The NoSleep Podcast - S17: NoSleep Podcast - Sleepless Decompositions Vol. 9

Episode Date: June 12, 2022

We’re sleepless decomposing while we work on Season 18. Enjoy Sleepless Decompositions Vol. 09“Nightmare” written by Anne Marie Lutz (Story starts around 00:02:30)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Jessica McEvoy, Paul – Atticus Jackson“Inheriting Her Goats” written by S.H. Cooper (Story starts around 00:13:15)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Jessa – Nikolle Doolin, Wilbur Sacks – Mike DelGaudio, Jimmy – Atticus JacksonThis episode is sponsored by: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 teamClick here and here to learn more about “Inheriting Her Ghosts” by S.H. CooperClick here to learn more about Anne Marie LutzClick here to learn more about S.H. CooperExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Sleepless Decompositions” illustration courtesy of Kelly TurnbullAudio 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, sleepless, and welcome to the latest installment of sleepless decompositions. I'm your host, David Cummings. Can you believe we're already on the ninth of these episodes since 2020? For those who may be new to us after discovering the podcast's URL scrawled on the wall of a cursed crypt, allow me to explain what a sleepless decomposition is. It's a non-season episode created or curated in-house, with the purpose of sleeping outside the crumbling coffin that serves as the box. That is to say, these episodes are our little gift to you on some weeks that would otherwise be a holiday break from the show. Sometimes they're a little different to what you come to find in regular episodes. This could be the length of a story or the subgenre. Maybe they push boundaries. Maybe they break them. Sometimes they will be particularly shocking.

Sometimes they'll be puzzling. And sometimes, as is the case with this, episode, there are just two really good horror stories that we decided to do for sleepless decompositions, Volume 9, because we feel like it. So hopefully now you understand the scope of sleepless decompositions, a series of episodes we've been doing since the new decade. The new decade started. And speaking of decomposition, we're getting older. Yes, we're turning 11 on June 13th. 11 sleepless years. Hmm, quite a number. Speaking of numbers, let's talk number 18.

Yes, season 18 begins on June 26, but the season pass is on sale right now. And when you sign up, you'll have access to a special bonus episode. Why not help us raise the numbers of season 18 pass holders by buying one? The link is in the show notes. There's something very special about season 18. We promise it'll be spooky, scary fun, but we can't promise it won't give you bad dreams. And speaking of bad dreams, it's time for our first tale. Shared with us by author Anne-Marie Lutz and performed by Jessica McAvoy and Atticus Jackson.

It's the tale of a woman who wakes into a nightmare. Blood dripped from the closed door of the strange car. It seeped through the door seam onto the pavement. It looked as if someone had painted the inside of the windshield red. I stood facing the front of the car, waving my hands frantically at the officer. Over here, those were my license plates. I knew the first three letters. Above the opaque red smear inside the windshield,

the little wire ornament Cassie had given me last Christmas stangled from the mirror. So much. It's not my car, really, I told the officer. My car's blue. This one is all. red. This isn't my car. My husband lay in the lounge chair in his board shorts and sunglasses. A bottle of beer sat sweating in the sun in the chair's cup holder. Hey, the cops are here for you and your car was stolen, he said lazily. I jerked awake with my heart pounding a hole through my

chest. Every muscle clenched. The house was dark except for a wan glow from the nightlight. I heard myself gasping. Oh my God, what a dream. I got up for a drink of water. My hand shook. I tried to force myself to calm down. Paul was in the bathroom, getting ready for work. There was a light under the door and the gurgle of water running down the drain.

That was awful. The dream still lurked in the corners. I felt it, lying there, waiting. I shoved it away, cool water filling my mouth. The feel of the here and now would chase away the dregs. Ten more minutes. I had to calm down. I lay back down on the bed, pulled the comforter up.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, forced my shoulders to relax. Something black moved inside my mind, free to come out now that all was dark. The officer went to the passenger door and cracked it open. He grinned. Come here, he said. Tell me how this isn't your car. A jagged scratch ran through the passenger door paint. It was just like the one I'd gotten last week in the parking garage.

It pointed to the terrible red cavern of the car's interior. Not my car. I jerked awake. Something curked. curled back into its corner inside my head, hiding. Water still ran in the bathroom. A car went by on the road outside. I followed the sound of its engine around the curves until it faded away.

I went into the kitchen and measured coffee into the filter. It was hard to move. The eyes of my mind waited for the officer to swing the car door wide. When I blinked, everything was red. Somehow my hands were steady as I poured water into the coffee pot. Another car went by outside, taking someone to work. As the sound of the engine passed my house, something inside my mind move, reaching. I froze.

But the engine died away around the bend in the road, muffled by the trees. The thing inside me recoiled, I thought. The yellow overhead light in the kitchen made a cone around me. Coffee scalded my tongue but didn't obliterate the horror. The water quit running in the bathroom, but there were no sounds of Paul getting ready for work. No drawers opening, no squeak of the shower curtain swinging aside. Just silence. My eyes drooped.

Red and black moved behind my eyelids. It's not my car, I told the officer. I noticed he had missing teeth. and no eyes behind his slipped-down sunglasses. He held the door open, pulling me with a hand on my forearm. The car door yawned. I heard a mournful wail in the distance, a machine rumble as a train passed behind the houses on the outskirts of town.

This was real, the morning train, racing along the tracks before dawn, the clatter of reality breaking through. The officer paused. looking away into the distance with sightless eyes. Something inside my mind quivered, reached out toward the fleeing black train in the night. I loved the howl of the train,

calling through the empty air. I welcomed the growl of the engines, the rhythmic roll of the cars following, the sound adding structure to the dreams of everyone within hearing. I waited for it every morning. This was my chance. I reached into my own mind and grabbed. Something spasmed under my hands. Endless cold froze my palms. The thing squirmed between my fingers, whipped around my forearms. I yanked it out of its corner

and threw it as far as I could toward the train. Some of it clung, but the rest of it pulled, leaving stripes of pain in my skin. Something huge and incomprehensible blotted out the yellow light and flew out the window, east toward the train. Moonlight darkened as the thing flew under it. The train's whale dimmed for a few seconds, as if muffled, then recovered and raced away, carrying something else with it. Ordinary yellow light filled the room. The coffee pot made its usual clicking sound.

Paul opened the bathroom door, steam curling out. The sound of the train. faded. I went to the window and looked out at the cars parked along the street. City lights illuminated the neighbor's pickup truck, Paul's Prius. My car was parked half under a tree, reflecting glare from the humming street lamp above it. The windows were clear, and I could see there was nothing at all inside. My heartbeat slowed. The welts on my forearm throbbed, but the pain had already begun to fade. Paul stuck his head into the kitchen, wet hair sticking up. You all right? I looked out at the car again. I didn't want to ask. Look like you'd rather not drive today. Want to ride in?

Nightmares. We like inspiring them, but we don't like having them. Too stressful. And don't we all have enough stress these days? That's why now is the perfect time to share a word from our sponsor, better help. Nightmares aren't always confined to our sleep. Waking life can be overwhelming and leave us feeling burned out. It's important to recognize signs of burnout. I've talked about it before. I find there are times when I'm irritable, tired, when I lack the motivation to do the simplest or even the easiest tasks. And look, I love what I do. Leading the team that brings you this podcast is something that brings me so much satisfaction and enjoyment. But it's still a lot of hard work. And there are times, without even being aware of it at first, that I find myself run down and burned out.

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that a therapist can help root out and offer ways to alleviate them. Don't settle for thinking burnout is something we just have to live with. Better Help is customized online therapy that offers video, phone, and e-eselps. 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. Our listeners get 10% off their first month at betterhelp.com slash no sleep. That's betterh-elp.com slash no sleep. And now, let's get back to the horror. Nice, relaxed horror down on the farm, just friendly little piggies, cows, and, oh, oh no, goats.

In our final tale, we join a woman returning to her childhood home after her mother's bought the farm. And with this story from the author of Sleepless Sanctuary Publishing's Home, Inheriting Her Ghosts, S. H. Cooper, we discover that just because something started as a pun doesn't mean it can't end in terror. Performing this tale are Nicole Doolin, Mike Delgado, and Atticus Jackson. So to round off Cap Rine season until we next go camping, here's Inheriting Her Goats. She died alone, unless you count the goats. I'm not sure I do, but she probably would have.

She preferred them to people. I couldn't blame her. A lifetime of letdown will do that to you. I like to think I was the best of the worst, the one person she could count on even if I was far away. My leaving hadn't been her fault. I told her that a thousand times. But mom was a true skeptic.

I don't think she ever believed me. She never asked me to come back either. We were fine with phone calls and her making the long journey to me. At some point, without either of us, saying it allowed, the farm had become hers and hers alone. And it stayed that way until I got the call from the police. Official cause of death? Cardiac arrest. I'd always known a broken heart would be the end of her. There would be no funeral. No final goodbyes. No celebration of the life she'd led. She would have said there was nothing to celebrate anyway. A divorced mother of a dead son and

distant daughter with only a flock of goats and 50 acres to her name. Not exactly the kind of thing parties get themed around. I'd told myself so many times over the years that I'd go back. I'd visit her. I'd tell her how much I appreciated all she'd sacrificed for me and Jimmy. That I knew how hard it had been. That she didn't need to feel guilty for any decision she'd made. That I loved her. It's funny how time slips away from us. A life it takes with it less so. It was a long drive up the snaking mountain roads, bordered on both sides by its thick line of evergreen sentinels.

Pale mist gathered around their trunks, dampening the air and woodland sounds. I had lost radio signal miles back. If I'd been in a thinking mood, maybe the silence would have been welcome. But my mind was as fogged as the roadway. And the hounds of regret and heartbreak, howled loudest in the quiet. I didn't remember making the turn off the main highway or the

journey through the backroads. As if in a dream, I was just suddenly idling in front of the wooden gate branded with the word Sadler's Farm. My eyes traced each letter like I was reading them for the first time. Then I slowly undid my seatbelt. Still, in a daze I pushed open the car door and stepped onto the gravel path. The smell was the same, the thick stink of animals in wet greenery. Mom had carried that smell with her wherever she went. Faint as yesterday's perfume. My breath hitched and tears burned at the corners of my eyes. Hey, Mom. The gate screeched with its opening, and I left it a gait after I drove through. A paddock and barn replaced the trees to the west, and beyond that a sloping field.

Ahead, the two-story farmhouse was flanked by patchy bushes and flower beds that hadn't been tended in a long time. Goats gathered at the paddock's fence. Tails flicking and heads raised expectantly. I imagined it was quite the disappointment when I stepped out of the car instead of mom. Their needful buying filled the air all the same. Knowing a couple of the neighbors had been coming by to feed them

Twice a day, I grabbed my bag and headed for the house, instead of giving into their plaint of yells. I had to fight with the front door swollen with moisture before it groaned inward, as if upset it had failed to keep me out of my mother's domain. Mom had been a simple woman, and she kept a simple home, a mismatched array of plain furniture. The same TV she'd had when I still lived there over a decade before. All the family photos hung without any semblance of pattern on the walls. The only luxury, if that was even the word for it, she'd allowed herself was the curio cabinet in the corner of the living room, home to her collection of small glass figurines.

There were a few people along the back of the shelves, ballerinas and wide-eyed children. But most of them were goats. It was exactly as I remembered it. Right down to this shrine dedicated to my late brother covering the mantle. I dropped my bag on the floor and approached the fireplace. Scan in the dusty frames and knick-knack she'd kept that reminded her, Jimmy. There was some measure of sadness there. I supposed as I gazed down at the makeshift memorial.

But it wasn't for him. It was for the woman who'd kept holding on to the sweet little boy who turned into a monster instead of a man. My lip curled unhappily just seeing his face staring at me from every angle. I tip the nearest portrait down. Bastard. First thing I planned to do is remove every trace of him. Mom wouldn't have wanted it, but we all grieve in our own ways.

Reading her home of him as she'd never been able to do might finally bring her the piece she deserved, that he'd never given her. I didn't realize how tightly clenched my jaw was until it started to ache. I dragged a hand along my chin, trying to ease it. And then, in a sudden outburst, I swept my arm along the mantle, sending everything on it crashing to the floor. My breath shook as I gazed down at the mess I'd made.

Well, it's a start. The crunch of picture-framed glass beneath my shoes was a satisfying one. Outside the windows, the goat's cries continued to carry on the wind. I had meant to get a head start on dividing mom's belongings into things I wanted to keep and things I wanted to get rid of. I'd gone into her bedroom armed with a pair of labeled boxes and pulled out dresser drawers. I made it as far as her favorite sweater. Irish wool dyed deep green with wooden toggles before I sank to the floor,

holding it to my chest while fresh tears fell. Suddenly there was too much stuff and not enough mom. And I couldn't let the sweater go. Like a child seeking comfort from a child. too real nightmare. I pulled myself onto her bed and curled up in its center, trying to surround myself with as much of her that still remained as I could. I'd never cried myself to sleep before. Not when I'd got the news dad died. Not after I'd found Jimmy. Not until I'd made it home and the weight of my loss finally came crashing down in such furious waves I felt like I'd never catch my breath.

They pushed me deeper and deeper into a chasm of sorrow. threatened to split me apart until sleep took pity on me and I felt nothing at all. Goats scream. I'd forgotten that until they woke me sometime after nightfall. The clamor of hooves in the mud and the shriek of frightened animals was loud, even upstairs, and I sat bolt upright, confused in the strange dark. It took a moment to remember where I was while I was there. With a tired sigh, I dragged myself off the bed and went to the window. But beyond a few flashes of white, I couldn't see anything.

Oh, fucking goats. There was probably a coyote or something nearby. And for the briefest second, I thought that maybe it wouldn't be so bad if a predator got in. Wipe them out. Gave me one less thing to worry about. I could imagine the horrified look on mom's face if she knew I'd entertain the idea at all. They were her babies as much as I was. Almost automatically, I tugged on her sweater and went downstairs, flipping lights on as I went. By the time I'd reached the last step,

the goats had quieted. But I turned on the outside lamps and grabbed the flashlight that lived in the small table beside the front door anyway. At the paddock, my flashlight beam fell over the huddled herd and regarded me ambivalently. The odd grunt or wine rose from their midst, but whatever had startled them seemed to have passed. What? Did a big bad plastic bag roll through? My only answer was the steady gaze of 40 eyes. Their horizontal pupils looked alien even in the dark. Maybe more so. As I stood there, a slowly circling sense of unease began to turn in my stomach. I licked my lips, hardly aware I was taken a step back from the fence. Maybe it was because I'd been gone for so long, but the night made the farm a vast and strange landscape, stretching on

every side into a nothingness that left me alone with only the goats. And they weren't much comfort. I'd never take into the goats like Mom had. You guys are terrible neighbors. They continued to watch me as I trudged back to the house, and I was only too happy to close the door on them. I replaced the flashlight in its customary spot and turned around. A dozen new sets of eyes were gazing at me from the mantle. All the pictures of Jimmy I had thrown off had been put back in their former place. I reeled back against the door. Hands pressed over my mouth and looked from the photos to the shattered glass still spread

across the floor, then back again. A much younger Jimmy in his little league uniform. Jimmy seated at the kitchen table with our grandma's cat cradled in his arms. Jimmy in front of the Christmas tree with a bow stuck to his forehead, all back in the exact same spots as before. No one had been in the house with me. Even if there was, they wouldn't have known the random order the pictures had been lined up in. Not unless, with my heart pounding against my ribs, I took an unsteady step forward.

Mom? The silence that followed gradually turned to a ringing in my ears. Mom? I tried again, and my voice cracked under the desperate weight in that single word. No answer came, but I realized I didn't need one. I just looked at the photos and knew I wasn't alone. Under normal circumstances, I'd have been suspicious and scared. Probably called the cops to search the house for whoever was hiding in the walls.

Ghost wouldn't even have been in my top 50 explanations for the pictures being replaced. I'd never believed in ghosts. The idea of being stuck in an endless loop of life's worst moments seemed a more terrible fate than simply ceasing to be. But I didn't want Mom to stop being. I didn't care what form she took or how she came back to me. Only that she was there, or that I could think she was. It was the first scrap of comfort I'd been thrown in a week, and I shoved aside any of

logic's attempts to weigh in. I cleaned up the broken picture frame glass and left it sitting in the dustpan beside the fireplace. until I could find a paper bag to secure it in, then went upstairs. That night, I slept in her bed, glad for her closeness. I was eating a breakfast of buttered toast and questionably aged eggs when the kitchen phone rang.

I sat my fork aside and wiped my hands on my jeans front before plucking the receiver from its cradle. Hello? Jessa? Yes. Good, good. Glad you made it up. This is Wilbur's Sacks. I don't know if you remember me.

The image of a perpetually old man and faded denim and a beat-up baseball cap popped instantly into my head. Mom's nearest neighbor five miles up the road. Yes, of course. The attorney said you and the Gilroy's were taking turns feeding the goats. I really appreciate that.

Mom would have, too. As least we could do. Me and Katie were real sorry to hear about her passing. He spoke with a slow sincerity that threatened to choke me up. I cleared my throat to dislodge the form and lump. She's still here, I reminded myself and exhaled slowly. Thanks for keeping an eye on her.

It wasn't a problem. She looked after us, too. Wish we could have done more. You know, last time we spoke, she was really beating herself up over what became a Jimmy. We tried telling her it wasn't her fault, but, well, you know your mom. Yeah, I do. I had had that same conversation with her countless times. In countless times she'd created an entire mental gymnastics routine

that ended with her leaving our abusive dad and taken us to her parents' farm as the catalyst for Jimmy's downward spiral. If I'd stayed, he would have had a male role model. No, having grandpa just wasn't the same. If I'd stayed, he never would have fallen in with that crowd. No, being around your dad just wouldn't have been the same. If I'd stayed, he wouldn't have turned out like that. No, your dad ODing just wasn't the same.

Regardless of what I said, all of Jimmy's decisions were because of mom's decisions. It didn't matter that I'd turned out okay. That I'd never fallen in with the bad kids. That I somehow never got into drugs or drinking or bites or jail. That I hadn't drained mom's bank account on lawyers and repaid her with dad's brand of bruised love. That I'd avoided throwing back one too many shots. a vodka and choking on my own vomit for a family member to find. It just wasn't the same. Got into our henhouse last night. Lost a few of our best girls. Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.

Something's startled the goats, but I didn't see anything when I went to check. That's good. That's good. Maka and Satch, if that's all right with you, unless you need anything today. Tomorrow's great. Thanks, Mr. Sacks. Take care, Jessa. If you need anything, feel free to give us a call. I didn't try explaining that I already had the one thing I needed most just then. After hanging up, I slipped on mom's sweater and went to the barn for the goat's feed. The herd followed me along the paddock fence, loudly voicing their displeasure at the tardiness of their breakfast. I brushed them off with a few choice words while filling their feed bucket, hauling it to the paddock, and dumping it in their trough.

They were greedily budding each other aside and snapping up mouthfuls before I'd even finished. As I turned to bring the bucket back to the barn, a fluttering in the grass caught my eye. A single white chicken feather stuck in the morning dew, just outside the paddock gate. Guess it wasn't just a bag. Sorry, I doubted you. With the goats taken care of,

I decided it would be better to begin packing my old room. Now a quaint never used guest room instead of hers. While I worked, I talked to mom as if she were beside me. None of the things I'd meant to say. The important stuff. Just mundane chit-chat I'd been saving for our next call. Work. The annoying neighbor's latest antics.

The funny movie I'd watched that I thought she'd like. I didn't apologize for what I'd done to the photos either. Mom would understand. The day passed quickly and by the time I finished, I'd cleared out one of the three bedrooms, the dining room, and the small office where Mom had kept all her important paperwork. Satisfied with the job well done, I heated up one of the TV dinners piled neatly in the freezer and ate it standing over the sink.

The goats, much to their dismay, had to wait until I was done before their evening feed. After the sun had dragged its last lingering fingers beneath the horizon, covering the farm in a veil of cool black. I sat in mom's easy chair by the window, staring out at the void over a mug of tea, the rhythmic song of hidden crickets thrummed against the glass pain. I'll let myself close my eyes. To settle into the sense of peace that was slowly starting to bloom on the edges of my morning. And then the goats began to scream. They kicked off in a chorus of shrill bleeding and trampling hooves,

rupturing the tranquil evening with their wild fright. Probably just a fox, I thought, and scowled at the dark. Not like it'll hurt them. I sank further into my chair, noisily slurping my tea as if to rival the goats. Deal with your kids, Mom. I'm not going to do it. Moments later, the herd settled, and I smiled into my mug. After finishing my tea, I rinsed the cup in the sink and went upstairs to take a shower.

The water pressure wasn't great, but it ran hot, and I stood beneath its stream, allowing it to ease the tension from my muscles. I didn't usually let myself enjoy long showers, but that night I took my time massaging the shampoo in and working my body wash into a thick lather. I tipped my head back, eyes closed and fingers combing through my hair as I hummed tunelessly. The heavy brush of the shower curtain against my bare hip sent me jumping toward the wall with a yelp. I whipped around, arms thrown across my chest and one leg partially raised to shield myself. A gentle ripple ran down the length of the curtain, and then it was still. I stood frozen in my defensive pose.

The faucet now thundering like a waterfall against the otherwise quiet house, and blinked away the spray splashing into my eyes. Mom? A floorboard creaked from the hall outside the bathroom. It's just mom. It's just mom. It's just mom. But the warm, fuzzy certainty of her presence that had filled me before,

had dimmed, becoming a frosted, fragile thing that lodged itself in my chest. No longer interested in a long shower, I shut the water off and tugged my towel off the curtain rod to wrap it tightly around myself before stepping out of the tub. Too late I saw the glass glitter on atop the bath mat. The tiny slivers sank hungrily into my foot before I could stop myself. I cried out, yanking my foot back, and sat heavily on the edge of the tub. Blood and water mingled in pale red rivulets down my heel As I held it up to inspect the damage

And pull out the biggest of the pieces Each one brought a new tear to my eye As I pinched a shard between my thumb and forefinger I saw it sitting in the middle of the doorway The dustpan I'd left beside the fireplace With all the broken glass in it Only now it was empty My pulse pounded in my throat

I'd tighten a towel around me and stood careful to avoid putting weight on my cut-up foot. I had to get out of the bathroom, and then maybe out of the house entirely. I hobbled to the door, leaning heavily on the wall to keep my balance, and made it into the hall. The light I was sure I'd left on in mom's room

at the end of the hall was out, plunging the upstairs beyond my little bathroom bubble into darkness. To the left, a step groaned beneath a heavy weight. My head jerked toward the sound, and I gazed down the stick. Earwell's length of pitch black. Eyes flit and back and forth, trying to discern any kind of shape in the dark. But there was only stillness.

So perfect. So predatory. As if the night itself were gathering at the foot of the stairs and waiting for me to trust that perfect stillness enough to turn my back on it. The hairs rose along my arms, trailing into a cluster of goosebumps that ran across my shoulders and up my neck. My breathing turned short and shallow. There were eyes in those shadows, and they were staring right back at me.

I didn't need to see them to know. My limp and run for mom's bedroom was loud and uneven. Each step sent needle stings shooting at my foot. I crashed into the doorframe with a cry and swung myself in. As I slammed the door behind me, I caught a second's glimpse of a dark shape. So tall it almost touched the ceiling. standing at the top of the stairs. After slapping on the light, I twisted the lock and fortified the door behind every piece of furniture I could shove on my own.

The bed, a nightstand, the rocking chair, then sank to the floor in the furthest corner of the room. My knees hugged against my chest, trembling uncontrollably. I bit down on my lower lip to stifle my gasp and sobs until I tasted copper. Suddenly I was five again, crammed into the tight space of, between my bed and the wall, with my hands pressed over my ears, trying so hard not to hear. But Dad's voice carried. The sound of his slaps was even louder. Mom begging for him to stop was loudest of all. I'd spent so many nights hiding, wishing the floor would just open up and swallow me so I didn't have to hear anymore, so I didn't have to be afraid. The doorknob turned slowly,

met the lock's resistance and stopped. The house went quiet except for my shudder and breath. I screamed at the first, hitting through myself at the nightstand, adding my way to the barricade, desperate to keep it from opening. My father's distantly remembered voice became my brothers, standing outside my room. This pounding until the hinges rattled, angry over some perceived wrong mixed with his most recent drinks.

Mom crying for him to stop in the background. I could still feel the way it shook as I wedged my body against it to keep him out. The same way it was shaking now with each measured repeated blow. Past and present swirled into a nightmarish haze of screams, some of them mine. Some my moms, my dads, jimmies. Fear, rage, hate. A crack appeared down the middle of the door. Mom isn't here.

I didn't want to acknowledge the thought, spoken in a broken child's voice. Mom, who had wrapped me up in my blanket in the middle of the night and carried me and my brother to the car while dad slept, and drove us a thousand miles away to her parents' goat farm. Mom, who had put herself between me and her towering drunk son, redirecting his anger onto herself. Mom, who had leveled her shotgun at her ex-husband and left no doubt she'd use it if he ever tried to lay a finger. on her or her kids again. The one who'd always saved me. She's gone.

The crack widened with a sharp bang, and a red-gold eye, goat-like, except for the vertical black slit cutting through its center gazed in at me. I stumbled back screaming. Outside, the goats screamed with me. With the door bowing inward, so close to giving way,

I ran through the closet and closed myself in. I huddled sobbing against the door, both hands gripped tight around the handle, listening to the splintering and crashing of the thing making its way into my mother's bedroom. Scraping footsteps, like untrimmed hooves over wood, grew closer. Its ragged, animalistic breathing was just outside the closet. I shrank into the farthest corner behind mom's hanging clothes, knuckles pressed hard against my teeth. The handle turned.

Turned. The voice again, mocking me in a deep rumble. My foot knocked against something leaning against the back wall, and it fell hard and heavy against my hip. Its weight was almost immediately familiar. Shivering hands felt frantically along the rounded end, the long neck. And as the closet door was wrenched open, I swung it upright. Over the muzzle, I caught a glimpse of long, pale, finger.

is reaching for me. A high-pitched keen reverberated through my head, made worse by the agonized, furious howling from the bedroom. There was crashing and erratic scrambling, furniture being thrown aside. It heaved itself into the hall, slammed into a wall, and retreated snarling for the stairs.

For a moment I stood there, mind-blank, body unmoving, trying to make sense of what I'd seen. The face behind the hand. I don't know if I started running or screaming first, but I was tearing through the house, adrenaline oblivious to my injured foot. Shotgun clutched in a white-knuckled hold,

following red splatter down the steps, through the living room, to the front door. I only stopped to grab the flashlight in shoes. The blood trail stopped at the paddock. The goats were running wild Streaks of white darting back and forth through my light. They bucked and budded, driven into a frenzy by the scent of blood. I shined my flashlight at their faces.

Horizontal. Horizontal. With an enraged scream, I pulled myself over the fence and waited through the flurried herd. The shotgun swinging to and fro in time with the flashlight. Where are you? I swept through studying the wide eyes of every goat that ran past. They were all white, almost indistinguishable from one another, and their panic turned them to a blur. All except one, slower than the rest,

or it was doing its best to keep up with the stampede. I started for it. When it noticed I was coming, it attempted to lose itself in the herd, running alongside others and changing directions. But I'd seen him. and I knew him. When it was clear I would not be shaken, he changed tactics and darted for the darkest end of the paddock. As one, the goats fell silent and gathered in a frightened huddle against the gate, as if begging me to release them.

I ignored them and trained my flashlight on the one I wanted. The vertical-eyed goat. I was lying on its side, tongue-lawing, stomach heaving. And as I watched, its jaw began to open. Wider and wider it grew with a second and crack of bone and snap of sinew. From the depths of its throat fingers appeared. They took hold of the goat's lower jaw and stretched it further. Its throat bulged, bullfrog-like, and an arm reached from its mouth.

Then another, the long limbs unfurled and pulled against the ground until a head and shoulders followed. curved horns twisted grotesquely and overgrown so their tips had borrowed into his temple and cheek adorned his head. The face beneath them was sunken and elongated, a socket's deep set into his skull, a hideous caricature of who he'd been. The goat body vomited him out.

An emaciated, knobbled creature with cloven feet and red-gold eyes cut down the middle with black. He rose slowly, and for the first time, fear tempered his posture. The shotgun blast had shredded two of his fingers, leaving red ribbons dangling from his hand, and torn through one shoulder. I breathed, trying not to let my nausea and horror overpower my anger. Jimmy! He growled.

Features warping further with hate. Dessa! Ow! You are. dead. Not dead. Loved? Every decision Jimmy had ever made had been the fault of the decision mom made before it.

To leave, to drink, to hurt. Mom had never blamed Jimmy. Only herself. She'd lived alone with her grief. She'd nurtured it like others would a garden. And in doing so, she remade Jimmy. The gun rattled in my hands. It's me, Jess.

This time he used my brother's voice, the one that didn't slur or yell, the one that called me, Jess. Jimmy had been a kind boy once, a boy who shared his Halloween candy, who let me hide in his room when the fighting got bad, who told me everything would be okay. That person had died a long time ago, long before his body had the decency to follow. No. Mom and I waited for you for a long time. He shambled a step closer. Why didn't you come home?

Mom had never been able to let go with Jimmy. That need, that crushing weight of motherhood, had conjured up this creature to lurk among her flock, haunt her knights, remind her of every way she thought she'd failed him. He was so close to stink of blood and goat almost made me gag. It's me, Jess. Mom had loved him so unconditionally she couldn't live without him, even if it meant having only the worst parts to hold on to.

She had loved him so unconditionally it had killed her. He had killed her. Not with his fists, but his memory. I always knew Mom would die for broken heart, and I always knew it would be Jimmy's fault. The sinister great. Grey-tooth smile that had started to spread across his lips, and the clawed hand starting to rise froze when the barrel of the shotgun pressed against his ribs. I know it's you, but I'm not Mom.

As Jimmy slumped to the ground, I let the gun fall from my fingers. Unlike Mom, I had no problem turning away. Our devilish decompositions are in transition to their final position. We hope you enjoyed our audition for this nocturnal admission. Just ignore your suspicion and give us your complete submission. Visit the no sleeppodcast.com to learn more about the people who bring you this show and how to become a Season Pass 18 member. Thank you for joining us for Sleepless Decompositions, Volume 9.

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