The NoSleep Podcast - S17: NoSleep Podcast - S17 New Year Hiatus Vol. 1

Episode Date: January 2, 2022

We're taking a bit of a New Year's break but we are offering up two previously featured Season Pass stories.  “The Man in the Alley” written by T. Michael Argent (Story starts around 00:03:50) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Amanda – Nichole Goodnight, Claire – Mary Murphy “The Lost Sound of Peter Wood” written by Neil Noon (Story starts around 00:22:45) Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Annie Lantham – Erika Sanderson, Peter Wood – James Cleveland, 1971 News Announcer – Andy Cresswell, 1946 News Announcer – David Ault, 2019 News Announcer – Penny Scott-Andrews This episode is sponsored by: Truebill – Truebill is the new app that helps you identify and stop paying for subscriptions you don’t need, want, or simply forgot about. Start cancelling today at Truebill.com/nosleep. It could save you THOUSANDS a year. ShipStation – ShipStation makes it super easy to manage and ship all your online orders faster, cheaper and more efficiently. Let Shipstation make the busy holiday shopping season goes smoothly for you. Go to shipstation.com and click the microphone icon at the top of the page. Enter code NOSLEEP to get a 60-day free trial. Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Click here to learn more about T. Michael Argent Click here to learn more about Neil Noon Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone “Holiday Hiatus Vol. 1” illustration courtesy of Alexandra Cruz Audio program ©2022 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Happy New Year. It's our first holiday hiatus episode of the year. 2022 is going to be a better, brighter year. I can just feel it. David, stop. Haven't you heard? Heard what, Graham? The zombie apocalypse is here. Oh, no. Just when you thought things couldn't get worse. What do we know about it? Zombie hordes in the streets? Brains being consumed with gory abandon.

What? No, not that kind of zombie apocalypse. The other more insidious. Kind. Surely you don't mean... Yes. The undying subscriptions! Subscriptions you've signed up for and can't work up the will to cancel or that you've forgotten about. Either way, they just won't die. That's why we need to take control and make our subscriptions submit with True Bill.

That's the spirit. Don't let greedy corporations pocket your money. Download True Bill and take control of your subscriptions. True Bill is the new app that helps you identify and stop paying for subscriptions you don't need want or simply forgot about. On average, people save up to $720 a year with True Bill. You see, because companies make subscriptions hard to cancel, True Bill makes it incredibly simple. Just link your accounts, and True Bill will cancel your unwanted subscriptions in one tap. And your True Bill concierge is there when you need them to cancel unwanted subscriptions, so you don't have to. I had a couple of

subscriptions I'd completely forgotten about. You'd be surprised how much money trickles away when you miss those on ending subscriptions. That's why Truebill has over 2 million users. It's helped save them over $100 million. Don't fall for subscription scams. Start canceling today at truebill.com slash no sleep. Go right now. Truebill.com slash no sleep.

It could save you thousands a year. Truebill.com slash no sleep. That should help put an end to that kind of zombie apocalypse. And delay the start of the real one. What? What exactly aren't you telling us? Nothing? Nothing at all. Everything is fine. For now. Hmm. Well, as suspicious as you sound, I think it's time to share some sleepless horror and start the show. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast.

The sleepless tales commence, fellow travelers. I'm your guide, David Cummings. Happy New Year. As we ring in 2022, we can only hope it's a year where we enjoy health, happiness, and horror. After a busy holiday season, we're going to take a couple of weeks to present you with some holiday hiatus episodes, and then we'll be back into season 17 on January 23rd. So enjoy these stories with all our best wishes from the no-sleep team. And so, if old acquaintance be forgot, we can at least remember to start off the new year with some horror. In our first tale, we're invited to share in the joy of a young couple

as they find a wonderful apartment. It's within their price range and it suits their every need. Marvelous! But in this tale, shared with us by author T. Michael Argent, we're reminded that there's always a catch. In this case, a bedroom window that faces an outside wall. Not too bad. It could be worse, right? Performing this tale are Nicole Goodnight and Mary Murphy. So try not to dwell on the flaw in your dwelling. If you try hard enough, you might be able to ignore it.

But if you keep staring, then you only have yourself to blame if you see the man in the alley. Claire and I searched high and low for an apartment in our price range. Unfortunately, the dismal pays of our job and a finicky housing market in such a large city meant we weren't able to find much. We toured an endless parade of sad, lonely rooms with ugly 70s carpeting and enough peeling wallpaper to plaster an entire house. Claire's parents allowed us to stay in the guestroom of their brownstone, but it became clear our presence was wearing thin. Just when I thought we'd have to settle for something the size of a pillbox, Claire came running into our room one night with her laptop. Amanda, look, look at this place. She thrust it into my hands, pointed excitedly at the listing on the screen. It advertised

a moderately sized but comfortable five-room apartment in the Bracken Park neighborhood. It was only $900 a month and a 10-minute train ride from work for either of us. It had an attractive, galley-style kitchen, relatively new carpeting, and closets in both bedrooms. I smiled at her. Okay, what's the catch? Does the exterminator need to be called every other week? She shook her head. I'm serious. I've looked all over the pictures and read the description. It sounds too good to be true. That it does.

I scrolled through the listing. It wasn't the Ritz, but it was better than any other place we'd seen before. Oh, here it is. Claire pointed to a microscopic line of text near the bottom. It says it's on the ground floor of the building, window space and alley. I shrugged. So what if we don't get a view? I want to see it.

On Friday afternoon, we took the train from Claire's parents' place. 20 minutes later, we found ourselves in front of a ramshackled brick building, four stories tall with small windows dotting the face. We followed the realtor down a flight of stairs behind a gate in the front entrance. Down a carpeted hall, we stopped at a small door with 105 engraved on it. The pictures really did the place justice. The living and dining rooms were one space with an open archway to the kitchen. A short hall led to two bedrooms and a bathroom.

The previous owners had obviously. obviously loved the place well. It was inviting and cozy with soft rose-colored carpet and walls paneled in light wood. Claire stared out the window in the bedroom at the end of the hall. I wish to space the street or something. A little more interesting than just a brick wall. It was true. All we could see was the side of the building next to us. The concrete floor of the alley was cracked and chipped. A breeze gusted in the thin space between the apartments, creating a eerie, hollow sound. Claire shipped. That's going to keep me up at night.

In the end, we decided to sign the papers that day. It was more than we could ask for our first place together. Claire's parents acted sad, but we're secretly happy to hear we were moving out. A week later, after all the formalities were cleared, we moved our things inside. The first night was pure bliss. We cooked spaghetti in our new kitchen and watched a few episodes of CSI on a laptop on the living room floor, trying not to drip sauce on the carpet. After eating, we were tempted to give up on packing and get out some sleeping bags,

but we managed to overcome our laziness and set up our bed in the room at the end of the hall. As Claire laid the sheets, I leaned over and gave her a kiss. I'm glad we finally found a place. She smiled. Me too. Things went well for our first week. It took us a few more days to get everything out of the boxes. We celebrated by having some friends over for dinner.

We thought the apartment would be too small to fit everyone comfortably, but the party turned out fine. Everyone ooed and odd over the stuff we set up. Even though we hadn't been there long, I could tell we'd stay for quite some time. I can't remember if I first saw the man in the alley the night of the party or the night after. Sometimes I wonder how differently things could have gone

if I bought curtains sooner. It wouldn't have stopped what happened, but it would have downplayed Claire and I's involvement. Our old blinds were lost in the move and we'd been putting off going to the store. I'm not sure. exactly what time I woke up that night. I just remember opening my eyes and seeing him standing outside the window. There were streetlights on the sidewalk on either side of the alley, so there was

just enough elimination to make out small details. He wore a tattered brown coat with the collar pulled all the way up. He stood stiff as a board with his back to the window like he was staring at the wall of the opposite building. The eerie whistling sound through the alley started up. As if on cue, the man went limp, his legs bending slightly. He slowly lifted his right arm above his head, letting the fingers dangle. There was a moment's pause. Then he began twirling on his feet. His movements were odd and jerky like there was something on a shoe he was trying to shake off. His arms moved mechanically, lifting and lowering them in time as if to some unheard piece of music. He flounced in and out of the shadows, managing to keep his face pointed towards the opposite wall the whole time.

This went on for nearly three minutes. Just when I considered shaking Claire awake, he suddenly stopped his movements and went limp again. He lifted his left leg up very high and brought it down like a cartoon character tiptoeing. Though his whole body pointed to the right as he jerked out of my line of sight down the alley, his head never moved from facing the opposite wall. I laid there in the dark for several minutes afterwards, trying to process what I had just seen. Goose bumps crept up my arms. Who was that man?

Why was he in the alley so late at night? I told Claire what I saw in the morning as we got ready for work. She looked a little troubled, but shrugged it off. Amanda, this isn't exactly the nicest section of the city. I bet it was just some junkie jumping at shadows or something. I wouldn't worry too much about it. The last sentence was easier said than done. I spent most of the afternoon daydreaming,

thinking about the unnatural angle the man's neck was bent. That evening, while I entered the building, I looked down the alley that ran parallel to our window. It was empty, save for a few pieces of litter. I frowned and hoped he wouldn't come around again that night. Throughout dinner, Claire and I talked about what happened. We both concluded it was probably a one-off encounter. Besides, he hadn't even looked inside.

That put my mind at ease. Just before we went to bed, I made a mental note to go to the store the next day and buy curtains. Even though I felt better, I slept that night facing away from the window. The whistling sound still came from the alley, but, well, in a way. way it felt comforting. I fell asleep quicker than expected. When I opened my eyes hours later, I knew he was outside. The clock on the nightstand flashed 215. I felt his eyes burning into me even though my back was to him. I laid there for several seconds, scared out of my wits, trying to decide what to do. I couldn't just go back to sleep. I rolled over and looked out the window. He stood

about five feet away, facing our building this time. He wore the same ratty. brown coat. I couldn't make out any further details because it was so dark. Despite the shadows that prevented me from seeing his face above the upturned collar, I was sure he was looking directly into the room. He resumed the same flat position, arms against his side, legs stiffed together. Without warning, he took another one of his long, cartoony steps forward. He brought his arms out and above his head, the hands and fingers angled downward like he was doing a Dracula impression. He held that position for a few moments while I continued to stare. petrified. Another step brought him within three feet. One of the neighbors upstairs must have

had their lights on, because a single beam managed to puncture the wall of darkness that covered his face. His skin was gray and sallow, the hair on his head blowing slightly in the breeze. His mouth was downturned in a frown, lips almost reaching to his chin. One eye was open, the other closed. I saw dark spots covering the lid, whitish, and swollen. He took another step and was almost to the window, his fingertips against the glass. I leaned over to shake Claire. As I did, the man brought his arms down, nails scratching loudly on the pain. Claire opened her eyes and turned over. Amanda. She looked towards the window. A gasp caught in her throat. I reached over to grab my phone, the screeching nails against the glass intensified as the man increased his speed, swinging his arms up

and down like he was directing a plane. Just as I dialed 911, the man froze. He stopped to jerking movements and turned his face up to stare. Several tense seconds passed. Without another sound, he turned robotically to the right and took more exaggerated steps further down the alley, disappearing into the night. It was hard explaining to the cops that arrived 20 minutes later what happened. As the officer took our statements, two others walked around the alley with flashlights, looking for someone we knew wouldn't be there. The officer offered a car to be sent to drive by the alley a few times the next night, but after that, there wasn't much they could do. We could call if anything else strange happened.

He apologized that he couldn't help you on the formalities and left. It wasn't much comfort, but it was better than nothing. Claire and I made sure to get off early the next day so we could buy curtains. We picked out a heavy set with a view of the New York City skyline on it. Tacky, but they would get the job done. We hung them up as soon as we got home. As the hours ticked by and night rapidly approached, I sensed the apprehension in the air. We ate dinner in silence and went to bed after a few.

few hours of TV. As I turned off the light, I stared at the vista of buildings printed on the curtains. Not a single ray of light passed through. The room was pitch black. Claire smiled as I got into bed. This should scare that guy away. When I woke up at dawn, I didn't feel at ease right away. I hadn't woken up during the night, which was a good sign, but what if the man had been there anyway, staring right outside the window? Quietly, without waking Claire, I slipped out of bed and open the curtains. The white scratches of the man's fingernails on the glass stood starkly in the early morning light. I tried to remember how many there were the previous day and, if they were more now, but I couldn't remember. I thought the curtains would have relaxed me. But while we dressed and left for

work, it was clear that neither of us were feeling better. As Claire and I kissed goodbye, we hugged for a few moments longer. On the train ride home that evening, I wondered if the cops had driven by the previous night like they said they would. Maybe the... the man never came at all. Maybe he was there the whole time doing his strange waltz. I thought about looking at new listings when I got home. Claire had obviously been as rattled as I was because she suggested we stayed at her parents' place that night. But it was a Tuesday, and their townhouse was a half-hour train ride to our works. In the end, we decided to stay. The bedtime ritual went as usual, closed the curtains, turn off the lights, lay with my back to the window. Before I fell asleep,

I managed to convince myself that nothing would happen. I should have known better. What woke me up at 2 a.m. wasn't the feeling of the man's eyes on me, but I'm sure I could have sensed them through the fabric. No, it was the frantic scratching of his fingernails on the window. I sat up right in bed and turned to stare. There was an inch-wide gap in the center of the curtains. I saw his arms waving frantically as they attacked the glass.

Claire? I shook her awake and she sat up as well. Her eyes widened in anger. Not this time. She got up and threw the curtains open. The man was framed in the window, his fingernails still screeching. His shadowy face pointed directly at Clare's. She took a step back and cried out.

The man suddenly stopped his assault and resumed the still, Dracula-like position. His head shifted towards us and caught in the neighbor's light again. His skin had taken on a greenish hue and I could see dark spots of rot dotting his face. We both screamed. Without warning, he started floating backwards? His feet left the ground as he rose away from the window swinging in the air like a pendulum. He reached the apex of his flight six feet up the other wall. Claire and I did nothing but stare.

A few seconds passed, then without warning, he came swinging towards the window. We backed up, falling against the bed. The man hit the glass with enough force to crack it. Dark blood exploded on the pain spurting out of his broken nose. He floated back again, taking another swing and crashed hard. A crack in the skin blossomed on his forehead, dribbling more. blood and revealing a slice of his skull. The man swung back and hit again a few more times, each creating more cracks and covering

the window with red. We barely saw him through the mess of blood and hair. One more strike, and I was sure the glass would shatter. He backed up again. Claire and I prepared to run out of the room. His flight towards us was slower this time, coming to a rest right outside. We stared at his ruined face as he glared lifelessly back. The man suddenly jerked upwards.

half his body disappearing above the top of the frame. He flailed like a rag doll. I heard a few sickening cracks and knew what was coming. With one final crack, his head, arms, and legs from the knee down came away from his body. The rest falling past the window and hitting the alley floor with a loud thud. His limbs and head hung in the air for a moment without a torso before disappearing upward. I could barely talk while Claire called the cops. The dispatcher didn't believe us at first,

agreed to send a car out. A few minutes after they arrived, we heard one of the officers outside throw up. We were later told the man had been dead for at least a week. His head, arms, and lower legs were found on the roof, thick wires sewn and weaved into them. The rest of him lay in a bloody heap in the alley below. The detective tried to tell us that he must have hung himself in that bizarre fashion from the eaves and the rope had finally broken. I could tell he was grasping at straws for an explanation. We left the apartment a few days later and moved to a new neighborhood. Most nights I lie awake thinking. I wonder who the man was.

I wonder how he ended up like that. And most of all, I wonder who was up there on the roof, controlling his body like a marionette, making him dance outside our window. We need to get out of that alley and take a short break from the horror. Hey, boss, check out by new wheels. Oh, wow, nice car, Atticus. I can't remember the last time I saw a station wagon with wood panel, sides, and everything.

She's a beaut, ain't she? I can't wait to start making money with her. And how are you going to do that? Well, I'm going to deliver packages with it. I'm going to call my company Ship Station Wagon. Ship Station Wagon. Wait, wait, wait a second. Did you do all of this because I told you about this week's promo for Ship Station?

Yeah. I mean, no. Atticus, listen, we're talking about Ship Station. Just because the busy holiday rush is over, it doesn't mean small businesses can start slacking on shipping out their orders. That's why we recommend Ship Station for all their orders and exchanges. Oh, of course. I remember what last year was like.

Shipping delays, supply shortages, holiday demand? It was a mess. Now you're ringing in the new year with impatient customers, returns, and expensive shipping rates. It's time to switch to a shipping solution. that can handle it all painlessly. I couldn't imagine having to ship orders and handle all the tracking and business details of exchanges

without the power of ship station. I can save time by managing every order, Amazon, eBay, Etsy, or my own website, from anywhere, even my phone. No more headaches in dealing with returns and return tracking. Shipstation makes it easy. And you can save money when you compare carrier options and choose the best shipping solution every time.

Shipstation works with every carrier, so you can always find the best fit for you. Your small business can access the same discounted rates usually reserved for Fortune 500 companies without the contracts or commitments. Save your sanity, knowing your orders are handled, and you're getting the best rates. Make shipping the easy part of having an online store. You have bigger ideas to think about. And you don't even need a fancy station wagon. Definitely not. So ship more in less time with Ship Station.

Use our offer code, No Sleep, to get a 60-day free trial. That's two months free of no hassle, stress-free shipping. Just go to shipstation.com, click on the microphone at the top of the page, and type it No Sleep, Ship Station. Make Ship happen. And for even faster shipping, just go to Shipstationwagon.com slash add-ing this. Nope, no way. No, no plugging your own nonsense in this ad. Ah! Enough of this.

It's time to get back to the horror. I think you'll like the sound of that. In our final tale, we recall those days when music was experienced on vinyl records, with their glorious album covers artfully displaying the artists. But even though vinyl is making a resurgence, it seems like these tales are told only in the form of reminiscence. And in this tale, shared with us by author Neil Noon,

We learn of one musician who went missing under strange circumstances and how there are many mysterious things about him which are, shall we say, off the record. Performing this tale are Erica Sanderson, James Cleveland, Andy Cresswell, David Alt, and Penny Scott Andrews. So look through those old albums, see if you can find it. But don't delve too deeply for The Lost Sound of Peter Wood. Do you ever look at an artist on an album cover and almost think you know them? I bet it's happened once or twice at least. I don't think I'm alone in this.

There were times growing up when my records were basically filed by the mood on the face of the artist on the cover. I was at the time from, say, 14 to 17, quite singular. So if I'd had a bad day at school, I'd turned to Brenda Fisk. On the cover of fleeting beams she looks so warm. In this yellow tint of summer sunshine, 1965, I'd placed the sleeve opposite my bed and whisper whatever had troubled me that day. Usually the trouble had a name,

one of my three main bullies at that school, which I mostly hated because it felt like it belonged to them. I wouldn't actually put the record on because, I don't know if you know it, but it's not dated so well. Brenda's actual voice was not so much warm as, well, I saw a review once that said she had barked her simple lyrics. And that's a bit harsh, but I suppose it's why only real folk fans have ever heard of her. Instead, I'd put on Doris Bellwether, the early stuff, obviously, before she became so professional.

On the first three albums, for reasons best known to herself, she only bothers to sing the choruses, which is perfect when you're busy listing all the indignities you'd suffered for not looking your best in the break between maths and English. Anyway, when I started my own label, it's no surprise that the cover portrait was always a bit of an obsession. I don't work with living artists. To cut down on recording costs, I used to joke to the perfect monochrome cover of George Tremels under a cloud. And his face, frozen mid-lath, never failed to deliver the flat teaspoon of gratification I could. craved. It was sort of true. I had just enough capital to pay for rights and pressing, so it made sense to focus on reissues. But with my quite modest, really, inheritance, the only outer print

records I could really afford to buy the rights to were the ones that had failed so utterly the first time round they were curios at best. Under a cloud was my first. It was six months before I sold a copy. But I still felt that George, long dared at his own hand, would be pleased to think some collector in Leeds had snapped up his admittedly challenging album, whether they bothered listening to it or not. A few years on, collectors are my market.

Completists, really. I've learnt that the records that sell well, well, okay, okay that sell at all, are the ones with a good story attached. With George Tremel, it's his suicide, sadly. especially since he did it by carbon monoxide and his album art has all that fog on it. With Hilda Stiggs, it's the brutal murder of her manager.

Hilda's my second bestseller. The actual record is unlistenable. The story behind my next release, my first album which was never released even once, is even better. When Hilda's manager was murdered, by Hilda with a decorative marble ashtray, it made the papers because she's never been rediscovered as an artist.

because, as some Muso wrote on a blog, Stiggs's love songs are so uniformly angry she should probably give it up and go and live in a nunnery. I wonder how prison compared... Anyway, even her short career can't match. At last, a name you might recognise. Peter Wood, who disappeared famously. I hope you won't mind me repeating the basics.

You probably read about Peter in one of those newspaper articles that squeezed in his terrible child. disastrous career and sudden terrifying exit into a single column. But what happened to Peter, I now think, is much more than human interest. A talent who missed his chance, or a man who capsized under his own demons. Whatever happened to Peter is still happening, for better or worse. But let's go back to the beginning. Behind the music, before he was, well, taken.

Peter Wood was the only child of a family so massively alcoholic he'd later joke that even the dog preferred gin in his bull. It wasn't the kind of joke, I suppose, that you were supposed to laugh at. Neither did he get along with school, being already a dreamer by necessity. Luckily, his parents were too busy emptying bottles to chastise him for his failing grades or increasing truancy. There was a large and largely untended park not far from his home. tall yellow grass and stagnant green-brown ponds. Peter went there instead of lessons. Climed trees, make dens, discover masturbation.

But as autumn grew colder, there was a tiny cafe just inside the park gates, mostly empty except for its bohemian owner and occasional friends. Peter would sidles shyly in, buy a cup of tea and make it last two hours. Meanwhile, the friends, apparently all musicians, took turns to play traditional numbers to each other, the owner, and off in the furthest corner, Peter. He liked how they sang about how life used to be, closer to nature. But the musicians had a sort of uniform, too.

So, skimming change from his sleeping parents, bit by bit, he bought a cat, the scarf, the right boots, the right jacket. By the time his own wispy teenage beard had grown, the only prop left was the cheapest guitar. car he'd ever seen. It was the last birthday present his parents ever gave him, sounded like catgut and fought his every tuning. But it was also his chance to move from the audience to the stage. He was banned from playing it in the house. Mum and dad preferred to sink in silence. Instead, he'd practice in their thin strip of overgrown garden, even in the rain. What did he care?

By the time he had some songs of his own, he was living in a squat with a clutch of other strummers, bobbing around the bottom of the bill, someone to fill the slot when most were still arriving, often too busy eating to applaud. He was saved from being just another reciting songbook by having his heart first broken. He wouldn't talk about it after, so her name and face are gone. There are clues in the lyrics that his new and raw need was met by a liking, not a loving. In his song of the song of the song, physical thing, he seems to scorn the trade of his virginity for, and he more spits than sings this, a flash of fire soon swallowed. Other lines are more explicit, quite a lot more.

Peter shared his secrets in his songs, and not just his own. But as his real feelings finally found an outlet, as he rose up the booking order to fill the room with anger and accusations, so the scene who'd nurtured him increasingly found him a problem, on and offstage. His next song was called Your Man on the Floor. It's a barely two-minute snarl basically bragging about a one-sided fistfight, with, it seems, his ex's new partner. From a first blow, the other wasn't expecting to, Your man taking a kicking, your man curled up and crying.

Peter was banned from both cafe and squat. He took only his guitar from where he'd been staying, a suitably symbolic gesture to prove his purity. Then, back to his parents, where he stopped just long enough to pocket the meager savings he'd seen his mum squirrel away in a kitchen cupboard. With it, he'd buy the simple, scratchy home recording equipment of the day. A fellow folk he saw him hitchhiking out of town, but didn't stop.

An estate agent fondly remembered charging an intense young man, a sizable sum for the renting of a tumble-down, cottage deep in the green, duration one month. And Peter closed the door on a world that would not see him again. I came to the cottage when I was still deciding whether to release the album. The music merited it, there was no question, but the rights had reverted to his now elderly parents who, miraculously still drinking and somehow thriving, were asking a fortune for them, a way to recoup what he stole from them, I suppose. The place was nothing like the black and white photos that accompanied the news stories back then.

Missing Singer leaves strange recording and all that. Back then, the rooms were cluttered with furniture falling apart. The windows were almost opaque with grime, and the garden was a waste of tall grass right up to the walls. But with this region becoming more touristy in the 40 years since Peter's artistic retreat, the current owner had it nicely painted, central heated, and Wi-Fi enabled. What it lost in mystery, it gained in comfort.

Anyway, the tall trees at the end of the garden cast as much shadow as ever. I answered my few customer emails, drowsed on the early evening couch. I attempted to capture, but mostly killed the many moths in the bedroom, and set about planning the sleeve. Peter, missing at 20 for 40 years, was finally getting his release. My label had only one employee, apart from me, and even him only during production phases. His name was Goodwin. He lived 50 miles away in a state of sarcasm so ingrained I had to read every email three times to pin down what he was really feeling.

When, late that first night there, I sent him fair warning that there was another doomed project on the way. His reply read, in full, "'Crusty old folk music. Just what the world needs more of.' Honestly, I don't even care if the money for this one never comes through. I transferred his fee immediately. The morning was spent clearing drifts of dead beetles from kitchen cupboards, even a few on their backs in the oven. A sudden sore throat and a mild fever.

But I had a deadline, so with my designer's hat on, lined up the three photos of Peter when he was younger than me, long ago. This for the cover. one serious, too sad. It was a shame I didn't have any in which he looked cruel, since that was definitely the tone of the record. Anyway, before I could make a decision, Goodwin was calling,

because for the first time in our working arrangement, he was actually interested in what he was hearing. This didn't translate into compliments so much as an interrogation. Goodwin was angry at rest. He'd been in a... He'd had just enough success for him to feel when it was gone again. Twenty years on, he ate, drank and often slept in his basement studio, all he had left of those days. His one lasting enjoyment, luckily for me, the ticklish challenge of restoring old audio,

I think mostly to relish any imperfection of technique the process uncovered. Today he wanted to know what this pretentious prick, he never bothered to learn the names of the artists, was on when he made it. I said, as far as anyone knows, country air and raw emotion. Because the story goes that once out at the cottage, Peter never even made it to the village shop for supplies.

Whatever, Goodwin was more interested in the instrumentation. No, I didn't know what made that rumbling sound. Or the clangs, no. There's no record of Peter ever learning anything other than the guitar. But it's true. There are some seriously weird textures to these recordings. Not so much the first half,

which contains just Peter, his guitar, and an air hiss half filled with his bitterness, snarls and wales of unhappiness. It's on the flip side, where we move from choruses to fragments, from words about his life to mumbled lines that seem barely connected. Harmonic drones,

like mournful cattle trotting into the avalanche, What could be bells, but from a great distance, as if channeled through a valley? And these sudden squalls in which all these sounds, including Peter's voice, twine and strain and echo. But how he achieved that with the, again, really basic portable recorder Peter had brought here? Pass. Sometimes it sounds like he was surrounded by an orchestra, swallowed by the arrangement. Back in the cottage, my newest symptom. was a maddening, itching in obscure parts of my body.

Idly scratching, I found myself gazing into the eyes of the leftmost lesser-depressed version of Peter. This, while his song, close enough to touch inside, was playing, fairly loudly from my laptop. The benefits of no neighbours. Having told him, I was sure he'd probably soon be famous, at least among a handful of obsessive collectors of unplayed vinyl, I opened the door to let a breeze in, summer's heat or rain. rising. And as he sang, in your tender arms that so slowly unravel me, I bent to examine the bag of fresh mushrooms, ragged salad leaves and a small joint of meat wrapped in newspaper that had been left on the doorstep by no neighbours, no bystanders, no farmers nearby even as far as I'd been

told. Hmm. With no one to thank in the paranoia of a city dweller abroad, I placed the meat, quite pink, quite bloody, gently into the white light of the fridge and close the door, feeling more discomfort than gratitude. Years of nothing, not even suffering, Peter sang, as if wading into a forest of static. Every time I slept now, I woke with small scratches, where I must have scratched away in the dark. But first I blame some allergy, but finding a good handful of pale baby beetles crawling blindly across the priests and the still-worn bed sheets made it hard to touch anything. I began to wonder how thorough the place's makeover had been.

And yeah, after half a breakfast I examined the meat again, couldn't decide what it was, again, and guiltily transferred it, double-bagged, to the bin. Later, of course, I'd learned that I'd already taken too much without knowing the source. Contact that can stabulate. A particular route, Mr. and Mrs. Epstein, the last seen on was among the densest forests in Europe once upon a time. But in the 19th century, much of the area was felt for lumber.

Local wisdom has always maintained a disproportionate amount of travellers went missing within its bounds. And legend has it, the bodies are rarely found. Back in my flat, above the backstreet minymot. The remaining list of pre-released chores was being slowly struck through in red. This, while dealing with the Beatles that must have somehow hitched a ride in my luggage, I was itching a lot still, raised red skin. And listening to Jane Bellows, I remember. A woman so timid she put the back of her head on the front of her album.

Despite its predictable failure, I had a soft spot for her mumbled delivery, especially when twinned with the basic drum kit she played pretty approximately. Receiving no reviews as my third release, she had promptly failed again. Goodwin had, to be fair, told me so. He'd often text me when he got up in the late afternoon with updates. Sometimes our exchanges got pretty flirty.

I don't think either of us was genuinely attracted to the other, but it served a purpose. Anyway, he'd also, more recently, additionally, taken to calling me at dusk to complain in detail about the sudden glut of nightmares he blamed Peter's record for. The last had been particularly vivid. He was miles from anywhere, he said, and just standing like a monument, a hollow trunk or something.

He said he could feel the cold in his heart and lungs while his nose and mouth are furring with moss. He's looking into the dead eyes of a woman standing just as still in front of him, when, slowly, arms encircle him. But not hers. From behind him. Two strong arms that tighten and tighten. And now he watches her hand float up towards his head. It takes a long time, hours maybe, but he knows it's getting closer.

Finally, in the dark, he feels her fingertips meet his face. He feels the pressure growing. He feels it give like a rotten log. Night was falling again above the alley when my phone beeped full of a message, so I assumed it would be the next instalment. But we'd also taken to sending each other pictures of our, well, you know, So I picked it up. It was an unknown number, though, and the words even stranger.

I know where Peter Wood is, it said in full. Hard to know where to begin with a reply. I went with the pretty obvious. Where? Which was, yeah, when my doorbell rang. Because of the kind of story my story is, you've probably already guessed it was the man himself on my doorstep. Maybe you even predicted he'd look approximately the same as he did on his one cover,

ageless and unmoving. For my part, for some total of sense I could muster, he was even in the same folk outfit he wore from back then. The very best sentence I could construct was, Oh my fucking God, he looked past me up the stairs to my door. My music! Peter answered with difficulty, like he hadn't used his voice in a long time.

Once upstairs, he makes straight to the mock-up of his record sleeve. It's like he's looking into a mirror. Wine, he says. But I'm busy pouring two glasses of wine, which I'm happy to drink if he doesn't, such is the shop. It's a great album, which has no visible effect. I release records which missed their audience the first time round. He puts the sleeve down.

Still unreadable. I gulped down half a glass of the cheap red stuff. You look exactly the same. At this, he reacts. Eyes to mine. Seems almost surprise, though I don't know how. You can't release it. He says, sitting with difficulty.

Oh, okay, but the thing is. He waves away the wine I offer. Your parents own the recording, Peter. You're legally dead. You've been... I mean, no one's seen you since 1971, which is... Because I'm still not sure he's getting this. A really long time ago.

For you. He shrugs. Well, yeah, before I was even born, I want to say. But he's up again, to the corner of the room that serves as my kitchen. lift something from his pocket onto the counter. Why didn't you eat the meat? He asks. I take a big sip from the second glass

and hold it in my mouth to buy some time. At least this explains how he knew. Must have heard the music playing from the cottage. Followed me back somehow. I can't imagine him driving. Apparently my answer was optional because he's busy opening the newspaper parcel, the white of it pinking where the blood.

must be pooling. Let's talk over dinner. And he already has the oven lit. My poverty being such than even a man absent from society for almost 50 years can apparently work my primitive stove. No vegetables? I attempt while he's plating up thick marbled slices, medium rare, and he gestures towards my three-day-old budget loaf, though doesn't seem tempted himself. I want to ask what kind of Meat it is, but cooked it looks more or less like any other joint. You want to know where I've been. He starts handing me mine. No shit, I think, gingerly cutting a hunk from the end.

When I came to the cottage, I was at the end. There was no getting away from it. I could neither pour out all my pain and hope the emptiness after was better, or I could lie, basically. To myself and everyone. Write some nice songs. Songs saying sorry. Songs that might even make some money.

Then I could die. Maybe that sounds dramatic, but I was young then, and as you may know, if you've dealt with my parents, my childhood hadn't done much to ground me. Things were beautiful or terrible. With my love lost, life was unlivable. Death, even if only an end to pay and felt preferable. But first, I had to get the songs out.

I didn't want to rot with my seeds still inside me. The cottage was mine for a month. So I recorded, and I recorded, and even to me, even then, it all sounded small, petty, ultimately forgettable. The first week passed and I couldn't kill myself, could I? Even started to worry the police might find me first. My parents would have no problem reporting the theft. I knew that.

It says something about my state that when the food parcel started turning up on the doorstep, I didn't even question their origin. I almost hoped some farmer would finally arrive to request payment only to find his food eaten and me hanging. But it wasn't a farm. that came calling. The only supplies I brought myself were, sorry, but it's true,

ten tins of soup and five bottles of whiskey. I went through two bottles the first week, which meant I had two left to finish the record. As determined as I was, the fifth bottle was reserved for what I would do when I was done. Enough whiskey, and I could summon enough emotion to, well, you know, push through. The recordings got a little better after I strung up the noose.

Singing looking up at it gave my voice more weight. But my second Sunday morning there, deep in a raging hangover, I dropped my guitar on the stone floor. And the woman hanging from my noose locks eyes with me and smiles. The man behind me puts his hand over my mouth, so my scream is hardly heard. A hunk of pinkish flesh frozen on my fork. I mouth, what the fuck? To the back of Jane Bellow's head. She can't talk from the noose, so wiggles free, quite gracefully.

He's still holding me, both dressed like my parents in black and white photos, the 40s. There's not even any redness to her neck, and up close she smells of mold, of leaves, of riverbeds. You can guess the rest. I strongly express, aided by three emptied glasses, the opinion that I shall not guess, and he will finish.

But it's like he's not asleep, but hollowed out. Still, there's a statue. They're what? Ghosts. Is that what you're saying? His eyes have slid to the floor. And it was them on your room.

record. Those sounds that no one can figure out. Not just them. He says, they only opened the door. They were just the last in the chain. I put my cutlery down on the half-empty plate, feeling increasingly queasy. And what did the meat have to do with it? It was their meat, he mumbles, obviously. Finally, carved from their body. Did you just serve me? And I have no plans to finish that sentence. He shakes his head slowly. Okay, that's me on your plate, he says.

And his hand flashes forward to clamp my mouth, so my scream is hardly heard. It's maybe ten minutes before we can talk meaningfully again. There was a whole thing where I decided it might be best exit by the first floor window. but his hands lock around my wrists, rooting me to the centre of the room. And it's only now, held so close, I see the pale bloom of lichen spreading from one ear, the insects in the twitch of his hair. It's only in feeling him against me that I can finally believe he's not breathing.

Anyway, they weren't ghosts. They're forest folk. Hidden people. The couple were only the latest. to go into the green. They'd only been there of 20-something years themselves, but they heard my music as a cry for help, and they blocked the exits, and they said,

that which eats must be eaten. They had a choice into the green like them or into the black. They'd kill you? They'd help if I chose to make it fast. You're not just here for your record. That which eats must be eaten. Peter, I didn't eat the meat. I can push the parts back together on the plate.

Nothing's missing. And I could swear there's more than just him looking out through his eyes. A whole crowd sharing his smile. I know, they say. It doesn't matter. You listened to our music. You took what was offered. You can't live in this world any longer.

When you say the green That's where I am now That's what I am now I don't know if I follow You will Think about a song Even a simple song is hundreds of notes How many trees in a forest

And I remember the life of Peterwood I do But also every hour of every insect Kicking through me Every growth through my dark. Sometimes I think I'm too many small and creeping things to count just dreaming they're a man. Does it hurt? Of course it hurts.

And when he says that, I see something moving in his mouth, something pale, almost as big as his tongue, escaping down his throat from the light his lips let in. Peter Wood was a nightmare. He wanted everyone to know his name. He wanted them to stop what they were doing And not just listen to him He wanted them to feel what he was feeling He was sick

He'd rather sing to himself than see the world But when he ate When he was eaten He was released Time to choose You can stop being the centre of your life What if I refuse? I can leave you

If you like but the process has already begun. Where do you think the beetles are coming from? My throat itches, my skin bumps, and I sit, suddenly heavy with everything too real, and a dry heave. That's natural. I'm nodding with the weight of all that's not me inside me.

Peter, if all this is... Is there... After the... Black? Is there like... The white? Or... I mean, like, life after, or...

Couldn't tell you. I didn't go that way. But, okay, the couple who came to you? Made their choice in the wilderness when they couldn't find their way back. Eight... And we're eaten. Time to choose. Where are they now?

Nora and Ben? There with your engineer. Into the green or into the black. As the fires waneapes and phones appear to be missing from both properties. 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 extensive 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.