The NoSleep Podcast - S18 Ep11: NoSleep Podcast S18E11

Episode Date: September 11, 2022

Tune in to Episode 11 of Season 18 for ferocious family frights!“The Mourners” written by Adam Davies (Story starts around 00:02:50)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Kyle Akers“The Autumn Creek Library” written by T. Michael Argent (Story starts around 00:06:05)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Logan – Matthew Bradford, Mrs. Harris – Wafiyyah White, Voice – Peter Lewis“A Horse With No Name” written by Mathew L Reyes (Story starts around 00:26:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Mike DelGaudio“Don’t Let Her In” written by Caleb Stephens (Story starts around 00:42:25)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Nat – Kristen DiMercurio, Mom – Linsay Rousseau, Grans – Mary Murphy, Trucker – Jesse Cornett"This Book Will Kill You - Part 1" written by Alexander Gordon Smith (Story starts around 01:09:30)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Jessica McEvoy as Tommi Bright, Erika Sanderson as the Witch, Dan Zappulla as Donnie, Erin Lillis as Tommi's mother, Mick Wingert as Det. O'Connell, Graham Rowat as Det. Cyrus, and Kristen DiMercurio as Flint.“When the Past Calls, Don’t Answer” written by T.J. Hollow (Story starts around 01:05:20)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Jeremy – Jeff Clement, Mr. Johnson – David Cummings, Mom – Sarah Ruth Thomas“You’ll Know What to Do” written by Lucretia Vastea (Story starts around 01:29:35)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator – Erin Lillis, Cedrik – Graham Rowat, Saskia – Nikolle Doolin, Sierra – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Dad – Mick WingertThis episode is sponsored by:NextEvo - Stop wondering if CBD is right for you. Try NextEvo Naturals capsules, gummies, mints, and topical creams, clinically proven to be better absorbed by your body. Go to nextevo.com, enter promo code NOSLEEP and you'll get 25% off your first order of $40 or more.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 to learn more about Alexander Gordon SmithExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“You’ll Know What to Do” illustration courtesy of Hasani WalkerAudio 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

Plop, flop, fizz, oh, what a relief it is. Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh, what a relief it is. Ah, are you old enough to remember that commercial from the 70s? Well, some of us are. And yes, lots of commercials back then focused on products which promised to make you feel better. Times have changed, but there are still plenty of great products which can actually deliver on what they promise. And that's why I'm excited to talk about CBD, from NextEvo.

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is it working? I use CBD and I know how much NextEvo has benefited me. It really does help me deal with stress and makes falling asleep at night so much easier. With NextEvo, their smart sorb technology improve CBD's ability to be absorbed, getting into your system in as little as 10 minutes. Most CBD oil, found in time,

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Get 25% off your first order of $40 or more at nextevo.com with promo code no sleep. That's 25% off at N-E-X-V-O.com. promo code No Sleep. You'll be CBD-Lighted. And now the time has come for you to join the No Sleep podcast in the 1970s. Nana was a crazy one. She told wild tales filled with her own mythos. Shaky Jake with his blurred edges, long-fingered Sue,

Tommy Black Tongue with his glowing red eyes, and the inside-out twins. Then I saw them appear one by one at her funeral. And they saw me too. The sun has gone down. It's dark outside. Nighttime has begun. But you dare not close your eyes.

For in the darkness there are things unseen. Faces without eyes watching you. Nightmares exist while you're awake. No matter how much you try, you remain. Brace yourself for the No Sleep podcast. It's heartwarming to know a dearly departed loved one has so many friends to mourn their loss, heartwarming, and spine-tangling. As we learned from author Adam Davies,

from the tale which was this episode's cold open, The Mourners. Performed by Kyle Akers. Come and knock on our door. We've been waiting for you. Yes, we have entered the decade of the 1970s, and we'd like to think of everyone listening as, well, all in the family. Yes, television of the 1970s certainly turned to the dark hours

when you dare not close your eyes with shows like The Nightstalker, night gallery, dark shadows, and, of course, Scooby-Doo. Ah, but don't fuss any longer with the TV antenna. Plug in the cable and watch these stories in glorious color, although they're mostly quite dark. And speaking of quite dark, we're proud to present the first installment of the 10-part series, This Book Will Kill You by Alexander Gordon Smith.

Once you start, there's no point in turning back. And now we offer for your approval a series of stories we hope will make you sleepless. In our first tale, we join a young lad doing something which was probably a bit more popular in the 70s than it is today, going to the library. And in this tale, shared with us by author T. Michael Argent, we discover the boy loves reading.

That is, until he ventures into a part of the library, best left undisturbed. Performing this tale, are Matthew Bradford, Wafia White, and Peter Lewis. So if you love the smell of books and your decimals doy, you might enjoy some sections of the Autumn Creek Library. I was a kid, I had two options for how to spend a summer day. Stay at home and help mom around the house or go to the library.

Being a lover of books, I chose the latter. The Autumn Creek Library was one of the oldest buildings in town. From what I read on the little plaque near the front doors, it was built in the 1920s and retained most of the architecture from when it first opened. Except for some new coats of paint and construction to bring it up to modern building coats, it looked almost identical to as it had 80 years before. The exterior had a gabled roof and rich red brick walls. Inside, the shelves stood like soldiers, barely four feet in between.

There were big chairs so comfy you could get lost in them, a computer section if the books got boring and the tall information desk at which sat the equally tall Mrs. Harris. Every day when I walked through the doors at around 10.30, Mrs. Harris would squint at me through her glasses as she loomed over the desk. Good morning, Logan. And what are we looking at today? I would tell her what I felt like reading and she would point me in the direction of the correct section. Usually it was sharks, worn goosebumps books or something else that 10-year-olds loved. One day, I wanted to read about snow. I don't remember why and can't think of a reason.

It was the middle of summer. I was in the library to escape the boiling temperatures outside. It should have been the last thing on my mind. When I told Mrs. Harris, she gave me a quizzical smile. Snow, huh? That's quite a big topic. Our weather books are over there. She pointed to an archway that led into a darkened section of the library.

Try not to be used. too long in there, dear. The cleaners are coming to wax the floors this afternoon. I nodded. Thank you. I called back as I went. I had only been in this section a handful of times. Mrs. Harris kept all the boring topics there. Law, physics, philosophy, and apparently weather. It was deserted, which I thought was odd considering the heat outside. And come to think of it, Except for a few exceptions, I never saw anyone in there. Since it was so early, the custodian had failed to turn on all the lights. In each row were three bulbs, along with the ones in the corners and a big chandelier in the center.

The rows only had one light on each, and the corners were dark completely. The chandelier was powered, but it was dimmed so much, it might as well have not been on at all. For the first time, I noticed that the windows were covered. And most of the other areas had column-like panes of glass lining the walls, but here they were masked with heavy curtains. The lack of natural light and the dimness cast the area in a sickly blend of shadows and pools of brightness. My footsteps echoed gloomily as I made my way to the center aisle. Much like the other sections, this one had a central row of tables and chairs that ran from one wall to the opposite. The old-fashioned green lamps on each were dark.

I looked at the strips of paper that had been taped high up on the ends of the shelves. Each was labeled. I walked along general law, natural physics, eastern philosophy, and other exciting topics until the word weather proudly displayed itself in black ink. I peeked down the row, bracketed by shadows. It stretched lazily to the back wall. Halfway down, I noticed a book lying on the floor. The cover proclaimed in large gold.

letters, the words concerning weather. For some reason I couldn't place. I was starting to feel uneasy and considered leaving. But curiosity overcame me. Snatching the book up, I ran to the center and jumped into one of the chairs. The light in the room was dim, but just enough to read by. I pulled the chain on the nearest lamp, but it didn't come on. I flipped the book open to a random page. It wasn't what I was looking for. It disgusts, no, sure, but it used big, boring words that my 10-year-old brain didn't have the patience to learn. I gave up and shut it after five minutes and walked back to the row I'd gotten it from. I didn't feel like being in the library today. Maybe mom could use some help going grocery shopping. I tried to find the place where I found the book.

Looking high at the shelves, I saw an empty space between two other volumes that looked just as imposing as concerning weather. It was six feet out of my reach on the top shelf. I had no hope of reaching it. I mean, I couldn't just put the book back on the floor, could I? Mrs. Harris hated picking things up for lazy people. I was about to take it back to the front desk when I heard an oily, spidery sound. Turning, I saw one of those ladders librarians used to reach books come speeding towards me. Its golden wheels and track matted in the gloom. as if on cue it came to a stop a few inches away. Placed perfectly at the spot, I would have to climb up to put the book back.

I gingerly placed my foot on the bottom rung. Grabbing the rail with my other hand, I carefully climbed up. The book felt heavy in my hand, and I almost dropped it. At the top, I hefted it up and placed it in the empty space. When I noticed the eyes staring at me, I gasped. and almost lost my grip on the ladder. Even though I was only nine feet in the air, the ground seemed stories below. Bringing my face back up, I got a closer look.

Two green eyes were peering at me in the space between the tops of the books and the top of the shelf. A hand lifted up and rested on the spines. The fingers drummed rhythmically before an equally hypnotic voice crooned. That was a bit of a slog, wasn't it? I'll bet you would have liked it better with pictures. Taken it back, I shifted on the ladder. Yeah, there were a lot of big words. I didn't understand it.

Yes, I've always thought that snow looked prettier in pictures than in word. Most things are like that, I assume. How did you know I was reading about snow? The eyes looked watery and distant. The voice replied, but not with an answer. People don't come into this section very often. It gets quite lonely in here sometimes. Are you the cleaner who's waxing the floors?

Do I need to leave? The voice chuckled in with Druid's hand. But maybe you should get down from that ladder. It would be a shame if you were to fall and hurt yourself. It was true. My head was starting to spin, and I wanted to be back on the ground. Okay.

I climbed down. My feet hitting the wooden rungs made loud, echoing noises. I was concerned I wasn't hearing similar sounds mirroring the ones I was making. The voice had to be on another ladder, right? I reached the bottom and peered back between the shelves. The eyes appeared a moment later at my height, followed by the drumming hand. Isn't that better? I didn't reply.

The voice continued as if I had. I'm glad to meet someone who loves books as much as I do. The people who come in here to read about a law and such don't usually feel like talking to me. I leaned against the opposite shelf. I guess so. So, what was it that you wanted to hear about? Snow? Was it?

Hmm. The drumming. hand with Drew. That book you found won't be any good for that. Might I suggest another? I didn't have time to come up with an answer before the hand did for me. Let's see what we have presently. I expected the owner of the voice to come along to my side and help me look at or at least

reach their hand through at eye level to feel what was available. But instead, the hand vaulted and reached over the top of the shelf, feeling the book. that resided at the pinnacle. The hand slid hypnotically over the spines, at least three feet of the arm visible moving over the top of the shelf as it searched for something suitable. Those shelves were nine feet high.

Unless it was standing on a ladder, there was no way. I had just started inching back towards the center aisle when the hand found purchase and tapped on the spine of a book labeled weather considered. There, I think that will be able to be. suit nicely? There was no way it could have read the title from where it was.

In fact, its eyes never left me. I wordlessly nodded and took a few more steps. A second hand appeared over the top as well. Of course, that one has so few pictures. This one has even more. It tapped another spine, but I didn't bother reading the title. And then, a third hand. appeared at the shelf of books at eye level with the voice, drumming rhythmically again.

Do any of those catch your fancy? Who are you? Did I not introduce myself? My eyes caught movement to my right. A fourth hand had appeared around the corner at the far end near the wall, slowly traveling across the books as it came my way. Its fingers were outstretched eagerly, as if expecting a handshake. I took a few more steps back and it was turning to run when one of the books above came flying and landed on my head.

I stumbled, hitting the opposite shelf. Looking up, I saw that one of the heavy weather books had been shoved out of its place on the highest shelf. A fifth hand sat in the empty space, palm outstretched. Did you not like that one? Well, how about these? The books came flying from the upper shelves, all somehow managing to land on me. Every second I was being pummeled, welts appearing fast, a particularly heavy one landed on my nose. White hot pain erupted, and I felt a burst of blood running down my lips and dripping onto my shirt.

I ran, putting my hands over my head to protect myself. As I made my way down, I could see the eyes following me even as the hands pushing the book. The books never changed position. Going with you? I finally looked up towards the end of the row and at Pomo's scream. The hands were stretching across the aisle in the process of making a barrier.

Picking up as much speed as I could, I ran at it, putting my shoulder up. I burst into the center, hands snatching, nail scratching, fingers caressing as I passed through. I ran into one of the tables, causing the green lamp on it to fall and crash. My arm stung with cuts.

I dare to look back and saw pale limbs, too numerous to count, slithering along the floor towards me like snakes, fingers outstretched. The voice called from everywhere at once. There is so much left to live. So many more. So many. I screamed and turned to run, but found myself colliding with something. Terrified, it was another pair of hands.

I swatted at them before something clamped down on my shoulders. Logan Masterson What on earth have you been doing in here? Look at this mess you've made. She let go of my shoulders and stepped past me. Wait, don't go in there. I ran forward and peered back into the aisle. But other than the numerous books on the floor,

there was no sign of whatever had been terrorizing me. Dead silence returned to the space. Mrs. Harris saw the red drops on the tile and followed their trail to me, who stood there snuffling with a nose full of blood. Were you climbing the shelves? I told you before. If you want a book on a higher shelf, come get me.

I looked around for any evidence that what had happened to me was real. I'll have to tell the cleaners to come tomorrow. It's going to take me the rest of the day to put these back. She grabbed my hand and hustled me towards the archway. I'm going to call your mother. 45 minutes in a profuse apology to Mrs. Harris later, I sat in the car in the parking lot as mom began to pull out. I had been grounded and not allowed to go back to the library for two weeks,

something that was more than fine with me. As the car began to pull towards the entrance, my eyes drifted to the windows. I noticed a familiar line of curtain-covered panes. Just before mom turned on to the road, One of them parted for a moment, and I caught a flash of green peering out towards me. I blinked, and it was gone. I never told anyone what happened.

I spent years afterwards telling myself what I experienced was the result of an overactive imagination. As I got older, I outgrew the library and lost interest in books, moving towards sports. I would sometimes fleetingly wonder if that long ago summer morning was the reason I didn't like greeting anymore, but I always pushed it down. Needless to say, I never had any plan to return to the Autumn Creek Library. A few weeks ago, I visited my hometown again for a relative's funeral. My family had moved across the state soon after the library incident for my dad's job. Coincidentally, it was summertime as well. After a stuffy afternoon in a hot house wearing black, I decided to go for a walk.

I knew where my feet were taking me before I crossed the lawn. I tried to think of other things, but ten minutes later, I saw the familiar building coming up from behind a cluster of trees. It looked the same as it had 18 years ago. Same brick exterior, same moss on the roof, same window panes sparkling in the sun. I didn't see curtains on any of them.

A sign announced that the library, was having a reject book sale. If you don't know what that is, that's when libraries go through their collection and pick out books that no one wants to read anymore to self-reachieve. I momentarily considered not going in, but knew I had to.

I mounted the steps and entered the coolness of the building, a shield from the hot sun outside. I didn't bother looking towards the archway before turning into the room with a sail. To my surprise, I saw a familiar face sitting at the table. As unchanged as the library itself, well, perhaps with grayer hair,

was Mrs. Harris. Logan? Logan, Masterson? I was shocked. She recognized me. Yeah, it's me, Mrs. Harris. Long time, no see. We talked for a few minutes

about what I'd been up to since we moved all those years ago. On a whim, I decided I had to ask her something. Um, Mrs. Harris, do you remember that day I knocked all those books off the shelves in that corner section? She looked thoughtful for a moment before recognition flashed in her eyes. I remember. What a mess it was. But don't worry, dear. We all do things like that as children.

She could tell that wasn't the response I was looking for. Why do you ask? It's just... Did you see anything? Anything strange while you were putting the books back? She frowned. Well, now that you mention it, I did think it was odd that you had managed to throw a few of the higher books off the shelves.

The latter only reaches halfway down the aisle, but the ones in the section after that were on the floor as well. I always assume you bumped into the shelving and knocked them off too. I wasn't going to get the answers I was looking for. I forced a smile. Yeah, thanks. I'm going to take a look around. You do that, dear.

It's nice to see you. I browsed the boxes for a while, leafing through a few novels before putting them back. There were way more rejects than I was expecting. Just when I thought about leaving, I caught a gleam of gold and a beam of sunlight coming through the window. I turned to see a book glinting a few feet away. My stomach dropped when I saw the title printed on its spine, concerning weather.

I snatched it up before I could stop myself. It felt oddly warm to the touch. With shaking hands, I opened it. Before I dropped the book on the floor and fled the library, I had time to catch a glimpse of one thing. A bloody handprint on the inside cover. Dry, brown and flaking from be. being closed inside for almost 20 years.

But the worst part was the fingers. The tips from the second joint up were missing, as if something had licked the blood clean off them after a meal. Living on the prairies usually means you're quite familiar with the bucolic way of life, farms, corn, all manner of livestock. And if you lived in the village of Brighton, you'd be familiar with tragedy and mystery. And in this tale,

shared with us by author Matthew L. Reyes, we follow the brewing storm and blood trails, working our way backwards to uncover clues in order to discover what took place. Performing this tale is Mike Delgado. So walk to the river. It's far better than riding on, a horse with no name.

A westward wind blows blades of prairie grass, tall and golden and rippling in waves, picking up some and carrying them towards the village of Brighton. It is a town between prairie and lake, river and desolate highway, settled as a farming community and little has changed since. The air is hot, and as it blows over fields of unripe corn, smells of earthly manure, and something distinctly sweet. Near the town, a set of large horse hoofs, prints trails in the dirt, and bends away from town and toward the river. A strong gust reaches Brighton's main business district, a single street with old world charm and European architecture, resembling the Germanic buildings that first populated it.

It is Saturday. Ordinarily, the town, as much as it can for its size, bustles. Today, it is an empty husk, quiet. And still, but for the wind, creaking, hanging shop signs and a faint crying. The wind stirs up the potted flowers and herbs in front of Mitchener's farm and feed, and knocks over a clabbard sign in front of a barbershop. Nobody's around to pick up the sign when it falls. From the center of town, mingling with the whistling of the breeze, comes a trembling scream that carries through Main Street from the direction of the town's community center.

Human voices carry from the building. Some of those voices are crying. The wind continues its journey through the town, indifferent to the lone screaming and distant sobbing, and the drops of sticky blood that trail in front of the barbershop. As the wind picks up, a crow, sensing that there is nobody near to shoe it away, lands on the falling sign in front of the barbershop. It hops to the ground and is joined by a number.

another, and the two pack at the dried droplets of blood, which are brown against the old bricks of the street. The crows, dissatisfied, soon fly off. Droplets of blood, now undisturbed, are spaced apart every few feet on the neatly arranged bricks. A single drop dries on the green fern whipping with the gusts outside of the farming supply store. Another droplet, larger than the last, runs in a smear on the curb of the sidewalk. Behind it on the street is another, and another behind that, and so on, crossing the old red bricks.

There are more buildings across the street. The Bijou Theater, long defunct and shuttered down, sits empty and dark next to a diner with no name that is usually filled with people. It too is empty. A sign hangs on the door. at emergency meeting. Wind whistles through the slim alley separating the theater and the diner,

compressing and pushing itself as though through a narrow tunnel. Bits of garbage blow into the street. More blood trails on the ground into the alley. Halfway through the alley on the diner's side is a child's handprint, a perfect print scarlet against the white painted brick of the alley wall. The finger marks are short. Incomplete, they end too abruptly. There is a large smatter of drying blood beyond the print, going for a length of a few feet and trailing

off as the alley wall ends. On the dirty ground where the alley opens into a field is the tip of a child's thumb. Pale and bloodless it sits on the ground, shifting and rolling with the strong gusts of wind. There is dirt under the nail, which would need clipping where it's still attached to the child. Down the little hill behind the theater and the diner, there is an incline of dirt where grass has not grown for years. The dirt is ordinarily smooth and undisturbed, as nobody goes back there, but today it is tossed about as though someone has scrambled up the incline. These shapeless and chaotic tracks on the hill even out at the bottom and become

footprints. Bear and erratic, they belong to a child. Some of the prints are bled, The footprints are broken only once, where there are two circular marks. Here the runner fell onto their knees, and with one hand pushed themselves up to continue running. Blood is soaked into the dirt and is made clumpy mud that smells hotly of iron and salt. Following the prints backwards further still, they emerge from a dirt path that cuts through tall and golden prairie grass, which ripples in the wind and blows a sour smell from the river to the town. The uneven footprints trail along the right side of the dark dirt path. Along the rightward side of the path,

several blades of yellow grass are streaked with bright blood. There are three other sets of prints on the left side of the wide dirt path, these heading toward the river. Two are pairs of bare footprints, the size two children might make, and one of these is identical to the bloody prince leading back into the town. The footprints heading down to the river are steady and methodical, toes and heels distinguishable. The final set of prints are those of a horse, though it first appears from the direction of the hooves that the horse was walking away from the river and

toward town, but the direction the dirt kicked up indicates that the horse was heading to the river instead, walking backwards. A few strands of long and shimmering black hairs are caught on the thorny leaves of milkweed on the leftward side of the path. The uneven and bloody prince, which indicate a long, running stride, run parallel to the steady steps of the horse, and the two children who either followed the horse or were followed by it down the long and winding dirt path leading to the river. Above the trail and the fields of grass, gray clouds roil and tumble over deep blue skies. The wind gives way to a breeze, which then falls to a brief silence. The long blades of grass come to a gentle stop, and all is silent. All is still for a moment.

And then a faint cry from town, carried by the wind, reaches the trail. A mournful and piercing sob, mingled with angry voices. Further from town, the bloody footprints on the right of the path become more spaced. The runner, before losing blood, still had the energy to run at this point. The footprints on the left, which were either following or being followed by those of a backward walking horse, remain steady. The strides shortening as the path dips downward toward the riverbank. Here, the two walkers slowed.

The wind picks up again. This time the wind is frosty as it carries over the river from the prairie beyond, and it whips up the fields which glow in the waning light of the sun as it pierces through the growing mass of gray clouds. A trail of blood left against the grass on the right side of the path soaks up the sunlight, the deep rust and contrast against goldenrod blades. Black and churning the river swells and ebbs and pulses with a life of its own as the wind lapse at the waters. The oncoming storm chokes out the sun and casts the world in shadow, and the wind begins to scream as black clouds move in.

The dirt path ends on a brown riverbank that slopes gently toward the shore of smooth and polished gray stones. At the top of the riverbank is a pocket knife, cross-y. with dried blood and bits of ragged skin. Hoof prints come to a standstill near the water's edge, right before dirt become stone. Clusters of grass fronds have been munched, their yellow blades broken, some missing. The horse stood here for some time, eating, placid, waiting. The hooves' use shapes come to pointed tips, facing away from the blades of grass which have been eaten. As though the horse were facing away from the grass.

Yet this cannot be so. Stray blades have fallen to the brown earth. The two pairs of children's prints approach the horse. The steps are close together, even, methodical. Across one print lies a single finger, small and bloodless, like the thumb closer to town. The prints come to a stop at the horse's prints. Two children watched a horse as it ate. Maybe they found it lovely, as might be indicated by the dark and shimmering strands of hair

it left when walking down to the river which now churns. Its waters black, feet away from where the horse and the boys stood. Perhaps they were in awe of the beast that patiently waited for them, allowed them to stare and pet it as it ate the grass. Perhaps one of them stroked its nose. The human prints shift as they stray closer to the river, one standing immediately before the other, and then one set of footprints steps back from the horse, and the first pair vanish. Above, in the sky, the wind whirls, and in the distance gray clouds begin to darken to black blue,

and lightning flashes across the horizon. In the distance, a massive rumble from the sky. The wind carries with it the scent of ozone and the trembling thunder and the whispering echoes of two shrill screams that cling to the river's edge. The horse hooves back up toward the river. The footprints of the child remaining on the ground follow the horse, but drag as though the horse pulled the child. The dirt here, where riverbank meets path, is stirred up fiercely,

and all prints are indiscernible. There is no sign of the second child's prince. Human feet and horse-like hooves near the shore and disappear altogether as wet pebbles replaced dry dirt. The pebbles are strewn and kicked in every direction. Rocks mix with blood at the water's edge. Rain drops begin to patter the riverside stones. On the edge of the river,

inches from where the water lapse as the winds kick it up are three severed fingers. A pinky with its nail ripped halfway off, a little ring finger and the middle finger. They are each red and raw and tangled together by black and shimmering horse hairs. Blood splashes the pebbles in bright and wet puddles, red against white and gray. Lightning strikes across the red. river, and rain begins to fall in torrential sheets, obscuring the sky and the prairie beyond the river's edge. The wind howls and screams with the rage of a legion of horses from the depths of a frozen hell, whipping and lashing the grass and turning the black water to a cold and roiling boil.

All prints near the river's edge and the path leading from it are washed away as the dirt becomes mud, which then becomes a myriad of puddles. In the river, which now swells, waves grow stronger and lapped the bank, and the water sucks at the tiny fingers and washes the blood away. And from the center of the river, barely visible in the sheets of rain, something pale rises from just beneath the surface. Something equine and gaunt and long and white, A head of something just beneath the waves rises until bleached bone breaks the surface of the roiling river.

Eyes, cold, deeper than the river and older than the prairie, gaze through the falling mist and set upon the golden lights of the village beyond, where voices still cry in anguish. Now, that was a serious problem in need of solving. Let's take a break from that intensity and think about the ways we try to solve problems in our own lives. Appropriately enough, we now have a word from our sponsor, Better Help. If you're like me, problem solving can find you focusing far more on the problems and not enough on the solutions. It can be tough to train your brain to stay in problem solving mode when faced with a challenge in life.

But when you learn how to find your own solutions, there's no better feeling. And I can attest to how a therapist can help you become a problem. better problem solver, making it easier to accomplish your goals, no matter how big or small. And that's why we believe BetterHelp Online Therapy can be a big help. And you know, sometimes dealing with challenges and problems can mean dealing with the smaller things that bother us. Stress, emotional imbalance, things that I found to be insidious in my own life, have been brought into balance thanks to speaking with a therapist. Better Help is online therapy that offers video, phone, and even live chat-only therapy sessions, 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. Let therapy make you a better problem solver. And now let's get back to the show. Hop in the car and keep your eyes on the road. When you're driving at night, there are many things you need to be aware of. Staying awake, staying on course, and staying away from anything which might dart out in front of your car. And in this tale, shared with us by author Caleb Stevens, we meet a mother and daughter dealing with the travails of the roads at night due to something unforeseen in their path.

Performing this tale are Kristen Di Maccurio, Lindsay Russo, Mary Murphy, and Jesse Cornett. So if you find that you're not alone on the dark roads, take the advice offered herein. Don't let her in. I hate my name, especially when mom says it. Nat. It makes me think of gnats, like I'm this annoying insect she wants to swat away anytime I say something. Not now, Nat. Go away, Nat. I'm busy, Nat. That's what I am to her. An annoying buzz at best. The kids at school are worse. They call me fatally, which I guess sort of makes sense. I mean, I am on the chunky side and all, but you'd think they'd be a little more creative with it. Faddley is just so on the nose. Or maybe you wouldn't. I don't know. Most high school kids are pretty dumb. The only person who's ever said my name in a way I liked was Grandley. Nathalie. She made it sound so beautiful, so natural. Like, here you go, Natalie. Let me show you

why your mother gave you this name. We'd be cuddled up on the couch, wrapped in a couple of blankets while watching some movie, and she'd squeeze my knee and say something like, oh, Natalie, don't you just love this? And that's the thing. I truly did. To her, I wasn't this awkward fat girl trying to fit in, or the irritating daughter who was always in the way, that was just me. Natalie, that was good enough for her. Not that it matters anymore. My sweet grands died of dementia a year ago. She forgot my name entirely. To her, I became another stranger, and just like that, I was alone again. Are we getting close? I rubbed my eyes and sat up. The rain was really coming down now, obscuring the palm trees lining the road.

and turning them into thick black giants whipping sideways in the wind. It was only half past five, but it might as well have been dusk with how thick the clouds were. Summer in Florida, you never knew when a thunderstorm would blow in. Maybe another half hour or so if this keeps up. Mom snatched her pack of Newport's from the dash and shook out a cigarette, then lit it with a quick flick of her bick. You know, I am getting sick of carting you around everywhere, Nat.

But you're 17. You should have your driver's license by now, don't you think? All your friends do. I don't have any friends. That's not true. What about Ashley? Oh, and that girl, Gina? The cute one I saw you talking to the other day after school?

Ashley and I haven't been friends since freshman year, Mom. And Gina is my lab partner. She hates me. And she does. Most of the kids at school do. Well, maybe not hate so much as ignore. I'm mostly invisible. I like to make a game out.

of it to see how long it takes for someone to acknowledge me. My record is four days, but I'm pretty sure I can make it a week if I really try. Mom cracked her window and blew a stream of smoke into the rain. My mother never drove me anywhere. If I wanted to go somewhere, I had to walk. I didn't say anything. Just hearing her mention, Grans, made me sad. Look, either you get your license or your dad can come get you on his weekends. I am done driving you down here. It's too far, and unlike him, I actually have to work in the morning. I didn't have time to see what she saw. All I knew was that my head was fine one moment and flying toward the dash the next. I don't remember what followed except for a bunch of stars exploding behind my eyelids.

After a moment, Mom's voice leaked into my ears, sounding muffled and tinny. I groaned and sat up. Huh? I said, what was... Oh, Lord, baby, you're bleeding. Her fingers wound through my bangs and prodded my forehead. Ouch. I slapped her hand away.

God damn thing is supposed to have airbags. That's what Lou told me when I bought it from him anyway, that lying bastard. Here, let me get you a bandage. Mom dug through the console. I have one in here somewhere. The word hung there, her gaze back on the windshield. I followed it and went stiff. We were stopped on the shoulder of the highway, nearly in the ditch, and there was something

on the hood. A big something. Lying on its side with shattered legs extending from its body in odd angles, it had dark globe eyes and a long, broad jaw split by a row of ivory teeth. A deer, but larger. And not really a deer at all? It looked like... An elk? I think we had an elk. But there aren't any elk in Florida, are there? I don't think so. I've certainly never seen one. I fingered my forehead and winced. Mom dug her phone from her purse and punched in a number.

I didn't hear a word of what she said, not with her voice coming out in a dull, moi, moa, moa, ma'a, I just stared at the elk. It was huge. I mean, absolutely massive, with these broad, muscular shoulders and a head that took up half the hood. Larger than any animal I'd ever seen, that was for sure. Even bigger than the gators with the fat bellies I sometimes saw sunbathing down near Miller Pond. And it was beautiful. That was the sad thing.

Its coat was a rich, smooth, brown, and it had a pair of antlers that spread out like a crown. The tips piercing the windshield in spots. Now it was dead, and we'd been the ones to kill it. Mom set her phone on the dash. They're sending a tow truck. It should be here soon. except it wouldn't. Ask anyone who knows. Steinhatchie, Florida is pretty much the definition of the middle of nowhere,

and we weren't even there yet, so this was worse than the middle of nowhere. I was pretty sure we were still somewhere in the tide swamp based on all the sawgrass jetting up across the road. I was just about to tell mom as much when a low grunt carried in through the rain. Did it just... Uh, I think so. I tilted my head to get a better look. I could make out the elk's eyes. Eyes that snapped open and shut. A scream lodged in my throat.

Did you see that? See what? It blinked. Mom leaned closer. I don't know, Nat. We hit it so hard. I'd be surprised if it was still alive. An antler twitched.

Oh. A sudden vibration shook the car, and then the elk was moving. Coming to life in a series of jerks and heaves, its antlers rising and its legs wobbly like a new born calves. It planted one hoof on the hood, and then another, its knees bulging, somehow clicking back into place along with its legs, legs that had been broken a moment earlier. The bones twerking beneath the skin, fusing into two straight lines with a series of uneven pops that made my

stomach twist. The car groaned beneath the thing's weight as it stood, and for a moment, I thought the elk was going to bound off into the swamp like nothing had happened. Then its hindquarters jittered, and it tumbled off the hood and onto the road where we couldn't see it. I looked at Mom. Mom looked at me, and we sat there, staring at each other framed in the light bleeding from the dashboard, wondering what the hell had just happened. Through the holes in the windshield, we could hear the rain hissing against the hood, whooshing off the leaves and into the deep pockets of mud tucked behind the trees.

The sound reminded me of the ocean before a storm. A bunch of angry water churning against the rocks, and something else. A noise out of place. That same grinding pop of bone from seconds earlier, only coming louder now, sounding like a hailstorm on a tin roof, sounding like gunshots. And then, with a lurching heave, the elk stood. Except it wasn't an elk. It was Grans. I'd only seen Grants naked once before.

I'd been six, maybe seven at her house for a sleepover when I'd accidentally walked into her bathroom without knocking. There she'd been, humming and drying her hair, with an interstate of blue lines snaking down her thighs, her breasts sagging and worn, ending in a set of nipples that pointed toward her thighs. It was one of those images that had scorched itself into my brain and stayed there. So that is what it looks like to get old. I'd stood frozen in the doorway, hypnotized by the sight until she yelped and escorted me back to the hall. Now now, Natalie, we always knock.

That was exactly how I felt now. Frozen. Mom, too, with both of us gawking at Granz, who was staring right back, steaming naked in the headlights with patches of fur clinging to her chest and neck. Granz, who was a year dead now? No more than a year, somewhere closer to 18 months,

outlined in the headlights in perfect detail. just like on the day I'd walked in on her in that bathroom. Except, unlike that day, she didn't bother to cover up. She just stood there with her head cocked to the side, and her mop-water-colored hair clinging to her face and strips. After a moment, her mouth moved. And even though I couldn't hear her, I knew exactly what she said, Natalie. Mom yiped and grabbed her phone, hit the flashlight,

and shined it past me through the windshield at Granz. Who was gone? Christ, what's happening? I don't know. Grand's hand smacked my window, and I nearly swallowed my tongue as mom aimed the light at her face. She gave us a sad smile and said something. Her voice muffled through the glass, but it was Grand's voice. It had the same inflection, the same tone.

She motioned for me to roll down the window with a little turn for her wrist, and I found my hand drifting for the switch automatically. Yes, ma'am. The glass descending an inch, before mom grabbed my arm. Madway! There she is. There's my sweet girl.

Granz? She gave me a little nod, and her smile broadened. I didn't know if it was me or the light, but her teeth seemed a shade darker than I remembered, like they'd been soaked in butter. Yes, sweetheart, it's me. I've missed you. I've missed you so much.

But how? Her gaze dropped, her mouth twisting to the side for a moment before her eyes found mine again, had wilted. It's not true what they say, Natalie, about what happens after you die. The place you go, it's, it's not a good place. It's not nice. The things they do to you there, well, they hurt. Mom moaned, and Grands nodded as if in agreement, as if that sound of out-summed it up, whatever it was she'd endured in the last year and a half.

I couldn't stay there any longer, especially not with how much you needed me. What kind of grandma would I be if I abandoned you, Natalie? Pebbles of goose flesh rippled across her chest. She rubbed her arms. Be it here and let me in, will you? She nodded to the door handle as if deciding for me. It's so cold out here. My hand moved.

That, don't. Mom's words came out in a hiss. I paused and looked at her. She shook her head once. It's not her. How do you know? It's just... Her eyes flick past my shoulder.

It's just not okay. Grant is dead. Oh, Jolene, didn't I raise you better than to I believe an old woman standing out in the rain, and naked, no less. Where are your manners? I turned back to Granz, but she wasn't looking at me anymore. She was focused on Mom.

Something intense in her gaze, her eyes burning. Cholene, you will let me in this car this instant. Do you understand? This instant. Lord knows I'm. raised you better than this. You should be ashamed of yourself. Mom winced.

No, no, it's not you. You're not, I mean, Christ, Mom, you're dead. Grands growled then, a strange clicking sound rolling up her throat. She straightened and worked down the fender toward the hood, looking unsteady like she might trip and fall at any minute. Something burrowed beneath the strawberry jelly-colored birthmark on her hip. It took a moment. to place what exactly it reminded me of, and then it hit me. Snakes.

Whatever was wriggling under her skin looked like snakes, a nest of long, thin bodies that swam through her flesh like it was made of water. Start the car! Start the car! Mom's hand jetted for the ignition and cranked the keys. The engine groaned and spit off waves of steam as Gran moved past the the hood in the same old woman walk that had consumed her before she'd died. Shoulders stooped, one foot dragging behind the other. It was painful to watch. Help me. She neared Mom's window.

I don't know where I am. Can you help me? Please help me. Don't let her in. Mom went for the window and tried to roll it up. Grand drew closer. The window sticking as Grand bent lower and tipped her forehead against the glass.

Oh, hello there, ma'am. I'm sorry to. trouble you but I'm afraid I'm afraid I'm lost my daughter lives around here somewhere her name is Jolene her name is Jolene her name is Jolene she Jolene yes what a pretty name I knew a Cholene once she was she gave her head a hard shake and massaged her temples. Her eyes clouded over. She looked at Mom and smiled brightly. Oh, hello there, young woman. I'm afraid I'm lost. Mom, I grabbed her wrist. Mom, look at me. She turned, breathing hard through her nose, her lips clamped together in a thin line.

Behind her, Grands gripped the window and weezed. Mom grimaced, and I took her hand. It's not her. It's not. You said so yourself. She nodded, but I could tell she was coming apart. Granz coughed again, and this time it left her in a long, wet hack with a rattle so deep that I felt it in my lungs. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and it came away spotted in blood. Her brow furrowed as she looked at it, a string of spit leaking from her lip. I'm not well. Where's my oxygen? I can't.

Please give me my oxygen, will you? Mom turned back to her. I don't have your oxygen. Grands slapped the window. You have it in there, don't you, you little bitch. I know you do. You are always hiding things from me, Jolene. Always stealing my mouth.

money and spending it on yourself. Brang all those fancy clothes, acting like you didn't take it, like it just grew legs and walked off on its own. Her eyes hardened. You came out wrong, you know that? Even as a baby, you were hateful. Oh, the tantrums you threw. No matter how I tried to soothe you.

They were always screaming. Screaming no matter what I did. I was never good enough for you. No, I never meant to. A sudden wash of light filled the car, dim at first, but then growing brighter. I turned around and my heart leaped. Mom, mom looked. Someone's coming. And they were.

An SUV, or was it a truck? I couldn't tell, was easing to a stop ten yards back. The rain misted through the vehicles. headlights like twin swarms of mosquitoes. Help us, please, you have to help us! Mom was screaming, too, twisting around in her seat as Granz straightened next to her. I could no longer see her face, only a snatch of her blue-veined, mole-spotted torso. The snakes wriggled again, and the SUV blew past us in a great wheel of water.

I watched the taillights disappear with a whimper. Granz let loose another hack and lowered her face back to the window. Her wheezing grew louder. Her fingers curled over the glass. Mom brushed the backs of Grand's knuckles with her fingertips. Brands blinked. Joe? Joe, is that you?

Yes, Mom, it's me. Oh, Punkin, I've been looking everywhere for you. Where have you been? Why won't you let me in? I'm freezing. I want to, Mom. I chew. It's just.

It was then I spotted Mom's hand near the door handle. One finger wrapped loosely around the silver latch. The latch that was tilting back, the lock popping. Mom! I lurched for her too late. The door scissered open to crack, and Grand moved like a snake darting and quick. She yanked the door open with one hand and grabbed Mom with the other. Mom snapped around to look at me with eyes that were wide and white.

That... That was all she said. before Grands jerked her from the car. I sat there for an awful moment, stunned, unable to move, unable to think. I stared through the now wide open door and was able to make out a rustle in the bushes across the road, a back and forth swish of palm fronds

that didn't quite match the rhythm of the rain. A shriek rang out. Mom's shriek, followed by another, one that didn't sound human. My heart fluttered in my chest. I scrambled for the door and yanked. It's shut, locked it and fell back into my seat, breathing hard, hyperventilating. Spots swam through my vision.

For a moment, I thought about running. For a big girl, I was pretty fast. But there was no way I'd be able to outrun whatever this thing was. Not when it had snatched mom so quickly. Grand's cry came again, and my bladder clenched in response. I didn't want to die. Suddenly, my life, shitty as it was, looked pretty good compared to the alternative. I wanted to be back home in my bed, buried beneath me.

need the covers. I wanted to shut my eyes and pretend this was all a bad dream. But it wasn't, and I was next. It didn't take long for Grans to return. That clicking noise I'd heard earlier working its way toward me through the thrashing rain. It sounded like one of the velociraptors from Jurassic Park, like death. When she landed on the hood in a crouch, I nearly peed myself. She swayed in front of the windshield with eyes that were no longer colored, but fully black. Inky webs of rainwater bled from the corners. Dark fluid stained the creases of her nose. Her jaw was a mess of blood, as was her chest.

She made no motion to wipe it away. The rain did it for her. She just remained, crouched there, looking at me like I was a lab rat, like I was the one on display, even though she was the naked one. Even though I could see raindrops leaking off the sparse triangle of pubic hair between her thighs.

She smiled and licked her teeth. Be a good girl, Natalie. Come give your grandson sugar. My stomach churned. I didn't move an inch. It was a line from my childhood. Something she'd say after buying me an ice cream cone or a pack of micanikes for a Sunday matinee.

I'd thank her, and she'd bring her cheek low and pat it once, twice. Come give your grandson sugar. Now, now, Natalie, you can't stay in. there forever. I'll get you sooner or later. We can do it the easy way or... Her smile widened.

Well, you know. Go away. Please. Just go away. You always were a stubborn one, weren't you? You got that nasty little trait from your mother. I didn't have time to respond before she's slid. She slammed her head against the windshield.

The glass splintered. She struck again and again, the window's spider webbing wider with each crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch. Then her hand was through and reaching for me. Blood wound down her arm as it stretched past the dash and over the seat, all the way to my neck. It paused and rose higher, the pads of her fingers brushing tenderly over my jaw and ears.

Ah, how I've missed you, Natalie. I wanted it to be her. I'd never wanted something more, but it wasn't. I squelched my eyes shut and shook my head. You're not her. You're not my grands. No, but I'm close enough. Her fingers dug into my neck, then wound entirely around it. I heard her knuckles creak and groan.

I gasped for air, fighting until my vision blurred and my pulse thumped in my ears. The last thing I'd remember was the roar of an engine coming from somewhere of cold, Allogen filling the cabin, along with the smell of exhaust. And then I was gone. The deep chug of pistons and diesel woke me, followed by a light pressure on my shoulder. The weight felt like a hand. Easy. Hey, take it easy. Grand's hand.

I snapped upright and dug my nails into warm flesh. Where is she? The old lady. Tell me she's gone. Did you see her? Or my mom? Where's my mom? Ouch. Shit. "'Jesus, take it easy. You're fine. You all called for tow, right?' I rubbed my eyes and tried to clear the haze. The man came into focus, a dim shadow sitting behind the wheel of a truck, a toothpick working out from beneath a thick mustache. In front of him, through a windshield streaked in dust and a field of dead insects, the night rode washed away, devoured by a pair of headlights. Look, sweetheart, I don't know what sort of trouble you all got into out here, but you're the only one in that car when I showed up, and you weren't looking so hot.

I thought about calling for an ambulance, but you look bad enough that I figured I'd better get you to the hospital myself. I snatched his arm. We have to go back. We were attacked. There was this thing. My mom, she, she... My throat swelled. I buried my face in my hands.

Oh, my God. She's dead. Whoa, come on now. Don't do that to yourself. I called the police the minute I showed up. They'll be there shortly. They'll find your mom. I'm sure she just wandered off somewhere. It happens sometimes with head injuries.

You just rest up and... The sound of the tire slamming up against the wheel wells drowned him out. A sick thud followed by a dry crunch. The truck's air brakes popped with a steady pss. Holy hell. That deer came out of nowhere. I've never seen one move that fast before. He trailed off.

I followed his gaze and sucked in a breath. There was a girl standing in the middle of the road completely naked. Maybe five, if I were to guess. With flaxen hair and soft white skin, she had her hands clasped neatly at the waist. It can't be. Who is the first? that? The girl smiled, and he ran the back of his hand across his face and sniffed.

My daughter, he's dead. A woozy wave of adrenaline flooded my veins. I leaned across the seat and yanked the man toward me by the collar of his shirt. Listen to me. That girl, that thing out there, isn't your daughter, okay? His eyes rimmed with tears. His mouth hung slack. I tightened my grip. Please, don't look at her. Don't stop driving. And whatever you do, don't let her. Don't let her in the no sleep podcast presents the exclusive 10-part audio adaptation of alexander gordon smith's epic tale this book will kill you this book will kill you is the story of tommy bright a young woman who dreamt about a witch a room and a table full of meat this is her story this is about what happens when the witch comes back to finish what she started.

But be warned, because this book just might kill you. We'll kill you. This book has already killed you. You are a dead thing the moment you heard these words. You are a dead thing when you opened the first page. You were a dead thing when you saw the cover. You were a dead thing. The very instant you discovered this story even existed.

The very instant you heard somebody whisper its name. Because if you know about the book, then she knows about you. If you know about the book, then she sees you. She's watching you right now. Can you feel her there? She's sitting right behind you. You started to read, and her eyes peeled open, and her lips peeled open, and she saw you. And she's grinning her moon-yellow grin because she knows there's nothing you can do to stop her.

She's already killed you. This book has already killed you. So it doesn't matter if you read on or not. There's nothing you can do to change things now. One day, very soon, she'll let you see her. You'll turn your head and she'll be there sitting beside you. Or she'll open her mouth and let you hear her dusty voice. And you won't be able to unhear her.

You won't be able to make it stop. One day soon she'll reach out and scratch her crack-bone finger down your cheek, where you'll wake to find her bird nest body pressed against yours, her fingers worrying themselves beneath your skin. There's nothing you can do to stop her. Not now. If you want to keep reading, then who am I to stop you? Maybe you'll find something I didn't.

Maybe you'll find a way to make her unsee you. She's closer now. I think you must have felt that. She's right there. Her forehead is almost touching the back of your head. Her bulging eyes are almost touching the back of your neck. She wants you to turn around. She wants you to see her.

Don't. She's already killed you. This book has killed you. But don't turn around yet. Have a few hours left. Days, maybe, if somebody else starts reading this book as well. Weeks. if the whole world starts reading.

But if you see her now, the rot and horror will eat you up fast. She sees you. She is on her way. Don't turn around, dead thing now. Dead thing. Just read. I don't remember much from my childhood,

but I remember this. I remember that moment between dreaming and waking. That moment where you're swimming up from golden dreams. crossing that liminal, magical no-man's land where two worlds collide. I remember knowing that dreams were safe, that waking was safe, but that space in the middle where you're neither one thing nor the other, that's a bad place, a dangerous place. There's nothing to protect you there.

There's nowhere to hide. And that's where she always found me. She would wait for me, right on the edge of a dream, pulling a cloak of cold darkness behind her. Not her, exactly, because she was never there herself, just a force that would wrench me up, up, over the streets, over cars and buses and people, down into the darkest parts of the city to the tall building where she lived. And I'd see it. I'd see her window, as crooked as a mouth. getting closer and closer and closer and closer and there was nothing I could do but be pulled through it.

Oh, God, it's a dread. It's the kind of fear you can only ever really have in a nightmare. It consumes you. It's an ecstasy of terror because your eyes roll up and your body convulses, and there's a pair of electric hands wrapped tight around your spine and your skull squeezing your mind into oblivion. You literally lose everything of yourself to it. She brings me to a room, the floor bare wood, the walls plaster. There's nothing in here except dirt, and it's dark, but there's another door right in front of me, and through it, I can see an old kitchen, the stove on, a saucepan bubbling, all of it cut into harsh lines by a single bright bulb hanging above the table. There's meat on that table, a butcher shop. A butcher shop. 's worth, a sweet, stinking butcher shop's worth. And I know she's there, too, because I can hear her.

I can hear her moving toward the door. She can't move quickly. She's too old for that. But she's coming, her bare feet scuffing the floor, the lump of her hand knocking against the wall, her hazel twig fingers bristling. She's grinning. I can't see her, but I know she's grinning. I can feel it through the wall as bright as the bulb. She's grinning because she knows I'm not going anywhere. She's right. I might as well be wrapped in duct tape. I cannot move. I cannot breathe. I just stare at that door, seeing her shadow flood the floor like dirty water, seeing the eclipse of her head push itself around the sill, twisted and bent. Her face buried in clumps of added hair, but one eye sliding up in its socket, one blistered, boiling eye, and beneath it

one arm, too long and broomstick thin, sliding out to touch me. And I know, I know that if those crack-boned fingers touch me, I'll never be able to leave this place. So I fight it. I fight it like there was somebody on top of me, pinning me down. I fight it like there was a hand over my mouth and nose and I was out of air. I kick against the broken shell of my body. I punch, I open my mouth and scream and scream and scream until suddenly my body responds and I'm screaming in the dream. I'm kicking, I'm hitting,

and that same force sweeps me up like a pair of arms around my middle and pulls me back out the window and back through the city. And I can still see that shadowed body grunt and slide through the doorway. Her arm outstretched. I can still see her eye watching me go. I can hear her laugh. nothing, because she knows I'll be back. She knows that one day I won't get out in time. I don't remember much from my... I remember it because I had that dream a hundred times.

And every time I'd wake up gripped by such a violent fear that it would take my parents' hours to calm me, I had that dream again and again until one day I didn't. One day, I got away for good. At least that's what I thought. Right up until the day the police showed up at my door and asked me if I knew the dead girl, Kara Pierce. The first I know about it is when Donnie kicks open my bedroom door and screams at me through a crescendo of guitars and drums. I snapped the laptop shut out of habit,

even though there's nothing on the screen I need to hide. It takes me a moment to understand he's not singing the lyrics to enter Sandman, and I use my shoulder to slide the headphone from my ear. The door! Christ! Tommy! Just forget about it! He stamps off down the hall without even letting me know what I should be forgetting. Then I hear the thump of a fist on glass and mom's voice from the bathroom. Tommy! And it all suddenly makes sense.

I'm up in a heartbeat, following Donnie down the stairs. I got it. But he's making a point of it now, stomping to the front of it. door. There's a pair of shadows hanging in the marbled glass, broken into a thousand pieces. Wait, Donnie, hang on. He slides the dead bolt and opens it, and by the time I've caught up with him, the two men on the doorstep are practically inside. They're both as old, gray, and tired as their suits, but the brass badges clipped to their belts look brand new. Thomas and Bright. The guy on the left looks at Donnie, then at me.

It's like he struck me in the heart with a sculptor's hammer, because nobody ever comes to the door and asks for me, not least a couple of cops. It's an easy question. The other man puts his foot on the door sill and rocks impatiently. If you get this one right, the rest should be no problem. Yeah, I say, not quite ready to step out of their way. Yeah, sorry, I'm Thomason. Tommy. Can we come in?

The first cop scratches at his stubble with yellow fingers. I can see the gun holstered at his hip, and so can Donnie because his eyes light up. I glance upstairs, then back. Our mom's in, I say. Not quite sure why I'm saying it. She's in the bath. I'm very happy for her, but you're the one we want to speak with. Call her down.

He pushes inside, and I don't have any choice but to stand back, choking on the car. coffee and cigarette perfume of him. I'm starting to walk to the stairs, then change my mind and head for the kitchen, then change my mind again and head back to the stairs. Mom, the police are here. Can you come down? I hear a violent splash of water, as if she's been dunked, a squeak of heavy flesh, then a series of muttered curses.

The cops are hanging in the hallway, and I skirt around them. Heading for the kitchen again. Donnie skips around their feet. Is she in trouble? Did she kill someone? Are you going to take her away? Is she going to prison? The cops walk to the breakfast bar, one of them perching on a stool and prodding a fruit bowl that contains nothing but dust. It's not exactly awful in here, but it's not exactly spotless either. The paint is peeling off the walls and there's a huge patch of dry rot that almost looks like a person right opposite me.

I wonder why I've never noticed it before. I hover in the door wondering if I should clean some stuff up. It doesn't feel right that anyone should see our house. It's like somebody peeling open the top of my head and having a good look inside. The standing cop laughs and some of the tension leaks out of the room. He's younger than the other guy by about a decade, although he must still be pushing 50. He reaches out and scruffs Donnie's hair. Angling for her bedroom, kid?

Sorry to disappoint you. Your sister's in no trouble. We just need to ask a few questions. Clear something up, okay? I'm still bouncing on my heels in the kitchen door. And even though he smiles again, I only really relax when I hear mom thumping down the stairs. She's in her bathrobe,

a towel wrapped around her hair. And she's going so fast she misses the last step, cussing as she limps past me. I can see her lip trembling. What's wrong? I'm not sure why she's so worried, because both her kids are here, safe, and dad's not coming back from the grave anytime soon. The thought that nothing can be seriously wrong makes me a little less worried, too,

and I follow her in, standing on the other side of the bar. The younger cop lifts his hands, flashing that smile again. Easy, nobody's in trouble. I'm Detective Cyrus, that's Detective O'Connell. I'd like to say call us Alfredo and Frank. But the honest truth is we're not going to be here for long enough. He holds out his hand, and O'Connell hands him a manila folder, which he lays down on the bar. It's resting on a bed of breadcrumbs, and I'm so preoccupied with the thought of brushing them away

that it takes me a moment to notice he's opened it. Mrs. Bright? Mom nods, holding the gown to her chest. Mary. Thank you, Mary. Frank and I are here because we're investigating a death, a teenage girl from across. town. A death? Mom looks like she's going to keel over, and I think it's more to do with the hot bath than the

cops. Maybe a bit of both. Detective O'Connell is on it, pushing off the stool and offering it to her. She doesn't accept, because there's no way she's climbing on that thing without going all basic instinct on them. She leans on the bar instead, smudging mascara down her cheek. Again, we're not accusing any of you of anything. We're just following the law. Leads, absolutely nothing else. Cyrus looks down at Donnie, who's staring at the open file. Your sister's not going to prison, and you're not getting her bedroom. It's an unexplained death.

O'Connell, obviously irritated, pats his pocket with yellow fingers like he's checking for his cigarettes. A girl called Kara Pierce. She was found dead a couple of weeks ago. Did you know her? Everybody looks at me, and I shake my head. She went to Fullerson. No reason why your paths would cross. She was 16.

Like me. Nice kid, I think. Good group of friends. Nice family. Her mom found her a week ago. She died in the night. She'd... He shrugs, looking at Donnie again.

You don't need to know the details. We're not sure yet, but we want to be sure. So, if I didn't know her, And you don't suspect anyone. I chew on my thumbnail like it's candy. Detective Cyrus thumps the folder with his fist, twice. Kara was a writer. Like me, I think.

And this time I feel the goose flesh lied down my arms like a fish nudging the surface of a pond. I mean, young and unpublished, but, you know, she liked to write. She was in the middle of writing something. A note? The detective shakes his head. Not that kind of note, no. A story, we think. Something pretty scary.

Although, who am I to judge? I'm a royal wimp when it comes to horror. It's not her story we're interested in, though. O'Connell lifts a sheet of paper from the folder and slides it across the bar. He's giving it to me, but Mom snatches it from him. I watch her eyes dart over it, the lines making her brow crease like old parchment. It's yours? She passes it to me.

I don't want to look, but I don't not want to either. It takes me a while to recognize it, because the paper is so wrinkled with folds and so heavy with annotation, the original type is barely visible. When I read the first line, though, I might have just inhaled a marble. I literally cannot make my lungs work. I was six years old when I first saw the witch.

It is yours, then? It's hers. She's... Always writing that shit. No offense, Tommy. None taken. I always told her they'd, you know, mess with their brain or something. I don't know where it comes from. It's not for me, that's for sure.

I like them. A rare show of support from Donnie. They're gross. I'm not allowed to read them, but I do. You've done nothing wrong. Cyrus holds his hands up to me like I'm about to jump from the roof. We're just looking for answers. Yeah.

I say, I squeam. because my lungs have only just remembered what to do. I clear my throat. I mean, I wrote it ages ago. I wrote it when I was like 12. It's not very good. It wasn't very good. It had been one of the first things I'd ever written

and the first thing I'd ever posted online. It was a true story, if anything written about a dream can be true, that is. It was the story of how I used to dream about flying, a kitchen, a table full of meat, and a witch. I was still having the dreams back then, but they'd stopped not long after. I always thought they'd stopped because I'd written them down. Hey, I'm not the New York Times review of books. To be honest, I thought it was pretty good. But what I really want to know is why Kara was so interested in this tale of yours.

She'd printed it out 18 times, more maybe. We're still going through all the garbage. And each one is as messed up as that, all kinds of notes, all kinds of, who knows what, scrawled all over the page. I scan down, read one. The dream, always the dream. She likes the happy ones best. Her handwriting is scratchy.

The letter is all over the place. Most of the notes are in red, but some are in black, blue. And there's even a green one that just... Street's window. Can you give us any reason, any reason at all, why Kara might have been so fixated with this story? I shake my hat. No. Not just this one.

There were dozens more, all pulled from online, all printed out and buried in notes. All horror stuff, but not all yours. And you're talking to those writers, too. Cyrus Shrachs. They're not always easy to find, and nobody else is local. We wanted to run it by you first, Thomasine, Tommy, just to see if there was anything we could go on. Might just be Kara was a young girl who loved to read scary stuff and who decided to... What he doesn't say is louder than if he'd just shouted it.

Even Donnie's gone quiet, like he's suddenly tuned in to what they're saying. It's just a story. I wrote it because I had these dreams when I was a kid. Nightmares. They were about a witch. Oh, Christ. That fucking witch. The sleep we lost because of her. Just dreams? I can see Cyrus's detective brain trying to pry open my past.

I try to smile. Yeah, sure. Just dreams. Stupid kid dreams. I don't know why I got so scared. Her single, boiling blister of an eye. Just thinking about it now brings that electric charge again, makes the skin of my face feel too tight. Just dreams. And, you know, I wrote a story to help. I make the gesture of something flying out of my head, the papers in my hand rustling, to just get it the hell out of there. I posted it online on creepy.com. That's creepy with three E's. It's like a horror version of Wapad. I've had an account there for years. T-bright with underscores four and aft? Yeah.

I nod, wondering if they've read all my stories. I can feel the furnace beneath my cheeks suddenly fire up. I mean, they're all old. They're not great or good or like... And they're all based on dreams? No, not at all. Most are like creepy pastas, you know? Just a bit of fun.

Yeah, I've read a few. Short, scary stories, mostly harmless. Yeah. I've lost my place. I can't remember what I was saying. So... Kara was on there, too. O'Connell opens his notepad and searches for something. Cyrus beats him to it. underscore Kera P23 underscore. We checked. She followed you, but you didn't follow her. You ever get any messages from her? Any communication? No. I don't really use messages on creepy. I never heard anything. anything from her. Cyrus nods, popping his lips. Okay, okay. Fine, I think we're done. I'm sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Bright. Mary, and Tommy, thank you for taking the time to speak with us.

He pulls a card from his shirt pocket, lays it on the crumbs. Anything else you think of? You call, okay? She will. Mom picks up the card and pushes it into the pocket of her bathrobe. O'Connell mutters something already out of the kitchen. Cyrus hangs back, and it takes me a moment to understand what he's waiting for. I don't give the papers back to him, though. I clench them in my fist. This is my story, and for some reason the thought of handing it over feels wrong. Feels like I'm giving up a piece of my mind. Thank you. He gestures for them. I hesitate a moment more, breathing deep, breathing slow. I take another look at the story, turning to the second page

and seeing another avalanche of notes over the text. I'm only doing it in the hope he'll just go, that he'll leave me with it, and I still can't explain why. Tommy? I turn to the last page, and as I do, he takes hold of it, pulling. This time I let go, and it's nothing to do with him. I let go like somebody's told. me there's a spider crawling up the paper, like I've seen a long leg bristle over the top.

There's only half a page of my writing there, the last three paragraphs of the story. Beneath them is a doodle in red ink, a round circle that's practically been gouged out of the paper. There's a second circle inside it, and a third, and together they make an eye, a boiling, blistering eye. And beneath that are four words written in a mad woman's hand. She sees me too. I managed to keep the tears locked up until I'm back in my room. But as soon as the doors shut, they're streaming out of me. I wave my hands to try to cool my face, my sobs sounding more like hiccups. They're short-lived, thankfully. I mean, I'm not upset. Not really. It's just something like this gets to you. It's a little knife wound in the flesh of your life.

There's a dead girl across town, and she was reading my story. The tears are like scalding water, and I smudge them away. Breathing, breathing, bearing it all as deep as I can. The room seems hyper-real now, like I've chugged a gallon of Red Bull. The sun's too bright, even though the curtains half shut. I walk to the window to pull the other side over, and the cops are there, chatting to each other over the roof of their sedan. Cyrus looks up and waves to me. O'Connell looks back and nods. Then they're clambering in and gunning up the street, chased by a tail of exhaust. Are you okay?

I almost shed my skin like a bathrobe. I turn. I try to smile, even though. my cheeks are still wet. Mom's eyes, pulls her robe tight. We can talk about this in a minute, okay? Just let me run itself. She waits for me to nod, then disappears, then her head pokes back through the door. Don't blame yourself. I don't, but the very fact she said it makes me feel like maybe I should. I wait for her to go, wait for the squeak of flesh as she climbs back into the tub, wait for Donnie to look through my door,

mull something unspoken, and walk to his room. Then I sit on the bed and text Flint. I write slash delete half a dozen times before telling her the truth, that I need to see her now because the cops just questioned me about a dead body. Then I check the phone on the quilt and open the laptop. There's a second when the screen boots up, where I'm 12 again, sitting at Dad's old PC. I'd had the dream again the morning I wrote the story, and I almost hadn't made it out.

God, it had been so close. She'd been through the door, her arm ten feet long, those brittle fingers searching for my face. I'd seen her teeth, crooked and yellow. They weren't human teeth. They were horses' teeth, hammered into her gums. She'd looked so old, but her acid grin was so bright it was even. leading through the fabric of the dream. I'd kicked and punched my way out of it so hard I'd fractured two knuckles on the bedpost.

I'd almost not been able to sit down and write. But I'd sat down anyway, my whole left hand numb, and I'd written. I can't even remember why. I just knew I needed to do it. I needed to write about her, because that way it wouldn't just be me anymore. That way, the whole world would see her. The screen flickers, glitches, settles. I can still hear Metallica whining from the headphones and I put them on.

Only now I'm thinking of the witch. I'm thinking of her staring from the darkness of the wardrobe. That aching, unblinking eye fixed on me. My skin literally crawls and I shake the headphones off, looking back, looking down, looking up too in case she's beetling along. the ceiling. And I'm suddenly angry as well as scared, because that old bitch was long gone. I didn't even think about the story anymore. And now she's back. Now she's everywhere. Now I'm going to dream about her. I know it. I shuffle to the top of the bed so there's nothing behind me but wall,

resting the laptop on my thighs. I snap Facebook shut, opening a new tab and loading. creepy.com. I've got messages waiting, but I can't bring myself to see if one of them is from a dead girl. I scroll back through eight stories to my first, to the one I called witch. I was six years old when I first saw the witch. I look up. The house feels too quiet. I can't even hear Donnie's Xbox or mom splashing in the bath. All I can hear is the soft hum of the laptop. and my own breaths, too shallow, too fast. I look behind me, just wall, just wall. But that's not true because there's a fist width of gap between the velvet headboard and the plaster.

Enough space for her scarecrow's arm to slide up, joints cracking, enough space to look down and see an eyeball blinking wetly in the dark. I say, only not loud enough to really be words. I get up, open the curtains again. and some of her power goes. Then I unplugged the headphones and turn the music up loud, loud enough for Mom to hammer on the wall and holler at me to dial it down. By the time I'm back on the bed, the sharper fear has gone.

But that awful, dull, aching dread is still there. Still sits in my bones like a lead weight. Which has 832 hearts and 17 comments. Not bad for a short story by a 12-year-old. year old. I click the comments, but they're all old ones. Nobody has written in years. There are some new likes, though, and I scroll through them. I'm expecting to see her, but I still feel a fork in the outlet jolt when the name Kara P23 shows up. I hover the cursor over it, clucking my tongue. Then I click the name and her page loads. It feels wrong somehow. It's like I'm

inside her bedroom going through her belongings. There's no photo, just a slender man avatar. She's been busy, though, because she's liked over a thousand stories on creepy. She's only commented on four, though. Pinch is one. There's another called Tubby, a third called Three Dead Things, and lastly, one called The Tube Game. The link to Tubby works, but the links to the third and fourth stories are dead.

There's not much else. A line of bio that reads, Hey, just a crazy girl who likes reading slash writing creepy stories. Scare's easy, so go easy, okay? I scroll through her history. She liked my story two weeks ago. What had the cops said? That she died about the same time?

There had been enough time to print out the story 18 times and write a hundred notes on it. I hate it. I hate the thought that she read my story so soon before her life ended. I go to the settings for which, hover the cursor over the delete button. But I can't do that, because part of me thinks that the story is the only thing holding the dream at bay, holding her at bay. So instead, I click private, which means that nobody else will be able to read it. There's a soft sound, just like somebody popping their lips in my ear. They turn my head so hard I feel something twang.

Nothing. Just my phone. A message waiting for me. Holy shitbird, seriously? On my way. Or you want to meet neutral? I fire one back saying, Mall, half an hour?

There's a wine in my ear. The noise a camera flash makes when it's recharging. It's just the stress of the morning, and I shake it away, clicking onto Facebook. I type in Kara's name, finding her easily. We've even got a couple of mutual friends.

It takes me a moment to gather the courage to open her page, and when I do, she meets me there. Pretty girl with a pixie cut, dyed electric blue, a nose piercing, petite, with a kind of cheekbones that could cut you, all smiles and stupid faces and family dinners and college sweatshirts and proms. There's no sign at all that she's into horror or writing

or even reading. There's just one book listed on her likes and maybe half a dozen scary movies, none of which are that scary. And I'm almost ready to leave her there in peace when I see it. I didn't notice it at first because it's not one of her photos.

She's only tagged in it. But that's a weird photo to be tagged in because she's sitting alone in what has to be her room at a desk, her bed behind her. There's paper everywhere. Some of it even looks like it's floating in the air, like it's just been disturbed by a strong wind. And I know that on at least one of those sheets of paper is my story.

It feels like a violation, like there's a piece of me sitting on the bed, a piece of my flesh, a table full of meat. My jaw hurts and I realize I'm clenching my teeth, and I feel like a mirror because Kara's clenching hers too. She's staring at whoever took the photo, almost, because her eyes seem a little too low, like she's looking at something else, something lower, like she's looking at a screen. It's a webcam shot, I understand, and I'm not sure she even knew it was being taken, because nobody pulls a face like that unless they're scared, unless they're terrified. Her lips are pulled back in a grin, but it's a corpse. This is smile. It's too big. Her teeth clamped tight. It's a witch's grin. And her eyes, they're huge. They look like they're about to roll right out of their sockets. They're huge and wet and they are drenched in something unspeakable. My screen glitches again. That weird camera flash sound is back. It's my laptop, an ancient piece of crap because mom can't afford a new one. I go to close the picture, wondering if I should.

send it to the cops. But they'd have checked her page, right? They would have had to. I look at the info, but there's nothing there about who posted the picture. It just says Facebook user. I don't click away, because something doesn't seem right. There's something bugging me. I look past Kara, past the piles of paper. It's her bed that's wrong, the shape of it. Her covers are bunched up, like she's just crawled out of them. But the pile seems too high. The photo is too grainy to make sense of it. But the more I look, the more I think I can see a form there, a form that's too much like a body. And there, in the darkest folds, gripping the fabric as if to pull it away, four stick-thin fingers. I actually grunt, like I've been punched in the

gut. I click the photo closed, but the laptop stalls, the cursor spinning. I hiss out a swear, clicking again, seeing the bed, seeing those fingers, seeing Kara and her awful grin, seeing her looking right at me, looking right at me. The laptop recovers. The photo shrinks back to its thumbnail, but even that's too much and I slammed the lid closed. I close my eyes too. But all I can see there is Kara, burned into the back. This book will kill you. Written by Alexander Gordon Smith. Adapted for audio by Jessica McAvoy.

Produced for the No Sleep podcast by Phil Mikulski. Musical score composed by Brandon Boone. This book will kill you, the first part, starred Jessica McAvoy as Tommy Bright, Erica Sanderson as the witch, Dan Zepula as Donnie, Aaron Lillis as Tommy's mother, Mick Wingerd as Detective O'Connell, Graham Rowett as Detective Cyrus, and Kristen DiMecurio as Flint.

Join us next week, for this book will kill you. The second part. The sun creeps above the horizon. The darkness. slowly fades for now. But you will fear the darkness once again, as you remain sleepless. 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. If you would like to find out how you can hear the extended editions of our 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 joining us,

and for being sleepless. This program is copyright 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.