The NoSleep Podcast - S17: NoSleep Podcast Achin' for 18 Vol. 1

Episode Date: May 29, 2022

We're feverishly working on Season 18 so we're offering up three previously featured Season Pass stories.“The Butternut Bakery Does Not Serve Human Flesh” written by Samuel Singer (Story starts around 00:03:00)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Sam Singer – Jesse Cornett, Heather – Wafiyyah White, Phil – David Cummings“The Grove” written by Evan Dicken (Story starts around 00:20:10)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Mel ñ Kristen DiMercurio, Molly ñ Linsay Rousseau“Swing” written by J. J. Smith (Story starts around 00:45:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: John – Dan Zappulla, Mom – Jessica McEvoy, Bill – Graham Rowat, Dad – Jesse CornettThis episode is sponsored by:ZocDoc – Zocdoc is a free app that shows you doctors who are patient-reviewed, take your insurance, and are available when you need them. Go to Zocdoc.com/nosleep and download the Zocdoc app for free. Then start your search for a top-rated doctor today.Betterhelp – Betterhelp’s mission is making professional counseling accessible, affordable, convenient – so anyone who struggles with life’s challenges can get help, anytime, anywhere. Get started today and get 10% off your first month by going to betterhelp.com/nosleepClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Achin’ for 18 Vol. 1” illustration courtesy of Alexandra CruzAudio 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

Hello, beautiful, sleepless people. Cummings here. Season 17 has come to an end, so we're taking a few weeks off before the start of season 18 on June 26. That means we're aching for 18. Absolutely aching for it. The anticipation is palpable, bordering on painful. Oh, actually, hold on.

Maybe that pain I'm feeling is something else. I probably shouldn't have these open sores either. Perhaps I should get those looked at. Well, it's a good thing there's Zoc Doc. Zoc Doc is a free app that shows you doctors who are patient reviewed, take your insurance, and are available when you need them. You can read up on local doctors, get verified patient reviews, and see what other real humans had to say about their visit.

So when you walk into that doctor's office, you're set up to see someone in your network who gets you. And it's super easy. Go to Zocdoc.com. Choose a time slot and whether you want to see the doctor in person or do a video visit. And just like that, you're booked. Find a doctor that's right for you and book an appointment that works for your schedule. Every month, millions of people use Zock Doc. My wife Kelly has used Zock Doc in the past, and it was super helpful when she needed to find and book a doctor near her work. So go to Zocdoc.com slash no sleep and download the Zocdoc app for free. Then start your search for a top-rated doctor today. Many are available within 24 hours. That's Z-O-C-D-C dot com slash no sleep.

I'll say it again. Zoc-Doc dot com slash no sleep. And speaking of slashing and no sleep, we're getting it started right now. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. It's the No Sleep Podcast, Aiken for 18, Volume 1. I'm your host, David Cummings. With season 17 in the books, or in the grave, we're excitedly looking forward to season 18.

And to tide you over until its premiere on June 26, we'll have two hiatus episodes for you, this week and next, and then two delightfully devilish, sleepless decompositions episodes following those. We have three tales for you this week, which were originally released to our season past 17 members. We trust you'll find them to be a soothing elixir for the ache of waiting for season 18. And so, without further ado, let's launch into the horror and start the show. In our first tale, we're welcomed to the town of Habitsville,

It's an odd place. You could call it quirky, you could call it quaint. If you've had a bad experience there, you could even call it cursed. But in this tale, shared with us by author Samuel Singer, you could call it unsurprising. That is, until Sam discovers a new eatery that he's never seen before, despite living his whole life in Habitsville. I join Jesse Cornett and Wafia White in performing this scene. tale. So let's go hang out in Habitsville. We'll check out the stores and grab something to eat. And don't worry about the ingredients. One thing I can promise you is that

the butternut bakery does not serve human flesh. It's good to be home. After the frankly insane events of the past month or so, there's nothing like settling back into the comfortable life of a small town

newspaper reporter. except of course, if that small town is Habitsville. We're prone to the strange here, through no fault of our own. Bizarre things just seemed to happen, and just like clockwork, they're happening again. It came to me by word of mouth, but as far as I can tell, it started with a sign. I walked by the bakery myself just to be sure, and there it was, hanging in the window. It was small, white, and plain. The words on it stood out in an unnatural way.

Like I should have missed the phrase when I was walking by, but instead found it commanded my absolute attention. The butternut bakery does not serve human flesh. An odd sort of laugh rose in my throat when I actually saw it, because up until that point, I thought, Heather had lost her mind. Heather is my primary co-worker at Habitsville Gazette. We're good friends, and often talk about everything from our pieces for the paper to what shows

we're binging on Netflix. I know her pretty well, which is why it was strange when she suddenly said something extremely out of character mid-conversation. She'd been talking about her parents coming to visit from a few towns over and how cautious they always were when they came to Habitsville, as visitors often are. We were packing up our things for the day before we went home when she said, My parents should be here Thursday, which is way too soon. The apartment's a mess, and it's too small to fit all of us anyway.

The butternut bakery does not serve human flesh. But how do you tell your parents they should get a hotel outside of town? I asked her what she meant. But as you might be able to guess, she had no idea what I was talking about. I even repeated the phrase back to her, but not a hint of recognition appeared in her eyes. I went home, and after a while I forgot about it. But then I heard it again, stepping outside of my house for work the following morning, I spotted my mailman, Phil, putting a few envelopes into my mailbox.

I waved to him and said good morning, and like any polite person, he answered. Good morning! The butternut bakery does not serve human flesh. He held his smile, as though he hadn't said anything strange, and cheerfully moved to my neighbor's mailbox. I, however, was deeply confused. It felt like some sort of prank, though I had no idea who had orchestrate it and why. I heard it again later that day. In fact, I heard it 17 different times. Some people repeated it.

Some only said it once. I even have a transcript from an interview I was supposed to be doing with an old woman who just turned 102. Where there, right in the middle of a sentence about her great grandkids was the phrase, the butternut bakery does not serve human flesh. I hadn't heard it when she said it, but it was there, typed out, in my notes. So there I was, clocked out early on a Tuesday afternoon, just so I could stand in front of this bakery. I was bewildered, but not just because of the phrase, though that was bizarre on its own. I lived in Habitsville my entire life, and not one.

have I heard of a place called the Butternut Bakery. And yet, after an afternoon spent wandering the streets of my own hometown, I found a new shop right there in the middle of the main strip. It's a small building, but not so small that I would miss it. The building itself had an inviting burnt orange color, and the yellow lights inside made the entire place look warm and enticing. The smell of baked goods drifted out, and over the pavement to where I stood on the other side of the street,

fighting the overwhelming urge to go inside. Because there was the sign, wasn't there? The butternut bakery does not serve human flesh. It seemed like such an odd thing for a bakery to have to clarify. Maybe it was some sort of fun reference to Sweeney Todd. That's not exactly an appetizing allusion to, make to potential customers, but there was something about the sign, something about the phrase. It was like the more that I heard it or read it, the less odd it seemed. The butternut bakery

does not serve human flesh. Of course it doesn't. No bakeries do, or should. It's just good advertising to make the fact clear. I didn't see anyone walk in or out of the bakery for around 15 minutes, though plenty of people walked down the sidewalk. It was strange. Even the window shoppers that were strolling from display to display didn't bother to stop at the bakery. It was the late afternoon when someone might want to grab a snack or a late lunch. But no one gave it a second look. They didn't even seem to notice the smell, which was becoming more distracting by the second. My stomach began to growl as I caught another nostrilful. And then I saw someone emerge from the bakery.

I had to squint, and it was hard to recognize him outside of his uniform, but I could still tell. It was Phil, my mailman. He stepped out of the bakery, holding a small bag, and immediately began to walk down the sidewalk. I crossed the street and approached walking behind him. Phil! Oddly, he didn't respond. I thought perhaps he didn't hear me, so I walked faster until I was beside him. Phil!

At the second call of his name, Phil stopped and turned to look at me. He smiled when he recognized me. Oh, Mr. Singer, funny running into you here. Though his tone would suggest that we were having a normal run-in on the street, It was anything but the sort. There were markings drawn on his face as though he was about to have some sort of cosmetic surgery. There were long strips drawn down his cheeks, and I could see the ink was peeking out from the circle that marked his ear. But as it turned out, that wasn't the oddest part of Phil's appearance.

I had thought it was his bag that had been dripping, something dark trailing from the door of the baker. to where we stood now. But since we had stilled, the trickle only came faster and began to pool in a puddle around our feet. It wasn't hard to miss the source. Framed by the frayed edges of the shirt he wore, I could see that there was a large chunk of flesh missing from Phil's shoulder. Not like he had a bad wound that needed to be sewn up, there was nothing to sewed. It was a scoop out of his body, and I could see the tip of his shoulder bones poking out where they had connected at the socket. I didn't know what to say. There was no trace of pain on his face.

There was no signal that he even knew what he was walking around with. And oddly enough, no one on the street seemed to notice either. I had a brief rush of fear, as I considered that perhaps I am. lost my own sanity. Then, he said it. I've just picked up a bit of a treat for myself. The butternut bakery does not serve human flesh. I've just finished my route for the day.

He unraveled the folded up, opening to his bag and held it out to me. Would you like to try? I tore my eyes away from the gory wound on his torso and instead peered into his bag, in the bottom, as innocent as. as could be, was a medium-sized pastry. It was pocket-style, crimped on the edges, no doubt with some sort of filling inside. My stomach was turning violently now, and I just shook my head at Phil. Suit yourself. This is the second time I've been in this week. It's terrible for my diet, but it's just so good. The butternut bakery does not serve human flesh. I'll see you

tomorrow morning, then. With that, he turned and continued down the pavement, walking with a limp I had never known him to have before. I walked to the front of the bakery. Despite the warm glow coming from inside, the windows were not well suited for a display. The glass had some sort of coating on it, and although I could see the light shining through and dark shapes moving around inside, I couldn't make anything out. I was so focused on seeing inside that I didn't notice when someone had opened the door. The small bell at the top jingled, and I looked up. It was Heather.

I lurched forwards and grabbed her by the hand. She flinched in shock and then half laughed. Sam, God, you scared me. The butternut bakery does not serve human flesh. Are you going inside? She motioned into the open doorway. and I looked inside. It's difficult to describe what I saw inside the butternut bakery,

mostly because the inside scene with a naked eye was strangely similar to the view through the glass. There was this hazy film over everything, and only two certain sights could be gleaned, the bright yellow light and dark shadows moving around in the back. You shouldn't go in their house. I know this sounds crazy. I know. I took a deep breath, then said, but I think the butternut bakery is serving human flesh.

Or at least that's what I meant to say. I could hear the words as they came from my lips, though they were not the ones I had chosen at all. I said But I think the butternut bakery does not serve human flesh I stood there horrified Heather furrowed her brow at me One foot still on the doorstep of the building

Yes Sam I know you told me before The butternut bakery does not serve human flesh I think it's great I blinked I told you before The fear that was rising within me was quickly turning to panic. I had thought Heather had been the first one to say the phrase to me, only a few days before, and never did I think I had said it back to her.

What when you mentioned it a few days ago? Her frown deepened. You've been talking about the bakery for over a month, Sam. I have? I mean, it's not much of a discussion. You pretty much say the same thing every time. She leaned back out of the door and pointed to that sign that hung in the window. The butternut bakery does not serve human flesh.

As I stood there spiraling, Heather looked down in my hand, which was still clasped firmly on her wrist. Now, if you excuse me, you're being weird, and I'm hungry. This shook me from my days. I couldn't let what it happened. happened to Phil, happened to Heather. I pulled hard on her wrist as she took another step towards the interior of the bakery. I tried to warn her, tried to say, I just saw my mailman come out of there with a huge piece of his body missing.

Just missing, Heather. You can't go in there. I don't know what's going on, but it's dangerous. That's what I tried to say. But deep down, I knew what was going to come out. The butternut bakery does not serve human flesh, the butternut bakery does not serve human flesh, the butternut bakery does not serve human flesh, the butternut bakery does not serve human flesh. I pulled Heather even harder, and she fought back with as much force as she could.

The shadows in the back of the bakery were moving faster now, even buzzing around the edges, each vibrating violently with some unseen energy. The yellow glow of the lights burned brighter, so bright I had to squint. I thought of the blood trail I had seen drip from Phil's shoulder, the exposed bones and the ligaments peeking through the mangled skin. The butcher's lines drawn on his face, and I pulled with all my might. Heather lost her footing. We fell backwards, one on top of the other, hard on the pavement.

The door she had pulled open, slammed, as though sucked back like a vacuum. When it did, the bell at the top jingled violently, and the entire building jumped with the force of the closure. And it was that flinch, that slammed door, that made the sign fall from the window. I saw the words. The butternut bakery does not serve human flesh. one last time, in plain black text on a white background. Then I blinked, and it was gone. Not just the fallen sign.

The entire building was gone. People were walking by us now as though they hadn't seen what had happened. Instead, they only gave us odd looks and stepped over our bodies. I sat up and looked around. The main street of Habitsville was just as I had always known it, before I first heard that phrase, the one I don't dare speak again. Elle and Molly have always been together,

sisters looking out for each other through whatever life throws at them. It's an unshakably tight-knit existence. But in this tale, shared with us by author, Evan Dickon. The sisters discover a place that allows them to deal a little better with the world at large. Performing this tale are Kristen DiMecurio and Lindsay Russo. So let's join these siblings as they head to their special place. A place of power. But as we all know, power can be corrupted, even in the Grove. Molly probably wouldn't have been so bad, if not for the Grove.

It wasn't like we set out to kill all those folks. Even not having parents to teach us, we knew the difference between right and wrong. Molly just never seemed to care. When we were little, she'd go out of her way to squash the worms that washed onto the road after a hard rain, smearing them all over the pavement.

And every summer, she'd go out to collect June bugs in a mason jar, then screw the lid on tight so she could watch them die slow. Still, those were all little things. I don't think it would have gone any further if the grove hadn't made it so easy. It wasn't much to look at, just a ravine full of pine and maple, all overgrown with English ivy, sloping down from the edge of our backyard.

The neighborhood had been all woods back in the day, clear-cut and subdivided into residential lots, missing trees memorialized by names like Poplar Avenue and Maplewood Court. Only the grove hung on, surrounded and spiteful. It looked normal from the outside, sure, but you really only had to step inside to know there was something wrong. It's hard to describe. One time in college, Molly and I drove down to West Virginia to catch a reading of one of my favorite authors. Coming from Central Ohio, I'd never seen real mountains before. I remember driving up and down, feeling the pressure build inside my head as I changed elevation.

Stepping into the grove was kind of like that, like the trees were all pressing. down on you, trying to crush you down into nothing. One time, Molly and I built a fort, spent all afternoon piling up logs, stitching branches together with braided twists of ivy. Excited to try out our new hideaway, we ran up the hill to throw together a picnic lunch. Couldn't have been more than ten minutes. By the time we got back, the fort was gone. Not taken down, not wrecked, just gone, like we'd never built it in the first place. I think that's when Molly realized there was something weird about the grove. Even so, we probably would have left it at that, if it hadn't been for Felix.

It was a class project. A white and brown speckled rabbit Mrs. Parkins had picked up over at the co-op. We fed him, cleaned his cage, all that stuff, and every weekend, one student would get to take Felix home. We were excited as hell when our turn came. Everything would have gone okay if he hadn't bitten Molly. I know what you're thinking, but it wasn't like that. One second, Molly is just holding Felix.

The next she's screaming, her hand all bloody. Then she just sort of threw him against the wall. It was pure reflex, no malice at all, but I guess it was hard enough to snap the rabbit's neck. What can I say, we panicked. Even having no parents to get on our case, we still had to worry about school. Molly had the idea of throwing Felix's body down in the ravine and telling everyone he'd slipped his cage and run off. It wouldn't be great, but it'd be better than saying we'd killed the poor thing.

Come Monday, we trudged to class all muddy and downcast. Mrs. Parkins asked why we'd brought an empty cage to school. Nobody remembered. When I finally broke down and spilled the secret, everyone acted like I was making it up. It was like Felix had been squeezed right out of their heads. Mrs. Parkins even got mad at me for talking about blood and broken rabbits. I had to stay in at recess that day. Molly said it served me right for tattling.

After that, I was all four counting our blessings, but Molly could never let things go. I think that's when she started killing animals, dogs and cats mostly, but birds too when she could catch them. I'll never know for sure how many, because she threw them in the grove and only told me about it way later.

She could have probably kept on like that forever, no one the wiser. But like I said, Molly could never leave well enough alone. There was this neighbor kid, Dominic. He was two grades ahead of us, but liked to hang down by the playground and pick on the younger kids. Molly said he was mean on account of his dad hitting him, but they lived just down the street. I used to watch them all the time from my window, even though I wasn't supposed to. Dominic's dad was always out with him, playing baseball, throwing pitches, working in the yard. and I never saw him lose his temper, not even when Dom rode his bike through the flower beds.

Some people are just mean, I guess. Once, Molly and I were playing army soldiers, and Dominic hid down by the trash bin so he could pelt us with rocks. One of them hit me right in the mouth and split my lip wide open. I wanted to tell a teacher, but Molly got this strange look, like when she was catching June bugs. I honestly thought we were just going to rough Dominic up a little.

He was bigger than us and a boy besides, but I figured if Molly and I could get the drop on him, we could get in some good licks. Anyway, we set up a little tripwire on the edge of the ravine, then went down the block to stick a penknife in Dominic's bike tires while he was pitching rocks at squirrels. We made sure he saw us do it, though, and he lit right out after us.

Molly and I skipped over the wire, but it caught Dominic about shin height, and he went head over heels, down into the ravine. He was pretty bloodied up on account of Molly having smashed a bunch of old Coke bottles down there, but nothing was broken. Well, not at first.

Dominic started cussing and yelling about all the shit he was going to do to us. We thought for sure he was coming up the hill. But then he just started screaming. Molly and I peaked over the edge, and Dominic was just sort of rolling around on the ground, thrashing in the dead leaves. That's when I saw the,

the ivy had grown up all around him. Like strings on a fallen marionette, it threaded his arms, legs, and hands. Then the roots came bursting out from between his ribs, spreading, drawing him down, down into the rocky soil at the bottom of the ravine. That's when Molly told me what I'd always suspected. How the grove gathered things up and held them tight. I wanted to tell. I really did.

but Molly said the police would come and we'd go to jail forever and never get to see each other again. For weeks after, I was sure that every distant siren, every flash of red was a cop coming to arrest me. But they never did. Even Dominic's parents went on like they'd never had a son, ignoring the room full of kids' stuff, the size eight shoes,

the stack of rotting luncheables in their refrigerator. Molly helped herself to Dominic's bike and some other stuff so it wouldn't go to waste. One time, when Molly was away getting groceries, I went to talk to Dominic's parents. It wasn't guilt. Well, maybe a little. I knew better than to say we'd erased their son. I really just wanted to see if they remembered anything at all.

They listened for a solid hour, never speaking, never interrupting, while I walked them through their own house, talking about Dominic, and pointing to all the little bits of him that were left behind. The way they held hands, faces all screwed up as they listened, I thought for sure something was going to spark behind their eyes. But it never did. When I was done, Dominic's mom thanked me for the nice story and sent me home with a plate of lemon bars. That's all their son was to them now.

A nice story. I thought we'd stop with Dominic, but the way Molly talked about all the good we were going to do sent tingles up the back of my neck. She said we were like Batman or Wonder Woman. getting rid of the bad guys. Still, it was years before we could make good. Mr. Framer flunked us both in sophomore algebra. That wasn't the reason we erased him, though.

He'd always had this creepy vibe. And it was weird how the pretty girls always ended up with seats near the front of class. What really sealed it was when Molly said Claire Nussbaum told her Mr. Framer held Lisa Atkins after class one day. Claire said when Lisa came out she was crying and said Mr. Framer had tried to feel up her leg. So, we figured we'd put together a little test. Mr. Framer had superhero posters all over the room, Iron Man, Hawkeye, the Hulk, all that macho bullshit. So, Molly went up to him after class one day and asked if he wanted to come over and see the new Thor movie. She said our parents would be out for the weekend, and we knew how much Framer liked the Marvel movies.

We figured if Framer wasn't the creep, there was no way he'd come. I can still remember the way his bones cracked under tightening roots. He died staring at the moon through the branches, wide-eyed, his mouth hanging open like he was trying to scream. The sound that came out was like the slosh of wet mud under boots. Near as I can figure, it was the blood that got the tree's attention. I mean, Molly and I had skinned knees and elbows plenty of times down in the grove, but not like Dominic or Mr. Framer. Molly and I had made damn sure the bottom of the ravine was sharp enough to cut, shattered glass, bent nails, flecks of flint and shale, all mingled with rusty springs and ragged bits of metal.

The grove didn't disappear any of it. If anything, it seemed to welcome the junk, bristling like an old porcupine hidden among the brush. After Framer was gone, we took his keys and car, then sold his house. I thought for sure we'd be caught, but all we had to do was write our names on the deed. People would accept any lie, no matter how wild. You could almost see their minds working, like ocean waves piling sand into a hole on the beach. Everything just sort of filled in.

I know what you're thinking, but it wasn't like that. We were heroes, you see. Molly would search online for targets, rapists, child molesters, murderers who got off on a technicality. We'd track them down, get them drunk or high, then bring them home for the grove. Whether they were guilty or not, it was damning enough evidence they were willing to go home with two underage girls. We kept their stuff, sold their places, emptied their accounts.

Some of it we kept, but most went to charity. That was my idea, by the way. After a while, we had enough to cover college. Law for Molly, creative writing for me. It wasn't that I dreamed of writing a great American novel or anything. I just liked the way stories came together. how characters could seem like real people even though they were just words on a page. In a way, it was kind of like the opposite of what Molly and I did.

One time we erased this slum lord who was trying to evict a bunch of tenants so he could jack up the price and rent the houses to college kids. He fought harder than most, tearing up big fistfuls of ivy even as the roots coiled around his arms. I thought he might rip free until Molly cracked his head open with a rock. Afterward, we signed the houses over to his tenants. They didn't realize anything had changed, but I bet they'd be grateful if they had. I probably should have paid more attention. But I had classes to worry about and papers and tests and spring vacation in Cancun, romance too,

although I never could seem to find anyone worth more than a few dates. Molly did all the research. She was my sister. I trusted her. Besides, she was getting ready for law school while I was writing my fourth C-plus retelling of Paradise Lost. If Molly said some tech bro in a San Laurent Fodora and $2,000 shoes had jacked drug prices and defrauded needy people out of millions, who was I to argue? I think it was when the police showed up at the house that I really started to wonder. We grabbed a guy, it was almost always a guy, Molly said had skipped on a hit-and-run conviction.

Something to do with the police messing up the chain of custody or something? It was all by the numbers. Molly picked him up at a bar, then spiked his beer, while I pulled the car around. Who's going to bother two girls helping a drunk shitbag out of a bar? Even if they did, they'd forget all about it once the grove was through with him. We'd be free and clear, unless someone called the cops right away. Well, this shitbag had a wife and kids. Apparently this wasn't his first time stepping out, so she'd hired a detective to trail him

and gather ammunition for the divorce. Anyway, the detective followed us home just in time to catch a big old eye full of Molly's smashing our date over the head with a tire iron. We'd barely gotten him into the grove when the siren started up. Molly ran up to the house to handle things, future lawyer, remember, while I rolled the shit bag down into the ravine.

I could hear him crashing around down there in the nails and broken glass. Then came the familiar slithery hiss of ivy wrapping around his legs. Cars squealed up outside, lights flashing. I heard our front door bang open. Then Molly shouting something about warrants and unlawful searches. Down in the ravine, the roots were just starting to crackle.

From experience, I knew it'd be another 30 seconds or so before the grove had him all the way down. More if he struggled. And the shitbag was starting to struggle. Someone yelled at the police to check the woods behind the house. It was about 15 feet down into the ravine. I knew better than to go down while the trees were erasing someone, so I grabbed the heaviest rock I could lift and heaved it down into the pit. I was aiming for the shitbag's head, but the rock hit him in the shoulder.

Fortunately, it was heavy enough to break bone, and I guess the shock finally quieted him down. One of the police screamed at me to turn around with my hands up. By that time I did, he had no goddamn idea why he was at my mind. house. The thing is, neither did Molly. See, you got to be down there to watch the trees erase someone, otherwise they're gone for you just like everyone else. I mean, Molly put it together pretty quick. The cops were a big giveaway, but she had no idea who we'd erased. After we'd sent the cops home with waves and cups of coffee, Molly started asking all sorts of questions, mostly normal

stuff like, did I know anything about the guy? Where did we find him? How did we pick him up? But then she started getting really personal, like, had I ever seen him before? I hadn't. Or if I'd been messing around on her computer. I had, but mostly to cruise fanfix sites. I didn't really know much, but the way she kept at it just didn't sit right with me. So I checked up on the shit bag. It wasn't hard. I had his wallet, his car, his address, pictures of his family, everything. More, I was the only one who could see all the broken pieces his impending, messy divorce would have left behind.

The guy was obviously a cheater, but there was no mention of a hit and run anywhere. I honestly couldn't figure out why Molly had wanted to erase him until I cracked his phone password and found pictures of the two of them together. Not going to lie, that was tough. Not just because I'd trusted Molly, but because I'd convinced myself

we were rewriting stuff for a good cause that the world was better off without these horrible people in it. Granted, cheating on your wife and kids is pretty bad, but was it worth being edited out of existence? The worst part was realizing that if Molly had lied about one shit bag,

she'd probably lied about plenty more. I'd never been as smart as my sister, but it didn't take a genius to start piecing things together. Like how I'd never had a long-term, relationship, or even a serious friend, or how our house had always seemed bigger on the outside than on the inside, or how we'd never gotten an electric bill or made a mortgage payment. Molly and I had grown up all alone. Two little girls going to school, buying groceries, just sort of skidding across the edges of realization. I couldn't believe no one had ever thought

to check up on us. Turns out, we weren't heroes after all. Any other time, Molly would have figured me out in a second. But we were seniors, and she had finals, law school applications, and undergraduate thesis. A creative writing major might not carry the weight of a law degree, but it did mean I could turn in my papers early and spend the last week of the semester thinking about how I could make things right. We were celebrating out on the back porch, steaks, Don Perignon, and enough shrimp cocktail to choke a horse.

Molly had aced her finals, of course, just gotten her acceptance. letter from Moritz. She could have probably gone to Harvard or Columbia, but she wanted to stay close to home, of course. I waited until we were midway through the second bottle before I set my fork down and let my shoulders sag. When did you kill our parents? To her credit, Molly didn't even try to lie. She just looked at me. Her eyes sadder than I'd ever seen them. Everything happened pretty quick after that. Molly threw her champagne in my face. While I was still sputtering, she snatched up the bottle and cracked me a good one on the side of the head. In the movies, the bottle always breaks. But this one didn't. So she was able to hit me a few more times before I

could get my hands up. Everything went weird after that, like still frames lined up one after another. I felt the brick of the patio against my cheek, heard the scrape of the back gate. Molly's shadow stretched out across the grass as she grabbed my feet and started to drag me across the yard. I tried to kick free, but my legs felt all loose and fuzzy. It didn't have to be this way. Molly's eyes glinted silver in the porch light. Her cheeks wet with actual tears. All these years, and I don't think I'd ever seen Molly cry. I clawed at the ground, pulling up hunks of wet grass, dirt under my fingers.

nails. There was nothing to hang on to. Nothing before the grove. There was no breeze, but still I heard the trees creak, branches stretching like hungry hands, shivering in anticipation. It didn't matter that I'd fed it well over the years. The grove made no distinctions. Just before the edge, Molly's ankle rolled in the grass. She shook her head, blinking. Her grip slackened and I was able to tug my leg free. I gave her a kick just for good measure, and she stumbled on wobbly legs, swiping at me with arms gone feeble and awkward. What did you do to me? Molly went down on one knee, the heel of one hand pressed to her eye as if to ward off a migraine. It didn't have to be this way.

I slowly pushed to my feet, testing each leg before I put weight on it. I had plenty enough time. From experience, I knew the drugs I'd slipped into Molly's champagne. would last for hours. Wait, wait. Her voice was slurred, but there was a real panic in it now. Where are sisters, Mel? But I was beyond listening.

I made myself watch the grove murder her. Through tear-blurred eyes, I saw the vines thread her fingers, slipping almost tenderly between meat, sinew, and bone. For a moment, the roots lifted my sister up, like a child presenting a participation trophy. All the while, Molly held my gaze, not calling out, not struggling even as the trees began to draw her down into the cold, stony soil. I wanted to say I saw something approaching relief in her eyes, there at the end, but that would be a lie. Now I'm just waiting for the end of summer. The long, dry days when the grass turns brown,

and the leaves crackle like old paper. Then I'll tip a few cans of gasoline down into the ravine and try to turn the grove into a proper pyre. It's the least I can do for all the people we buried down there. Until then, it's just me. Well, me and this story. That's all Molly is now. I suppose that's all any of us are in the end.

The folks we fed to the grove just got there quicker. It's actually kind of comforting to think of us all as just bumbling through life, thinking our story is the one that matters. June bugs bumping against the lid of a mason jar. Meanwhile, the world just shrugs and moves on, erasing us all in turn. You may have met the people, Molly and I killed, passed them on the street, gone to class together. You may have even been close, may have even been family. But now, there are nothing more than words on a page. Soon enough, I will be too.

Well, let's try to erase those thoughts of the grove and groove into a short break from the horror. And speaking of erasing thoughts, I'm sure all of us are wishing we could rid our minds of some thoughts these days. There is so much negativity out there in the world. It's difficult not to see the glass half empty. And that can make us feel empty. and burned out. We associate burnout with work, but that's not the only cause. Oppressive news doesn't help, and any of our roles in life can lead us to feeling burned out. That's why I like to recommend BetterHelp's online therapy wants to remind you to prioritize yourself. Talking with someone can help you

figure out what's causing stress in your life. The big problem I face with burnout is feeling like there's nothing I can do. I can't stop wars, fix the economy, save the planet, etc., etc. But I can work on myself and find ways to deal with those feelings of inadequacy, and you can do that work with the help of a therapist. Better help 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 hey, no sleep listeners, get 10 percent off their first month at betterhelp.com slash no sleep. That's better h-elp.com

slash no sleep. So as we fight the stress and burnout, well, hey, let's return to the horror. It couldn't hurt to take a swing at it, right? In our final tale, we join John. John's been playing baseball since he was old enough to hold a bat. And in this tale shared with us by author J.J. Smith. It's time for John to step up to the plate for the most important inning of his life. Performing this tale are Dan Zippula, Jessica McAvoy, Graham Rowett, and Jesse Cornett. So the bases are loaded. The world holds its breath for John to hit a home run. All he has to do is swing. Babe Ruth is remembered as one of the greatest players of all time, despite striking. out more often than he got on base.

He actually held a record for strikeouts that would last for 30 years. This isn't why he's remembered, of course. If that were the case, then he would be little more than a mildly interesting footnote in baseball history and otherwise forgettable bench warmer. Instead, we remember the babe as the Sultan of SWAT, because when he did manage to connect wood with leather, You better believe that ball was going into the stance. One of the most memorable moments of the Babe's career

took place in the third game of the 1932 World Series against the Cubs. During the game, both the players and the fans from the Chicago side were giving him a hard time. This was near the end of the Bambino's career, so many people considered him to be worn out and washed up. Just a has-been. At bat in the fifth inning, he was two strikes down. The Cubs dugout was really ribbing on Babe.

They probably thought that if they could get under his skin, that they could break his concentration. The odds were already in their favor that Babe would strike out. Even in his best days, that would be the safe bet. So why expect anything less from the has-been whose best days were behind him? That's when Babe pointed towards the stance. It's debated exactly who or what he was pointing at. He might have been pointing at center field, the pitcher, or at the Cubs' dugout.

But the most popular theory, what I believe, is that he was showing exactly where he was going to put that ball. Two strikes down, a tie score, and the entire city of Chicago against him. him. It would have been easy for the babe to give up. Instead, he swung, and wouldn't you know it? He sent that sucker flying over 440 feet into the stands, right in the direction he indicated. That was the most memorable single swing in baseball history. The Yankees would go on to win the game, 7 to 5. I'm telling you all of this to understand why I have to do what I'm going to do. I'm never going to have the opportunity to become a has-be like the babe. To be a has-been, first, you have to be.

Me? I'm a never-will-be. But that's not going to stop me from taking my swing. I woke up this morning just after 4 a.m. Normally I'll sleep in until at least 10 in the morning on the weekend. Even then, it took my mom yelling at me at least three times before I finally drag myself out of bed. But with my big swing coming up this evening, my body was like a coiled spring. I didn't even need an alarm to wake up. One minute I was dead asleep and the next I was so awake that I felt like I pounded an entire

six-pack of Mountain Dew. I jumped out of bed. Everything was already set out where I placed it the night before. First, I changed from my pajamas into my Yankees' Little League uniform. Next, I collected my Louisville slugger and my school backpack that I had stuffed with every ball I owned. With everything I needed for my plan, I sneaked out of my room. Never before had I felt more tuned in to the world around me than at that moment.

Even my night vision seemed cranked up to 11. The hallway that normally looked nearly pitch black during so many nighttime bathroom trips, now looked just a bit dim. For my plan to work, I needed to be quiet as a ninja. Sound was the enemy. Normally, I probably would have stepped on at least one of the loose hallway floorboards. But on that night, I tiptoed around each like I had psychic powers or something. As I neared the end of the hallway, I froze.

I could see the soft glow of the television on in the living room. I recognized the audio from the home movie of my eighth birthday party five years ago. under this there was another softer sound. I had to listen for a moment before I realized it was mom crying. I turned the corner of the hallway toward the back door and away from the living room. Before I went to bed, I had made sure to leave the deadbolt unlocked. It makes a loud thunk when it was turned that I couldn't afford. My hope was that my dad hadn't discovered it and locked it after I went to bed.

But luck continued to be in my favor, and I found it as I left it. Outside, the summer night air was comfortably warm. The cloudless sky over me showed more stars than I ever remembered seeing. It looked like glitter spread over a black velvet cloth. From the tall grass, insects sang their final lullaby to the world. It would have been the perfect night, if not for the distant sound of screaming. The boom of an explosion made me look around. I decided it was far enough away that I probably didn't have to worry about it.

The sound came from the direction of the city, and my destination was in the woods. It was a 10-minute walk down the well-worn path, starting at my backyard to the clearing in the forest. Once there, I turned my backpack upside down, and the dozen or so old-weathered baseballs tumbled onto the wet grass. I snatched one up and put my bat on my shoulder. If I had one regret at that moment, it's that I didn't have anyone to pitch to me. I asked Aaron, but he said he wasn't allowed to leave his family's shelter. So, I threw the balls into the air and swung at them as they came down. It was pretty awkward to do it like that, so I didn't hit as much as I would have with a proper pitcher.

Plus, my goal was height rather than distance. This is what's usually called a pop fly, and batters try to avoid it. so to do it on purpose was a bit of an adjustment but I reminded myself that when my big swing came up that I would have a much easier target all I really needed to do was to swing and swing hard whenever I did manage a hit I would have to run out into the field

find the ball and bring it back to the pile beside the old hubcap that I used as home plate I repeated this process for the remainder of the night, only finally stopping when the orange glow of morning peaked over the tops of the trees. Realizing that my family would be worried if I didn't get back, I gathered up all of my balls and took the path back home. I didn't bother stealthily walking in the back door. There was no need. With the sounds coming from the kitchen, I could tell everyone was already up. Walking in, I found Dad and my older brother Bill already sitting at the table. Mom was at the stove.

The trembling cigarette in her hand made me feel sad. She had quit two years ago, and to see her just throw all that hard work away was a disappointment. Dad and Bill weren't setting any better of an example. Dad had a bottle of whiskey that he was pouring into his number one dad. coffee mug. Bill had his feet up on the table as he took a hit off of a joint. It was never a secret that Bill smoked pop. We would smell it coming off of his clothes when he came home on Saturday nights. However, there was something of an unspoken agreement between him and our parents that he was never to bring it into the house. But everything was different now, wasn't it?

Where were you? Mom's words were just below a shout. From the lines running down her cheeks, I could tell that she had been crying. I sat down at my usual spot at the table. The breakfast piled before me, dwarfed Thanksgiving dinner, and on the stove, I saw that mom still had all four burners going

and an electric brittle on the side. There were stacks of pancakes, Piles of sausage, bacon, sirloin, steaks, eggs, and fruit. A bowl that we usually used for popcorn was filled past overflowing with hash browns. There were gallons of milk, O.J. and cans of soda of all kinds. Mom never let us drink soda for breakfast. Just out hitting balls in the woods? There was no reason for me to lie anymore.

Mom sighed. She stubbed out her cigarette and picked up the pack on the counter to fetch a new one. But her hands shook so bad that she dropped the first and needed to grab another. It's just, you need to stay inside. We all need to stay inside. You need to be with your family when... What about my big game? I didn't look up as I filled my plate with the in-home buffet.

Up until that point, Bill had to be with... had a leg propped up on the table. Another thing he would have never been allowed to do before everything changed. But now, he brought it down so hard that he stomped on the Lenolean tile. What the... Bill tried to speak, but with his lungs full of smoke, it came out as a croak. He spent a good minute coughing and trying to catch his breath before he could finish his thought. What the fuck is wrong with you?

There is no... game. There will never be another game. You know that, right? How many times we have to tell you this? When it happens, when it happens, I need to swing. Why? What difference does it make, huh? Bill grabbed me by the front of my jersey. His right arm pulled back and tensed like he was getting ready to punch me. Dad leaned forward and put a hand on Bill's shoulder. didn't say a word. He only grunted and shook his head, then went back to staring down at his mug full of alcohol. Bill shoved me away. He wrapped an arm over his eyes and started to sob. Dropping the spatula onto the floor, Mom rushed over to Bill and wrapped him in a hug.

Dad didn't stand up from his seat, but reached over and placed a hand on Bill's back. Please, John, please just promise that you will be with us when it happens. Mom looked at me with pleading eyes as she held my brother. After breakfast, we all gathered in the living room to watch Pixar movies. Mom made popcorn and offered us bowls of ice cream. Though, after the gigantic breakfast we had, no one did more than pick at the snacks. Near the end of the last movie, Dad stepped out of the living. room for a few minutes. He returned with the orange box that the man from the government had dropped

off. Mom became stiff as a piece of wood. She refused to acknowledge the box. Maybe she thought if she didn't look at it, that it and its awful contents would go away. Dad fumbled with opening it up. By this point, he was most of the way through his bottle. It was the first time that I'd ever seen him drunk. I've seen him tipsy, sure. Four beers at a cookout, sure. But never before had I seen him stumbling as he walked or slurring his words. After he worked the box open, he pulled four orange tubes and lined them up on the coffee table,

like they were soldiers with the grim. mission. On the side of each was that kind of tiny text that you see on boxes of medication. But what was most obvious was the skull and crossbones inside of a triangle above that text. Mom turned off the TV after the credits. Some music. She walked over to the stereo like she was in a daze and looked through the rack. She popped in a CD and light classical music came from the song. speakers. I was hoping for some slayer, but yeah, this'll do. Bill made an empty sound that, I think, was a laugh, but it sounded more like air escaping the lungs of a corpse.

How do we want to do this? Should I do everyone? Should everyone do themselves? Despite slurring over his words, Dad's expression was stone sober. I stood up. I don't want to. I already told you that I have a game today. I turned to walk to my room to get my equipment when I felt a hand lock onto my forearm and yank me back. I turned to see Bill holding on to me. Let me go, Bill! I tried to pull away, but the three years in age and the foot and a half in height that he had on me made all the difference. Bill pulled me down into his lap

and wrapped both arms around me in a bear hug. I'll get John. You and mom can decide what you're doing. Dad nodded. After taking one last string from his bottle of whiskey, he picked up one of the tubes. With shaking hands, it was placed on the side of his neck. His thumb depressed a button.

It made a hissing sound, almost like when you open a can of soda, except quieter. Dad set the tube down and picked up the second. Mom was crying again, but she did her best to hold it in. She just kind of hitched like she had the hiccups. Leaning forward, she brushed her hair away from her neck. Dad leaned in and kissed it. Then he placed the tube to her. neck and pressed the button. While all of this was going on, Bill held me across the chest

with one arm. With his free hand, he snatched up the two remaining tubes. Chill out. Just chill out. Bill's lips were right up against my ear. Wait. The first tube, he put into the side of his neck, then almost as an afterthought, he pressed the button and tossed it away. away. Want this, Bill, please! I fought to get away. Bill threw me to the ground and climbed on top of me. I punched and thrashed.

He barely took notice. It was like hitting a bag of sand. I tried to sit up, but Bill grabbed my neck and forced me back down hard enough that my head bounced off the carpet. He held up the orange tube in a way that made me think of a hero getting ready to stake a vampire in a horror movie. He swung it toward my neck. I'll never be able to thank Bill enough for what he did next. The end of the tube came down at my neck, but at the last second, diverted to the fleshy webbing between the finger and thumb of his hand holding me down. When he pressed the button on the end, the syringe inside the tube delivered its dose into Bill rather than me.

Bill leaned in, whispered to me again. Knock it out of the park for me. Bill fell off me and spoke out loud. See, that wasn't so bad. Sitting up, I saw that dad was holding on to Mom on the couch. Come over here with Mommy and Daddy. Mom held her arms out to Bill and me. We both walked to her, but Bill stumbled partway.

Ah, shit. Dizzy? I don't feel anything yet. Mom looked to Bill. Then Dad. Dad shrugged. Maybe it affects some people faster than others. I helped Bill to his feet and let him lean on me as we walked over to the couch. Mom pulled me onto her lap like she used to do when I was younger.

I felt silly being 13 years old and sitting on my mom's lap. But it made her feel better, so I didn't complain. Bill snuggled in and rested his head on her shoulder. Feel tired. Bill slurred his words more than dad, who had nearly an entire bottle of whiskey in him. Mom kissed Bill's forehead and held him. Just close your eyes, baby. We sat there clinging to one another in silence.

Bill stopped breathing first. After that, Mom, and finally, Dad, I did my best to mimic the effects of the drug during the process to not give away Bill's ruse. I think I sat on Mom's lap for close to an hour. When I was sure that the awful process was over, I reached up a quivering hand and shook Dad. shoulder. The skin there was like touching a block of clay. When he didn't respond, I shook him again.

This time, he just slumped over, his eyes staring at nothing. Sliding out from beneath the dead weight of mom's embrace, I stood in front of my motionless family for maybe ten minutes. I watched them. Never before have I had a panic attack, but from the basement of my stomach, An icy feeling of pain and despair clawed its way up. I knew if I allowed it to take over and gave into that fear, that I would never leave this living room. I put both hands over my face and wept as quietly as I could. At that moment, I did consider staying there and being with them when it happened,

just like Mom wanted. What happened next, I know, was just my imagination, but I could swear that I felt a large, calloused hand rest on my shoulder. The hand of a man who spent his life with his hands wrapped around a piece of maple. The hand of a man who, when everyone thought he was washed up, swung those hands anyway. Swing, kid swing. A rough voice spoke in my head. I sucked in a sob and not.

I might be and never will be, but I at least had to make the swing. Glancing down at my watch, I saw I might have just enough time to get to the ball field if I hauled ass. I ran to my bedroom, shoved the baseball bat into my backpack, and slung it over my shoulder. This time, I didn't bother bringing the balls. I didn't need them. I was going to swing at something much larger. I ran into the garage. On pure muscle memory, my hand slapped the button to open the automatic door. I jumped on my bicycle and threw my weight onto the foot pedal.

After I tore out of my driveway, I didn't even bother to close the garage door behind me. It would have been pointless. I had no intention of ever returning. It had been nearly a month since I'd been anywhere other than my house or the woods behind it. The city I grew up in looked like the reports on the news from countries devastated by war. Houses were burned down. Cars were abandoned in the middle of the street. A house at the end of my block had dead bodies hanging from ropes beneath a maple tree. In front of this was a sign that read,

"'Luders will be shot.'" At one point I passed a naked man on the street who had a burning Molotov in each hand. An insane smile crossed his face when we made eye contact. He threw one of the flaming bottles at me. I swerved around it as it exploded in the street, sending broken glass and burning gasoline everywhere. The heat from it was enough to singe the ends of my hair. I continued on without looking back.

Going past a church, a preacher stood on the roof. It was difficult to hear what he was saying over the wine of feedback as he shouted into the microphone. The only words I could make out were the day of judgment. In the lawn, there were rows of motionless forms beneath clean white sheets. They were arranged as orderly as a military graveyard. I pushed on. I did my best not to become distracted by anything that wasn't directly between me and my goal.

When I saw the sign for Beauregard, Memorial Park. I turned hard enough that my bike threw up dirt and small stones as I skidded around the bend. My legs screamed at me from the effort of pumping them harder and longer than I ever had before. It didn't matter. I didn't need my legs. As long as I could swing a bat. First, I passed by the community pool, followed by the duck pond. Just past the pond was my goal. The diamond where I would take my swing. In the parking lot of the ball field, I squeezed the bike's brakes.

But I was going too fast, and I squeezed too hard. The bike twisted out from under me. It stopped moving. I kept going. On reflex, I threw my hands out between myself and the pavement rushing up to greet me. It felt like I slid a hundred feet,

when really it wasn't more than two. two or three. On a normal day, a spill like that probably would have had me running home crying. But things were different now. I picked pieces of jagged gravel and small glass bits out of my bleeding hands. My palms and right forearm were scraped to hell. Steady rivers of blood ran down my arms and fell onto the pavement in fat drops. It looked worse than it was. Nothing was anyway. Just a scrape, I told myself. I could still hold a bat. Taring the backpack off, I retrieved my Louisville slugger. Testing my grip on it resulted in a burning, tearing sensation. It was uncomfortable, but my grasp was firm. The dirty gray tape on the handle soaked up the

blood and still gave a nice tight grip. I walked out onto the field and into the batters box. I've stood by this same plate, going back to when I was first allowed to join a tee-ball team. All of those times, the field was filled with cheering parents and jeering opponents. Now the only thing I hear is the blowing of the wind and the distant muffled sound of a preacher shouting on a rooftop. They say when Babe Ruth pointed that the stadium went quiet. Even his opponents shut up. I point now at my opponent. Not to the vacant pitchers mound, the empty dugouts, or even the unoccupied center field.

I point at the sky. It's a beautiful July summer day, warm, but not humid, not a cloud in the sky. You couldn't ask for a more perfect day for baseball. but in the clear blue sky, the bright sun now shares its space with a smaller and almost equally bright twin, the meteorite Thanatos. Though some people have called it wormwood or revelation, an astronomer discovered it two years ago. The governments did their best to hide it from the world as long as they could, but eventually every amateur astronomer was able to spot the world.

the bright new star in the sky. It's over three times the size of the meteorite that killed the dinosaurs. The experts on the news estimated that it would kill 99.8% of all life on Earth. I remember when I first saw the 3D model of it on the news that I didn't feel as scared as I knew that I should be. My first thought was how the off-white and nearly spherical rock looked like a base. Baseball. I had a lot of plans for my life. I was going to get on the high school varsity baseball team. Eventually, I'd catch the attention of scouts and get a free ride through college. Right out of college, I'd be picked up by the Yankees, then go to the World Series. I was going to be someone. But now, because of a damn space rock, I'm a never will be. So I'm standing here, at home plate. the light in the sky is getting bigger.

I have a plan. I know it's stupid and impossible. My family thought I lost my mind that I'm in denial, but I know what the outcome will be. I know there is nothing I can do to stop this, but there is one thing that I can do. I can swing. 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 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.