deforestation. We said nature had a way of taking something back. Wait, those buried near woods were reported to have been seen again by those in the villages. I'll get stuffed Sam, you spooky to act. Nope! I'd intended to share the photo of the footprints, but it's hard to be sincere when you're normally communicating animated gifts and emojis. Plus, I didn't want to think that I was upset.

Sam had enough on a plate. Oh! It was snowing again, coming down hard and fast. I sat there a while Watching it fall So it erased the footprints So too did it erase my anxiety For the most part

I wasn't sure what time it was Though I felt like I'd only had a few hours sleep They'd been a sound outside I was sure And while I sat there Breathlessly listening Thoughts began to swirl of what it could be Even now

Looking back I can't be sure Maybe there was a sound And maybe there wasn't Maybe I just liked to pretend I was more aware than I really was. I almost wish I'd been able to stay awake. I'd slept in, which wasn't unheard of, but it hadn't been an easy night. I could see from the kitchen window that the snow was still freshly thick,

and then the thought occurred. Despite everything, I'd made sure the curtains over the glass French doors have been drawn. I mean, wouldn't you have? I was almost too scared to look. Almost. Okay. One, two, three. Okay. Nothing, as expected.

Just fresh snow. Like ice cream ready for scoping. Fuck. Just a post. Wait, he's torn that to shreds? Christ, this is a mess. I don't think Dad would mind the Brexit leaflet being shredded, but... Oh, yeah, this is his bank statement.

Oh Excuse me Excuse me Oye I'm sorry Look Sorry to shout mate But you shredded these letters

But dad's really particular about these things He needs them for his tax returns And I'm sorry I didn't mean to I'm in a rush Lots to deliver today And the roads You okay?

What? Are you okay? What you're staring at? Is he else okay? Have you had some mates over or something? Wait, wait, wait, no. I don't know what's going on and it's not my business.

I have to go. Oh, where are my bloody shoes? Now, what on earth are you staring at? Footprints. Everywhere. They came from the wood again. To the front of the house, walked up the wall and simply kept going. They walked up the walls and they were bloody everywhere.

Fucking leave me! Those footprints were the same. Barefoot. Human. But no one could do that. And even if it were a prank, I'd have no clue how they could reach the height they did. I tried Dad. I tried Sam.

And of course it wouldn't fucking connect. It was coming from the glass French doors. I'd drawn the curtains again The sun had been reflecting off the snow Birds tap on the glass sometimes That was the first thing I noticed That and the cruel malice in its eyes It stood

Arms pressed against the glass Its skin was blue from the cold And yet it looked unfazed I wanted to scream but I couldn't God I wanted to fucking scream Oh wow you Won't you sigh.

I walk on the floor sometime later. Must have passed out. The thing of the window were gone, but its huge handprints were all over the glass. I think. I think it tried to get in. Mum and dad got my email and found me bracing against the front door that night. They had to fight their way in, poor sods. I wasn't the same again for a while, as you can well imagine.

Look, that's my story, okay? Let it be the fucking end of it. It's Fire! What do you do? Panic, scream, and run around recklessly, right? No, that is absolutely not how you should react when the building you're in catches ablaze. And in this tale, shared with us by author Hannah Walton,

we join a class of studious second graders as they learn the basics of fire safety. Performing this tale are Kristen D. Maccurio, Nicole Goodnight, Danielle McCray, Wafiawaffe, White, Mick Wingert, Kyle Akers, and Sarah Thomas. So try not to feed the flames of your anxiety. This is just a test. Ignore the chill going up your spine as you make your way through the smoke trailer.

Lenore stood in the damp November air, with her shoulders hunched to her ears. The pavement of Pembroke Elementary School's back parking lot was wet and freezing, and she imagined that she could feel the cold creeping up. through the rubber soles of her white Reebok sneakers, deadening the feet inside. She remembered the picture she had seen in a library book about the Arctic of a hand, fingertips blackened by frostbite,

and imagined frost corrupting her toes from the edges inward until the pink fleshy life had been corroded entirely by blue-black rot. It was a stupid thought, obviously stupid. Stupid is what her brother Jamie would call it. Intrusive, is what her mom would say. Either way, it amounted to the same. It wasn't that cold. Her toes were fine. She was silly for even thinking about it. The twisting knot in her stomach responded not at all to

this logic. Eleanor hunched her shoulders harder, the purple nylon of her puffy coat rustling noisily in her ears. She wanted to stamp her feet, just a little, just to be sure they were still healthy and safe. But she didn't want Mrs. Hiles to think she was being bad. Mrs. Hiles was already mad, had already shouted at the class for not being on their best behavior as they filed out into the back parking lot. Michael had given Cameron H. a flat tire on purpose as they walked, and Cameron H had gone careening out of single file, leaving his shoe behind entirely. As her classmates hooded and giggled, Eleanor had choked on a wild laugh, a product of startlement. more than amusement,

watching in horror as Cameron H. stumbled through a shallow brown puddle in one stockinged foot. If anyone was in danger of frostbite, she realized, it was probably Cameron H. Mrs. H. seemed almost as mad at Cameron H. As she was at Michael, and had threatened the class as a whole with a loss of recess. Now the group stood in chastised silence,

arranged in a solemn row in front of the truncated single-wide trailer that had been towed in during second period. Eleanor realized she was biting her lips, folding them inward and clamping them with her teeth so that her mouth became a featureless, straight line across her face. Jamie called this bad cartoon face and laughed at her when she did it. She made herself return her lips to a neutral position, even though it felt less safe somehow,

and turned her eyes to look up at the trailer. Sitting atop a high-wheeled base, it was shorter and wider than the school bus's part. parked nearby, with a door set into the beige plastic paneling at either end. There were two windows in the space between the doors. Despite its odd proportions, the trailer was supposed to mimic a home, Eleanor knew, and for this reason, someone had hung short blue gingham curtains in the windows, though they were only barely visible, the fabric eaten up by solid white fog

that pressed blindly and insistently against the glass. Whips of the same fog curled from under the doors when the air changed direction. You're doing that thing with your mouth. Eleanor released her lips from between her teeth, unsure of when they had crept back in. Maisie wasn't a friend, exactly. She seemed to regard Eleanor with a kind of cool, removed curiosity that sometimes verged on pity.

They did talk regularly, mostly as a function of their being next to each other in the line order that Mrs. Hiles had established to keep the bad boys apart. Eleanor often found herself thinking of Maisie with admiration and incredulity in equal measure. Even though Maisie's birthday was a full four months after Eleanor's, the younger girl seemed to have the sort of concrete fearlessness that Eleanor associated with adults. She didn't quite know why. You don't have to be scared.

Maisie stressed the word to emphasize its absurdity. It's not real. There's no fire. It's just practice. To Eleanor, the fact that they had to practice being in a fire indicated the inevitability of being in a fire and was in no way reassuring. This drill was not a precaution, but a grim reminder of things to come. That was stupid, or intrusive, though. And Maisie would think she was a baby if she said that.

I'm just cold. She gave her best try at a confident smile. Maisie studied her face, but did not smile back. A man in a heavy canvas suit and a fireman's hat had joined Mrs. Hiles in front of the trailer. A small and insistent voice piped up in Eleanor's head. Why does he need to be dressed like that if it's just practice? Stupid, intrusive.

Second graders, count off. It was Mrs. Hiles' way of getting their attention, making sure they were in the right order in line, and of assuring that no one had wandered off. They had just done count-off before leaving the classroom, so it seemed unnecessary. Eleanor guessed that Mrs. Hiles wanted to show the fireman how obedient her students were.

She waited until Maisie had yelled, six, before piping up with seven, and listened as the students behind her continued on through 15. Please give your full and best attention to fireman Dave here, while he tells us about this important activity. Mrs. Hiles stared with meaningful intensity at Michael, who blithely gazed back at her. Fireman Dave looked old, older than Mrs. Hiles, definitely,

with deep lines spreading out from the corners of his eyes and bracketing his wide, downturned mouth. I hear you kids have been learning a lot about fire safety this week. He surveyed the line of students with his hands on his hips. Well, that's good. That's real good. The best way to boost your chances of surviving an emergency situation is to be prepared ahead of time. No video or book is going to prepare you better than a real-life simulation, though. And that's why we have the Fire Safety Education Center here.

Eleanor thought that was an awfully grand title for the squat beige trailer leaking fog in the Pembroke Elementary Parking Lot. But she was afraid to smile. lest Fireman Dave yell at her. Now, who could tell me what to do in a situation where you're navigating a lot of smoke? Further down the line, Patrick's hand shot up. Without waiting to be called on, he shouted, Stay low to the ground.

Mrs. Hiles shot him a look, but Fireman Dave was nodding. That's right, young man. You stay as low as you can. To give you all an experience of what that kind of situation is like, We have the Fire Safety Education Center here all set up like a house. There's furniture inside just like you have in your house. And you need to get from one end to the other by staying low and just crawling straight on through. We're going to go single file on our hands and knees entering at that far end over there.

Any questions? A girl's voice from the front of the line. My house doesn't look like that. My house has stairs. Mrs. Hiles scowled at Crystal as a giggle rippled through the line. Fireman Dave chuckled. Well, that's okay, honey. This is still good practice anyway.

Anything else? Eleanor had a lot of questions. What is the smoke made of? Is it safe to breathe? What if I get stuck somehow? Can I sit out, please? But the line was already shifting toward the entrance to the trailer, and Fireman Dave opened the door wide.

The fog acted funny. Eleanor expected it to come cascading out at the first opportunity, but it barely shifted, apart from some wisps that curled and beckoned down the collapsible metal steps that unfolded from the threshold. She watched, as one by one, her classmates dropped to their knees and disappeared into the blind white fog.

She looked down, suddenly thinking to check what shoes Maisie was wearing, so that she could keep them in sight in front of her as she crawled. Pink rubber rain boots, with white polka dots. Maisie mounted the steps without hesitation and was swallowed up immediately. Eleanor made her way up one step, then two, then stopped. The solidness of the cheap trailer door

opening onto the shifting white void of vaguely sweet-smelling smoke suddenly made her sick. It wasn't right, like something out of her dreams, where the known world gave way to impossibilities with obscene and terrifying ease. Go on, sweetheart, it's your turn. Fireman Dave looked back at the line of children awaiting entrance. Eleanor forced her legs to lift her up the final step and bent forward, stretching her arms blindly to find the floor.

Her hands met carpet, cheap and rough, and she crawled forward into the fog. Down near the ground, she could make out the shapes of the furniture fireman David mentioned. It looked as though she was passing through a living room, with a television set and an armchair. She tried to go faster, looking for Maisie's boots ahead of her. The fog felt dense and wet in her lungs, and she wondered again if it would hurt her, if she should hold her breath. She crossed through a doorway and squinted around. Was this supposed to be a bedroom? She could see what looked like a floor lamp, a cabinet. Eleanor put her hand down.

onto something wet and cold, and too late realized that the knees of her jeans were soaking through. She wanted to cry. She needed to be out. She crawled faster, straining for some sign of Maisie's pink boots or of the doorway to the next room. There couldn't be more than one room. The trailer wasn't that long. Something dark and solid loomed out of the fog at her and struck her forehead hard. Eleanor put her hand up, first to her face, and then to the object. A metal frame. with a thin blanket spread over it, a makeshift bed. So this was supposed to be a bedroom. Why did they put furniture here,

where it was directly in the path that the children were told to take? How did Maisie avoid it? Eleanor raised herself up onto her knees and felt blindly across the cot. Was she supposed to crawl over it? Her fingers touched a smooth, unbroken surface. The wall? That wasn't right. She had been crawling straight.

The trailer was a straight line from door to door. Fighting the panic that squeezed her throat tight, Eleanor frantically spread her hands along the wall, groping for an opening, a doorframe. Finding nothing, she dropped back to her hands and knees and turned away from the cot, looking back through the fog for the next student behind her. Sarah.

Sarah had been behind her in line, was always in line behind her for count off. No one was there. Eleanor could see the lamp and the cabinet, but no Sarah, no anyone. The voice in her head shrilled at fire alarm frequency. You're going to be in so much trouble. You did it wrong.

You're stuck. It's your fault. Choking back a sob, Eleanor crawled back to the door she had come through. Back to the living room, as fast as she could on her raw hands and cold, wet knees. The fog was different now. It wasn't her imagination. It was thinner, darker, and acrid. like melting plastic or burning hair.

She could see more clearly. And as she looked about her, coughing, she realized that she wasn't back in the living room. Giddy with terror, Eleanor beheld the space before her. A cramped, tiny room filled almost entirely by a bed. Not a cot, like in the other bedroom, but a big, full-sized bed, fully made up with blankets and pillows

and a heavy, dark wooden headboard. Someone was in the bed. From her vantage point on all fours, Eleanor could see the figure propped up, its head and shoulders resting stiffly against the bed pillows. The covers were pulled up over its chest and arms as though it had been tightly tucked in, and its face was turned to stare directly at Eleanor.

Jamie had a shelf in his bedroom devoted entirely to a series of books about different scientific topics. Gemstones, outer space, deep sea life. When her brother was away at hockey practice, and her parents were preoccupied, Eleanor would sometimes pull one of these volumes off the shelf, filled with dread and helpless curiosity. It was a book about mummies, mummies from all over the world, from different times and cultures and circumstances.

Eleanor could look at the ancient Egyptian mummies no problem. They seemed to her sleepy and benign with their dark, papery skin and elaborate wrappings. The Incan mummies gave her a little thrill of fear, with their crouched postures and skeletal faces. But they were okay, too. The ice mummy was not okay. It was the reason that Eleanor's parent had banned her from looking at the book in the first place, after she had nightmares. And it was also the reason that she could not keep herself from creeping back to look at it in secret again and again. It wasn't an on-purpose mummy.

It was a man who had been buried in the cold. His coffin opened years later to reveal a corpse both remarkably preserved and horribly distorted. Eyes collapsed and flat in their sockets. Nose flattened, lips pulled back to reveal both rows of teeth. Crouched over the book in her brother's room, her stomach twisting and her heart-running rabbit in her chest. Eleanor examined how the corpse looked as though it had been restrained. The bluish, fish-white hands were bound with a... strip of cloth to the body's sides, and another strip wrapped under the jaw to tie at the crown of the

head. The voice in her head whispered. They did that so he couldn't get out. It was the ice mummy in the bed. It was looking at her through the scrim of black, stinking smoke. Its flat, dead eyes were wide and fixed. The flattened purple nose was wet and alive, nostrils flaring eagerly. Its bared yellow teeth ground together. Back and forth, straining against the strip of cloth binding its jaws closed. Eleanor realized that she could hear it, the minute scraping of teeth, the groaning and squeaking of ancient cloth and thawing muscle, the short gusts of excited breath.

Eleanor lost consciousness. In all his years bringing the old smoke trailer, recently rebranded as the Fire Safety Education Center to schools, Fireman Dave had never had a scene like this one. Sure, there were always some kids who were shook up afterward, who didn't want to talk about it, who froze up and refused to go in in the first place. Nothing like these kids, though. Some of them were crying,

talking nonsense about getting lost, about being alone, about bad smells and half-seen things in the smoke. He'd had to go in and retrieve that one little girl who had actually passed out. The EMTs had taken her away for observation. The trailer had been flushed of smoke. The doors and windows opened wide, and nothing was amiss. Same drab-old cast-off furniture and wall-to-wall carpeting in three small, spare,

consecutive rooms that had been there for going on two decades. Fireman Dave watched as Mrs. Hiles attempted to create some sort of order in the scene, bustling the children into a line. Okay, class, it's okay. Everything is okay. Eleanor will be fine. There is no need to be scared. Come on now, second graders. Let's count off. Macy, please say Eleanor's number as well as yours. It took a few moments, but the kids started reciting their numbers. Their voice is small. They counted once and again and again. Even with Macy taking over Eleanor's number, the count kept coming up short. Now that we're out of the smoke trailer, we need to pause to get some fresh air. It's the perfect time to mention one of our sponsors.

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mental health with the help of an experience professional. This podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp, and No Sleep listeners get 10% off their first month at BetterHelp.com slash no sleep. And what do you know? I guess that's an ad for better help. Completed, and that feels good. So good that I might just hop in the car and go for a drive as we return to the horror. Let's face it, driving can be scary at the best of times,

driving long distance in bad weather more so, even worse when the bad weather is snow and ice. Every corner, every curve is a potential death trap. And in this tale, shared with us by author V.C. Fern, we get to experience the promise of arriving home safely, or do we? Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, Sarah Thomas, Atticus Jackson, and Graham Rowett. So rotate that radio dial and check the traffic report. We're about to take a wild detour into fear as we reach the other side of the bridge. Chelsea Kowalski groan as her 2001 Ford Taurus struggled to reach 70 miles an hour on the highway.

She had been on I-75 heading northbound for a little over 10 hours. Chelsea was 22 and enrolled in college in Florida, where she attended Florida State University. However, Chelsea originally hailed from Bay City, Michigan. Therefore, every time it was a holiday, she'd have to trek hundreds of miles home. Chelsea longed for her sanctuary, her mother, her father, her high school sweetheart Paul, and her little black cat Nibbler. So here Chelsea was, hauling her hoopty up a steep incline amidst a snowstorm in late December, determined to return to Bay City.

Pat Benatar was coming in and out of the radio, competing with some Tupac from another station. Chelsea mused to herself about a love-as-a-battlefield and California love mash-up, and even let out a little audible giggle at the thought. Just then, the radio cleared for the announcer to deliver the news, occasionally being interrupted by static. What is up, Northern Michigan? You are listening to 102.7, The Buzz. And I'm your host?

It's currently 5 p.m. winding up the workday. December 21st, just a few days away from Christmas. Remember, folks, there is currently a winter weather advice. in effect until tomorrow. That means all you kiddos return for the holidays. Drive safe. Word has just come through that the Zilwaukee Bridge was closed due to an accident. So plan your route of course.

Great. Chelsea tapped her fingers on the steering wheel as the blizzard she was in bombarded her small car. The engine whirred and whined as it fought for dear life in the hazardous conditions. The Zilwaukee Bridge went over part of Bay City and was the easiest way to get there. Chelsea knew that the exit that let you off before the bridge was another way to Bay City, but she had never taken it before. She quickly found herself approaching her old stomping grounds, unsure of what to do. She could pull over and check her map,

but she wasn't sure if her car would be able to safely pull off the road and pull back on. Exit 171, Bay City, nine miles. The sign alleviated some of her anxiety as she saw the outline of the Zilwaukee Bridge. The megastructure monstrosity illuminating the darkening Midwest sky greeted Chelsea. The structure was massive, hundreds of feet high and built from Michigan concrete. Paul used to always tell the story of it to Chelsea when they drove over it. Chelsea fell back into the warm memory of Paul's sweet podunk drawl and his cozy pickup truck. And some businessman didn't like how long it took to commute from Flint to Bay City,

so he greased the palms of some certain governors and millions of taxpayer dollars. and millions of taxpayer dollars later, we got a big-ass bridge. Chelsea snapped from her musings as she approached her exit. Nervously, she merged right into the exit lane. The first thing she noticed was how steep it was on the other side of the exit. Her wheels creaked as she slowed down to 20 miles an hour, not wanting to take any chances. Jesus, take the wheel. Her eyes flicked to the rosary that hung from her dashboard.

She gulped as she descended the hill, hands white at the wheel. the knuckle from gripping her wheels so tight. Her thoughts fell to Paul again, how if she were in his truck with him, she would feel so safe coming down this hill. She thought of his denim blue jeans, thick woolly flannel, his bushy brown hair, and his deep expressive blue eyes. The thought of her love and her unshakable faith kept her calm as she drew to the end of the steep hill. The exit came to a crossroads where Chelsea could turn right or left. Bay City was to the right and to the left was the underside of this Milwaukee Bridge. Chelsea started pressing the brake so she could stop before turning right,

but they failed her. Her car screeched and skidded as it fishedailed and spun out of control. She fought to regain control of her vehicle, and as she said her little prayer, something must have been listening because her car stopped. The Ford was on the left side of the crossroads, facing the bridge. Chelsea put her hazards on and looked around, trying to calm down. The road had six inches of snow easily, and it was very narrow, one lane going each way.

There was no room to turn around. On either side of the road lay a deep ditch, reminding Chelsea how much danger she was in. She made the decision to follow the road until there was a decent place to turn around. Then she'd be home in no time. Chelsea took in her scenery. She sat below the massive bridge and beside an expansive river, frozen over, but still terrifying. The snowy wind whipped under the bridge and created a symphony of deep, horrifying noises. With resolve in her mind and faith in her heart, Chelsea lurched forward.

On her left were miles and miles of cornfields, and on her right was the frozen river. Both promised death should she crash into them as she was the only car on this lonely road. No one would find her. The radio cut in and out. Chelsea hated that song, so creepy. She saw something in the distance that seemed odd to her, a billboard. It advertised Mama Mia's Pizza, Bay City, eight miles. That put her off because she knew the restaurant.

It was, in fact, in Bay City, which was in the opposite direction. Chelsea's search for a turnaround got a little more frantic. Another sign caught her attention that made her uncomfortable. Bay City, five miles. To her knowledge, Bay City was completely in the opposite. direction. So how was she getting closer? She began to reason with herself. She had never gone this way. Maybe she had been too turned around and was misremembering things. Houses came into view, houses she recognized as being near Bay City. No point turning around now. She convinced

herself that she must have been going the correct way all along. Streetlights came into view and the snow let up a bit and an audible sigh of relief escaped her lips. Home, sweet home. The streets were barren, save for piles of snow and empty cars. Not unusual for a blizzard, and Chelsea was still on the outskirts. Slowly, she came to an intersection and looked around. A final sign greeted her. Welcome to Bay City.

And then, below that, established December 21st, 2020. Confusion flooded her. Was this some kind of joke? Bay City was an incredibly old place, and certainly was not found at that very day. Despite the red flag, Chelsea resolved herself to continue her journey. She rolled past the light and saw her first sign of life pumping gas at the local station. The man was facing away from her, huddled close to his salt truck, bundled up in Carhart and wool.

Chelsea smiled, feeling a little less anxious now that she wasn't the only one outside. The joy left her as soon as the man turned around. His face was featureless. He had no eyes, no lips, nose, or mouth. He was smooth like the undisturbed snow on the ground. Chelsea gasped and drove faster, desperate to get home. She was on 31st Street now. She only had to get to second in Lincoln.

As soon as she saw Lincoln, she turned, not caring if her car spun. As she drove, she saw someone walking with a dog. She recognized the dog immediately, as there were not many golden retrievers in that area. It was her high school friend Olivia and her dog Chip. Chelsea rolled down her window to call to her friend in a panic, but as soon as she did, Olivia's head snapped to Chelsea. Chelsea screamed as her friend's blank features tracked Chelsea's every move.

Her gaze turned to Chip. Even the dog bore no features, and he too followed her movements. Chelsea slammed her pedal to the medal and zipped down Lincoln Street as fast as her aging car would take her. Sobs racked her body as desperation filled her. She saw more and more people, all of them coming out of their homes with no regard for the blizzard, all lacking any features.

Chelsea screamed as she saw a big pickup truck blocking the road with a man standing in front of it. She slammed on the brakes, and her car spun and spun trying and failing to stop. Her Ford came to arrest on the sidewalk, now smoking from the engine. Life left the car as Chelsea tried fervently to start it back up. She looked out her window wildly and saw Paul's blank head right outside her window.

She sobbed as he put a hand to the window and drew a heart in the snow that clung there. Chelsea did not know how she knew, but she knew he was smiling. I'm sorry, Paul. She unlocked the door and put all of her power into shoving the car door into him. Chelsea sprinted past his forlorn pickup truck and glanced at the street. Fifth and Lincoln, almost home, almost to safety. Chelsea took in her situation. She was surrounded by the faceless residents of Bay City,

each of them slowly approaching her, making some kind of groan. She darted her head around and Paul was clambering to his feet and hundreds of other residents were closing in on her. Stranger still, most weren't even wearing winter clothes. The faceless mob had appeared as though they had been going about their business as usual when Chelsea had disturbed them. The creatures must have stopped what they were doing and redirected all of their attention to the woman who still bore a face. Chelsea turned on her heels and sprinted down Fifth Street, then found a house with only one of the faceless and barreled toward it, a child, clad in a pink onesie holding a stuffed unicorn with big blonde curls and no face watched as she bolted past it.

Chelsea entered the backyard and clambered up the fence. She fell over with a thud and hauled herself to her feet. Chelsea repeated this course of action, descending through the houses of fourth, then third street. She looked about to see that every resident of Bay City was waiting for her on Second Street. Her sobs were all there was to be heard as she forced her way through a crowd of the faceless and to her front door. Mom! Dad! Chelsea slammed the door shut behind her and deadbolted it, then made her way further into her home. Her eyes caught the walls first, adorned with family photographs.

She focused on one she could recognize even from a distance. It was Chelsea and her father at their church's father-daughter dance. His crisp gray suit and her soft yellow sundress glimmered in the light. Chelsea tried to focus on their faces as she slowly stepped toward it. The picture came fully into view. There they stood at the father-daughter dance with no faces. Chelsea knew at that moment all was lost. She did not need to turn around to see her mother and father faceless and silent behind her.

Despite the feeling in her gut, Chelsea turned to face them anyway. There stood her parents, embracing with one arm each and beckoning Chelsea with the other. Chelsea pushed right past them and ran up the stairs to her attic bedroom. She entered the untouched bedroom and slammed her door shut behind her, then pushed her antique vanity against it to ensure she would not be disturbed by those things. Chelsea looked to her bed and saw Nibbler, asleep on her pillow, purring from somewhere inside herself, also bearing no face. She cried softly as she lay beside her feline friend, resigned to her new reality. Slowly she drifted to sleep in her sadness.

When Chelsea woke up, she immediately felt around for her. cat, hoping to feel her crisp whiskers. She found Nibbler and realized her nightmare had not ended when she felt her smooth, furry face. More sobs befell Chelsea as woe filled her heart. She had wanted it all to be an awful dream so badly. Chelsea prayed to God that she would not have to live in the world of faceless men and women. A plot to escape began to formulate in her mind, but it was all very dependent on the aggression of the faceless and their willingness to let her leave. Chelsea swung her legs off the bed and tiptoed to the window, moved the curtain with one hand, and peeked outside. Every square foot surrounding her house was occupied by a faceless resident of her town,

and everyone was looking right at her. Chelsea's parents and Paul stood shoulder to shoulder on her driveway, looking at her. They did not bear features. but if they did, they would have been of sorrow. Chelsea looked to Paul as he touched where his mouth would have been, and then pointed to Chelsea. Chelsea traced her lips with her index finger, and she internally moaned with horror. Chelsea's lips had no seam or part for which she could use to open her mouth.

She ran to the vanity and watched as her lips completely fused together. She grunted and groaned as she watched her nose follow suit, and she suddenly felt as though she was suffocating. The bones of her nose cracked as her face completely flattened over the place where it used to reside. Chelsea could not fathom becoming like the faceless, and she could already feel her eyes getting tight and watery. She knew she would be blind soon. So, with resolve, she grabbed her crucifix from the wall and used it to smash her vanity.

As her vision began to fail, Chelsea grabbed the biggest mirror shard, whimpered softly and pressed it to her neck. Dark overtook her sight and she used her free hand to feel her face. Smooth. Smooth like the unbroken snow. Smooth like the water on a beautiful summer day. Smooth like Paul's lips on hers, crooning to her in sweet submission. Chelsea thought of Paul, her parents and nibbler for a final passing thought

as she dug the mirror shard across her neck. In her darkest moment, she saw light once more, and then was at peace. Here to bring you the news of the accident on the Zilwaukee Bridge this evening. Chelsea Kowalski, age 22, sadly was in a fatal accident this evening around 6 p.m. As the fires wane and embers glow, our stories cease as shadows grow. The night is long and darkness deep. Remain with us.

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

please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past program. 25 episodes each over two hours long and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only $25. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you. Thank you for listening and for being under our spell. This audio production is copyright 2021 and 2022 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.