The NoSleep Podcast - S19 Ep1: NoSleep Podcast S19E01

Episode Date: February 5, 2023

It’s Episode 1 of Season 19. We ponder weak and weary with tales about vile visitors.“The Raven” written by Edgar Allan Poe (Story starts around 00:04:55)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Peter Lewis“A Pair of Old Shoes” written by JD Erickson (Story starts around 00:13:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Atticus Jackson, Jacob – Matthew Bradford, Matthew – Jeff Clement, Elsa – Mary Murphy, David – Danielle McRae“Snuffling Noises” written by Jill Benson (Story starts around 00:43:55)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Graham Rowat, Emma – Sarah Ruth Thomas“Seven Weeks” written by Marissa Snyder (Story starts around 01:13:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Nikolle Doolin, It – Erin Lillis“The Graveyard” written by Blake Chastain (Story starts around 01:26:00)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator – Mike DelGaudio, Jake Williams – Dan Zappulla, George – David Cummings, Catherine – Kristen DiMercurio, Dr. Roberts – Jesse CornettThis episode is sponsored by:Vessi - Vessiís the only shoes you need because of how versatile they are. Vessis are my go-to shoes by my door. Check them out at vessi.com/nosleep for 15% off your entire order for your Vessi shoes.ShipStation - ShipStation makes it super easy to manage and ship all your online orders faster, cheaper and more efficiently. Keep growing your business all year long with ShipStation. Use promo code NOSLEEP today at shipstation.com to sign up for your FREE 60-day trial.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Edgar Allan Poe from author Rene RehnClick here to learn more about Jill BensonExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“The Graveyard” illustration courtesy of Krys HookuhAudio program ©2023 – 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. The works of Edgar Allan Poe reside in the public domain. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The No Sleep Podcast comes tapping at your door with Season 19. It's coming right up with Tales Perfect for a Winter's Night. Speaking of winter, I'm reminded of a famous writer who once wrote, Never to suffer would never to have been blessed. I think about that when I go out on sloppy winter days, only to return home with my feet feeling wet. That is, if they're not numbed by the cold. Those were days I suffered.

But these days I'm blessed with my vesey, waterproof shoes. Ah, those Vessy Stormburst shoes. Why is Vessy Stormburst the best shoe to have in the winter? Well, it's all the features of a rubber winter boot built into a sneaker. 100% waterproof, not just water resistant, waterproof and warm yet lighter and more comfortable than boots. They have a lugged rubber outsole that gives you extra grip in wet conditions. No more slipping and falling face first into a snowbank. In the best part, they slip on and off so it's quick and easy to get outside. I hear you ponder weak and weary. How are vesees so good? Well, they're made from Dimitex, a super soft knit material that keeps your feet warm in the cold but cool in the warmer

months. It doesn't feel like it should be waterproof, but it is. These shoes excel at keeping my tootsies warm, dry, and super comfortable. Imagine that. Being outside in the winter with comfortable feet without clunky boots. That's why I love my Vessies, and I'm certain you'll love them too. Vessies are my go-to shoes by my door. Check them out by going to Vessi.com slash no sleep for a pair of your Vessie shoes. Make your feet invincible this winter by going to V-E-S-S-I-com slash no sleep for 15% off your entire order. And now that Vessi keeps your feet from getting messy, come into our chamber where we're kicking off season 19

in the dark shadows of the Rue Morg to the rhythm of the stolen telltale heart as the black cat swings upon the pendulum and the cask offers its sherry

deep and dry as you knock at our chamber door we open and usher you in our sleepless tales for you In store, and the terror shall be lifted. Raise yourself for the no sleep.

To season 19 of the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. We are thrilled to be thrilling and chilling again with our new season. For season 19, we're drawing inspiration from an author and poet whose name is synonymous with the dark, the macabre, the shadows which dwell in our minds, inspiring grave fears. Yes, we find ourselves gently wrapping at the chamber door of Edgar Allan Poe. Throughout the season, we'll be featuring stories inspired by his most famous stories and poems. We'll even be adapting some of his stories for you.

Now, some of you may be unfamiliar with Poe's works. If you'd like to learn a bit more about this melancholy man, I encourage you to check the show notes for a link to an excellent overview of both Poe and his most famous works, written by author and author. and frequent No Sleep Podcast contributor, René Rain. It's a solid starting point from which to learn about the mind which created tales like the telltale heart, the cask of a Monteado, and the fall of the House of Usher.

And so, a new season, a new inspiration, and so many new horrors to introduce you to. And what better way to start than to devote our first tale to the man himself? It is, without fear of contradiction, his most famous piece of writing. A story told in rhyme, one which inspired so many who followed. A story, not unlike all the tales in this episode, featuring a visitor arriving during a dark moment. And who better than our own Peter Lewis to perform it for you?

So let us begin our journey through season 19 with a not-so-friendly companion. That devilish blackbird we know as the Raven. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, while I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. Tis some visitor, I muttered, tapping at my chamber door, only this, and nothing more. Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, and each separate dying. ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow from my books, a cease of sorrow. Sorrow for the lost Lenore, for the rare and radiant maiden whom the

angels named Lenore, nameless, here, forevermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled me, filled me, with fantastic terrors never felt before, so that To still the beating of my heart I stood repeating, tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, Some late visitor in treating entrance at my chamber door, that it is, and nothing more. Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer, sir, said I, Or madam, truly your forgiveness, I implore. But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, and so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

that I scarce was sure I heard you. Here I opened wide the door. Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming, dreams, no mortal ever dared to dream before. But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token. And the only word there spoken was the whispered word. Lenore?

This eye whispered and an echo murmured back. the word Lenore, merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning. Soon again, I heard a tapping, something louder than before. Surely, said I, surely, that is something at my window lattice. Let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery explore. Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore. Tis the wind, and nothing more. Open here, Here I flung the shutter, when with many a flirt and flutter, In their step the stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he,

Not a minute stopped or stayed he, But with mean of lord or lady perched above my chamber door, Perched upon a bust of palace just above my chamber door, Perched and sat, and nothing more. Then the ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling by the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore. Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou, I said, art sure no craven, ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore.

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's plutonian shore. Quoth the raven, never more. Much I marveled this ungamely foul to hear discourse so plainly, though its answer, little meaning, little relevancy bore. For we cannot help agree that no living human being ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door, bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chambered door with such a name as Nevermore. But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only that one word as if its soul

in that one word he did out pour. Nothing farther then, he uttered. Not a feather, then he fluttered, till I, scarcely more than muttered, Other friends have flown before. On the morrow he will leave me as my hopes have flown before. Then the bird said, Nevermore, startled at the stillness broken by reply, so aptly spoken. Doubtless, said I, what it utters is its only stock in store, caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster followed fast and followed faster,

till his songs one burden bore, till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore, of never and never more. But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling. Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and bore. Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore, what this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of your meant, in croaking, never more. This I sat, engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing to the foul whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core.

This and more I sat, divining with my head at ease, reclining on the cushions velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated ore. But whose velvet violet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating ore? She shall press. Never more. Methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer, swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. Wretch, I cried, thy God hath lent thee. By these angels he have sent thee.

Respite, respite, and Nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore. Quaff, oh, quaff this kind Nepenthe, and forget this lord. This lost Lenore. Quoth the raven. Nevermore. Prophet, said I, thing of evil. Prophet, still, if bird or devil, whether tempter sent or whether tempest tossed to be here ashore, desolate, yet all undaunted on this desert land, enchanted on this home by horror haunted.

Tell me truly, I implore. Is there, is there, is there balm in Gilead? Tell me, tell me, I implore. Quoth the raven, nevermore. Prophet, said I, thing of evil. Prophet still is bird or devil by that heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore. Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aden, it shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore. Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.

Quoth the raven, never more. Be that our sign of parting, bird or fiend, I shrieked, up starting, get thee back into the tempest and the night's plutonian shore, leave no black plume as token of that lie thy soul has spoken, leave my loneliness unbroken, quit the bust above my door, take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door. Quoth the raven, never more, and the raven never flitting, Still is sitting, still is sitting on the pallid bust of palace just above my chamber door. And his eyes have all the seeming of a demons that is dreaming, and the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadows on the floor. And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted, never more. It can be difficult when long distances keep you separated from family members. When they're going through struggles, it can compel one to travel to provide support.

But in this tale, shared with us by author J.D. Erickson, we meet a man who wants to help his brother and sister-in-law. Their loss is immense and perhaps fleeting. Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson, Matthew Bradford, Jeff Clement, Mary Murphy, and Danielle McCray. So overlooked their messy house. It's not easy to tidy up the mess, the clutter, and a pair of old shoes. It had been more than a year since Jacob had seen his brother. That by itself wouldn't have been entirely strange. They lived far enough apart that it was at least a whole day's affair just to reach one another.

And if Jacob didn't have time to hop a train and head down for a visit, how could he expect Matthew to do so? especially considering all that had happened to him in the past year. And really, that was why Jacob made the exception now. His brother's letters of late had been short, uninformative, and desolate. Until the most recent one, Jacob put his hand in his coat pocket now to clutch it, as though that small touch might force it to make sense. He stared up at the manner.

His childhood home and now the home of his older brother's family. Well, Matthew and his wife. There wasn't much of a family anymore. Jacob rested a hand against the Iron Gate, nervous now about seeing his brother. Had he left too soon after the funeral? Should he have moved back in with his brother to care for him and his wife while they processed their grief?

At the time, he had been sure that he was making the right to do. decision. Their grief was wide and deep, and it seemed to him that they craved privacy to deal with their loss. Or maybe he had just been afraid of being swallowed whole. He pushed the gate open, listening to the at-once familiar and ominous creek of the hinges as it swung inward. The path to the house was overgrown, and Jacob picked his way through carefully, his coat catching on brambles as he went. The house stood tall, dark empty windows glaring down at him, and walls covered with ivy. Jacob couldn't blame his brother for not receiving visitors, but it really was inexcusable to let the house go to seed like this. The steps to the great

doorway creaked beneath his feet, and Jacob had half a thought that they would break, and his foot would slide down into the wet mouth of wood where he would be forced to wait for his brother to come to him. He hurried up the last few steps to the door and was ashamed at the relief he felt at being on the study porch. It was his own house. It shouldn't seem half so strange, no matter how long he had been away. He knocked on the door with his fist, bypassing the iron knocker with its lion's head. It always hoped his brother would get rid of that. It had terrified them both as children. There was silence inside the house. His brother was home, wasn't he? To Jacob's knowledge, in the opinion of the townspeople he'd stayed with after his late train,

neither Matthew nor Elsa had left their estate for months. The innkeeper had said that every other week one of the local boys would bring up food for them and leave it on the porch and collect his payment from the week before. Jacob had asked if anyone had even seen his brother then, and the innkeeper had told him no, that his brother kept to himself now. It had made Jacob's heart seize with something like fear. How could he have abandoned his brother like this? Was his own life in the city really so important? His work as a law clerk seemed suddenly insignificant next to the thought that his brother had been going mad with grief. and too afraid or ashamed to ask for help.

Jacob took hold of the iron knocker, fingers sliding against the lion's teeth, and knocked hard. After what seemed a long moment, there were footsteps on the other side of the door, and then it opened. Jacob had expected to see Sebastian, his brother's butler since he had turned 18 and inherited the property, but instead it was Matthew himself who opened the door.

his brother's face was worn with lines and a deep scowl. His hair unconed and loose around his face. But when he saw Jacob, his face changed, lit up with something close to joy and closer still to mania. Jacob! Matthew pulled him through the door and into a hug. Jacob returned it reluctantly. His brother smelled as though he hadn't bathed all that recently, and his fingers dug painfully into Jacob's back. Jacob pulled out of the hug.

Matthew, I... He hesitated. Should he say he was worried for his brother? He pulled on a smile. I'm sorry it's been so long. I've been so busy. I thought it was high time for a visit. Yes.

I never thought you would come, but I'm glad. Please. Let me get your coat, brother. Jacob let Matthew pull his coat off with twitching fingers. No, Sebastian. Matthew paused, leaving Jacob's arms tangled in the end of his coat behind him. No, no more. We had to let him go.

Uh-oh. Why? Jacob was sure he failed to conceal his surprise. Why? Because he was caught stealing our things, is why. Jacob frowned. Sebastian wouldn't. He couldn't.

Not the sweet, dark-eyed man Jacob knew. Still, he hadn't been there. He couldn't know for sure. Oh, a shame. Yes. Matthew tugged the coat down, freeing Jacob's hands and hung it on the old coat rack that used to be their fathers. Tea?

No, please. Elsa, dear. Jacob glanced around the house. The front room was bare and dusty. His brother's coat and mantle covered in a fine layer of gray, and his sister-in-law's shawl hung tattered beside it. There were several pairs of shoes lined up on the old shelves by the door. He recognized his brother's favorite style,

those black old shoes in the same fashion their father had favored, and Elsa's heels and boots in their eccentric and no doubt expensive style. Her boots were at least a year out of fashion, Jacob noted. Elsa would never stand for that. Or at least, she wouldn't before. And last but not least, there was a pair of shoes much smaller than the rest. The boy's shoes. Well-worn and muddy.

Jacob stared for a moment. Then the sound of his sister-in-law on the stairs made him look away. Elsa was dressed in bright yellow. Her hair half done up as though she'd given up part way through, or someone had pulled it loose. Jacob frowned. Last he had seen her, she had still been in black morning dress. Even now, she should be in half-morning, some gray or subdued color at least. It had not even been a full year.

But this bright and faded yellow was like old sunlight, and it was too much. Elsa hurried down the stairs. She pulled Jacob in a hug, through which he remained stiff. Elsa was never one for affection. Elsa, dear, my brother would like some tea. At once. She kissed Jacob on the cheek and hurried through to the kitchen. Have you no staff at all?

We don't need them. I never realized how easy it would be. We do it ourselves, Jacob. We don't need their eyes. in their waging tongues. Jacob turned away from his brother for a moment, unable to meet his eyes. There was an almost feverish intensity to Matthew's gaze,

and it unnerved him. Come, they'll get you settled. Matthew ushered him through to the parlor. It remained largely unchanged from the last time Jacob had seen it. The same old chairs sat at the edge of the familiar arabesque rug, Its pattern now faded and marked where the chairlegs had worn holes in the fabric, and there was the same old curtain, thick and embroidered with red flowers, hanging heavy across the window. Matthew pulled the curtain aside, dust moats spinning in the air as he allowed the white-clouded light to illuminate the room. This room, too, was dusty in spots.

The fireplace was ashy and dark. Candles on the mantelpiece half melted and unchanged. There was a book open on one side table, pages moth-eaten and heavy with dust. On the far table sat a small tray of white cookies, and it took a moment for Jacob to realize they were white with mold. The mirror over the fireplace was covered with an old and worn sheet, the odd glint catching in the cold daylight. and there by the far window, a set of old letter blocks paused mid-play.

Jacob was fairly certain those were not there for the wake. Why would they be? Elsa or Matthew must have taken them out, must have wanted to touch his things. The blocks were clean, the only object in the room that looked as though they had been treated with care. Matthew struck at the old cushions of the chairs, causing dust to billow up and catch in the natural light. You must forgive us. We don't use the chairs so much. Jacob hummed an acknowledgement, keeping his back to his brother. How could Matthew and Elsa live like this?

It was disgusting. Matthew placed a hand on his back, and Jacob nearly jumped. His brother gave him an apologetic. smile and pointed him towards a seat. Jacob sat stiffly. He would no doubt need to have his suit cleaned after this. It really is wonderful to see you. It's been a long time.

Yes, well, the people in Bankhead say you don't come down and you haven't hosted anyone. Matthew's face darkened. I don't care what they say. I don't want to see any of them. His expression softened. But family is not. different. That at least made Jacob feel a little better. He opened his mouth to ask about the letter, about what his brother had meant. Elsa swept into the room with a small tray and Jacob shut his

mouth. I brought some cookies. You must be hungry. Jacob glanced down at the tray, half expecting the cookies to be molded over like the ones on the far table. They weren't. They were perfectly ordinary little jam-filled cookies, the same kind they'd always had before. David's favorite. Jacob swallowed hard. Thank you. Elsa smiled, setting the tray down on the small table between Matthew and Jacob, and stood smoothing her dress.

In this light, Jacob could see dark streaks of dirt in the worn fabric, and the ends of her skirt were frayed and uncapped. I really must excuse myself now. Of course, darling. Matthew took her hand, kissing it. Jacob watched for a moment. If he didn't know better, he'd think they were happy, or at least content with each other.

But the holes in Matthew's coat in the frayed edges of Elsa's skirts told him not to take it at face value. They were either putting on a performance for him or they had somewhat lost their minds. Jacob was inclined to think it was the latter. Elsa backed out of the room with a small curtsy and hurried back up the stairs to return to God knew what.

So, how have you been? Matthew picked up his cup, drinking from it immediately without adding his usual two sugars. Jacob hesitated, picking up his own cup carefully by the handle. Well enough, I suppose. Be busy. Huh, yes. That's the city for you.

And you still work with Michelson? Yes. Jacob raised the cup to his lips. The tea was cold and greasy against his tongue. He grimaced into the cup, setting it down. Across from him, Matthew took another sip. Notting any ladies yet? Jacob hesitated.

Well, no. He wasn't here to discuss his own process. respects in any case, but it certainly wouldn't do to tell his brother he'd been romancing Michelson the younger for the past several months. It wouldn't help things at the moment. We'd always hoped you'd give David someone to play with. Matthew popped one of the cookies into his mouth. Jacob frowned.

For the better part of almost a year, none of Matthew's letters had mentioned David at all. He had been the absent subject at the heart of things. and Jacob had obliged his brother in avoiding it, until quite suddenly, Matthew's most recent letter had carried on about David at great length. Yes. It made him uneasy to hear Matthew speak so casually about David after such a long silence on the matter.

He swallowed thickly. Perhaps when I'm not so married to my work. Matthew obliged him with a smile. But you, Matthew, how are you? Jacob shifted forward slightly in the old chair. Me? Matthew looked slightly confused. I'm wonderful.

Why shouldn't I be? Jacob opened his mouth and then closed it. He burned to ask about the letter, conscious of its weight in his pocket. And why not? It was why he was here, after all. Let Matthew know he was concerned for him. They were, right?

brothers, after all. Your letter, I found it confusing. Matthew shrugged at him. Why? You... Jacob paused. How could he put it into words? That Matthew's letters had gone from the depressing breakdown of a life after loss

to single-line updates that barely revealed any detail, until finally, after three months' silence, along an exuberant account that was almost what it used to be before the accident. It had been upsetting to say the least, and Jacob had spent the better part of the night going through the letter again and again, looking for some sign his brother was joking, or that this letter was old and had somehow been very lately delivered. But he'd known it wasn't. He'd gotten on the train the very next morning. You can't be serious. In your letter, you said that...

He dropped his voice involuntarily. David was back. Yes. Matthew's eyes were wide. It was a miracle. And who am I to question a miracle, Jacob? Matthew. It had a pleading edge he hadn't intended.

These things don't happen. Your letter it read like madness. And so it was. But David is back. He's playing upstairs in his room as we speak. He went horseback riding only last week like he used to. He's getting to be so big. Just stop it.

Jacob jerked away from his brother. He isn't back, Matthew. People don't come back. You're not well. Matthew went still, considering him a moment. What do you know? You haven't been there. You didn't see him come home muddy from playing in the rain?

You weren't there. No, I wasn't. But I should have been, Matthew. I'm sorry. Matthew leaned back, looking somewhat satisfied. I suppose you want to see him. I... Jacob glanced towards the old stairway. No. Matthew, there's no one here but you and Elsa. Liar. He always loved you, you know.

And those little shoes you got for him after he wore your fancy shoes all around the house? Matthew traced the edge of his teacup with one finger. Jacob flinched at the memory. David had been a bright boy, and it had warmed his heart when he asked to wear Jacob's coat and shoes. Matthew, come on then. Matthew stood. Come and see.

No, Matthew, come to the city with me. We can get help for you, for Elsa. Matthew didn't respond, already heading to the staircase. Jacob followed him against his better judgment. Maybe what Matthew needed was for Jacob to see the empty bedroom with him, to dispel the notion that his son had somehow returned from the dead. Maybe he needed a small touch of outside reality. After being cooped up with his wife in their own world for so long,

Matthew led the way up the stairs, taking them nearly two at a time. He'll be so disappointed you to do. bring anything for him from the city. But I suppose he'll get over it. You'll be so thrilled to see you again. The hall upstairs was dark and cool, and Jacob felt small in the space, unsure of himself.

It smelled terrible upstairs, and he was fairly certain he didn't want to know why. David's playroom had been the second room on the right, and it was to this door Matthew led him. Please stop this, brother. Jacob wasn't surprised when Matthew didn't answer. Matthew knocked softly on the door. Elsa, dear, I've brought Uncle Jake to play with David.

Elsa opened the door a moment later. Cheeks flushed. There was a new tear in her skirt. He's a little tyrant today. I think we spoil him. He deserves to be spoiled. Matthew pushed the door. open further. Inside the room, Jacob could see it was exactly how it had been left before. Toys

littered the floor, and the old rocking horse that had been in the family for generations had been pulled to the center of the room, where David liked to play on it. Elsa slid out of the room, and Jacob took half a step forward. Matthew pushed him roughly through the door, and when Jacob turned to confront him, he slammed the door. in his face. Matthew, this isn't funny. Let me out. Play with your nephew.

Go on. He's missed you. Jacob turned to the room, eyes catching on a half a dozen memories. Dust floated in the air. Unsettled from the toys and the books. But the smell here was strong and rotten. And nearly made his eyes water.

He was afraid to look. afraid of what his brother might have done or might have meant. He leaned heavily against the door. In the far corner of the room was the rocking chair where Jacob had been held as a boy, as his mother read to him, and where he had seen Elsa hold David, and where he himself had held the boy on his lap and read to him. In the slowly shifting chair was a boy, or what had been a boy.

It was dark like the ground it had been buried in and carefully redressed into one of David's brightly colored outfits. There was a great hole in the skull, and Jacob flinched. He had never seen the body. He hadn't wanted to, knowing what had happened with the carriage. Oh, God. It slipped from his mouth involuntarily. Have you? What have you done?

We prayed for him to come home. That's all. We were desperate. We kept his things the way he wanted. We were waiting. You dug up your own son. Jacob squeezed his eyes shut. Matthew, how could you?

To violate his own son's grave and dress his body up like some plaything. It was sick. His brother needed help. I did nothing. For the first time, he sounded angry. I did nothing but pray, and my prayers were answered. Please let me out of here. Come back to the city with me.

You can bring David. He always wanted to see the office where I worked. We can go together. No, David doesn't want to leave here. Not again. Matthew, he's dead. Jacob turned to face the door, shoving against it as hard as he could. Matthew had always been larger and stronger than him,

and even now, wasted as he was, he kept the door firmly shut. Matthew! Jacob paused. Behind him, something moved. He tensed, unwilling to turn around. It was only the chair coming to a stop. He couldn't make himself turn back to his desiccinct. crated nephew.

When you really pray, God hears you. He sends them back. Jacob thumped his head against the door. Please. There was a scratching sound behind him. And something cold crept up his spine. Soft, shallow breathing. A light step.

Just look at him. You'll see. Jacob stared at the door ahead of him. Uncle? It was soft and curious, David's voice. No. Did you bring me anything? Jacob's heart seized.

It sounded so much like David, though it was small and a little hollow. But... And how could he not turn to his nephew and take him in his arms? He wanted to, more than anything, but he could not make his body move. He had seen it, that empty corpse in the chair, and the thought of that dead thing moving around made him sick. He was sure that was what he would see if he turned. The thought wouldn't leave him. What Matthew had done, whatever this.

This was. It was unnatural. Matthew, what did you do? I have done nothing but love my son. We deserved to have him back. Matthew, this thing isn't your son. Jacob twisted the handle of the door uselessly. David is gone.

Or maybe you aren't my brother. Jacob recoiled. Matthew! This was madness. He should have read it in his brother's eyes and left while he still had the chance. Something touched his leg. Then fingers curling into his trousers. Jacob looked up at the ceiling, unwilling to look down at the thing that wasn't his nephew. The thing that should not be moving.

He tried to say a prayer, but it died on his tongue. Just look at him. Jacob glanced down involuntarily. There, staring up at him was his nephew's sweet face, blue-eyed and innocent as the day he had climbed into the carriage to head to the city. For the very first time before, it made his heart melt to see the boy so whole. Overwhelmed, he fell to his knees, wrapping his arms around. the boy's small and rigid body, so nice to believe it was David, that he had a second

chance at life. And why couldn't it be so? Something sharp slid hard against his ribs, and Jacob felt strangely lightheaded. He stuttered a breath against David's blonde hair, shocked at the sudden pain and the strange weight in his chest. For an instant, he had the unformed thought that if he had to pay with his life so that David could have a second chance, then he would do it. But it did not feel like a miracle when his blood ran down his leg. It felt like something small and twisted and malicious. Jacob tried to stand, but his legs were weak. He let himself fall to the floor, watching David

skipped to his rocking horse. As Jacob's eyes unfocused, it seemed to him that David was that wretched body once more, rotting hands tugging on the neck of the wooden horse. He watched his nephew play, while the world slowly went dark. Something had certainly answered his brother's prayers. I think we can all relate to that story. No, not so much about reanimated corpses and all that, but dealing with mess and clutter all around you. Things left undone.

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It can be difficult to make sense of loss and grief. Poe himself seemed obsessed with the grave and the endless hereafter. And in this tale, shared with us by author Jill Benson, we meet a man who has to ponder why he laments his late wife and what fateful missteps brought him to despair. Performing this tale are Graham Rowett and Sarah Thomas. So no matter how dreary the midnight may be, listen closely for those snuffling noises.

I buried my wife yesterday. Funny. I hardly remember the funeral. Only a handful of people at the graveside service. Myself, old Doc Edmonds and his family, Emma's sister and her son, a few folks from town. It's all a blur. I guess that's the grief. We've been married less than a year.

Now she's dead. For no reason I can really put my finger on, I feel compelled to write down the chain of events that led to her death. It must be the journalist in my life. me. Or maybe that has nothing to do with it, really, and I just need to, for my own sanity. We had moved into the old farmhouse only a couple of months ago. In fact, the third bedroom, the spare where we tended to throw everything we didn't know what to do with, still has some crates and a few trunks in it left to unpack. I look at those crates, each with a neat handwritten label showing our new address. Emma's hand. Emma had packed those crates and trunks full of

linens and old keepsakes. Who will unpack them now? They shiver. Outside, the march cold embraces our town like an icy shroud, but inside the old pot-bellied stove is fully stoked. Flames dancing, though I can't feel their warmth. It's quiet. There's that, at least. Emma had absolutely fallen in love with the house, a little farmhouse on the outskirts of town that needed a bit of fixing up. "'Hell, a lot of fixing up, but we could afford it at least. "'My job at the paper was fetching almost $75 a week. "'Not bad for a young man of only 23. "'The home had become available when a local merchant had passed from consumption.

"'Nasty business, that was. "'And his wife, unable to remarry, had gone back north to her father's home. "'The townspeople would have nothing to do with the house "'for their superstitious fear of contagion. "'But fear and superstition are common. in a small town. However, that did work to our advantage in that the price of the house was significantly under market value, and neither myself nor my new bride feared the disease. And so, I had made the down payment with a small savings I had amassed. Emma loved the high-beamed ceiling

in the great room and the delicate architecture of the archways. Even I, though acknowledging the current state of deterioration and the resulting repairs that would need to be done, admired the workmanship. Another attractive feature of the home was that it came with a bit of property, about 75 acres and all. Most of it was overgrown, and there would be much to do come spring, but Emma was so excited. Emma had grown up back east and had spent much of her girlhood in boarding schools

with only holidays and summer vacations at her family home. Those times, brief as they were, held for her pleasant memories of running and playing on the family land. We moved in on a chilly day in early November. Emma was unpacking items in the kitchen while I brought in the rest of the crates and luggage. She had unpacked the wedding picture of us not even a year old and came to me saying the perfect spot for it

was on a small inlaid shelf in the great room. I'm holding that picture now. Emma is stunning in her veiled bonnet, gloved hands holding the cascading bouquet of orchids and calillies. lilies. Her delicate form draped so elegantly in the wedding gown that her grandmother had given her. I stand beside her trying to look regal and proper, yet failing miserably. She was always so chic, and to this day I'm still not sure what she saw in a small town Midwest boy such as myself. I tilt the picture, letting the light hit it just so, and notice a long hairline crack in the glass.

I finger it briefly and wonder why Emma had not mentioned it before. It must have happened during the move, and I can only guess that she had not noticed it either. The crack runs between the two of us, splitting us apart as if the photo itself somehow knows we are no longer together. With a pain in my heart that is almost unbearable, I place the photo back on the shelf and try to ignore the sorrow such thoughts can only bring. Instead, I turn and gaze out the south-facing window and think back to the day a mere few weeks earlier when we had stumbled upon the thing.

A pile of rocks is what I thought it was. But Emma, of course, could see more. Earlier that week, I'd cleared a small portion of land behind our house to ready it for planting come spring, but beyond that lay about 50 acres of thick woods. A trail runs through part of those woods, though it is dense and overgrown, making it easy to lose your way. It had probably been a bit reckless of us to explore, but Emma was always an adventurer.

Although temperatures this time of year are usually in the 30s or 40s, we'd had a brief warm spell, and Emma had decided we would take advantage of the pleasant morning and explore the grounds and surrounding woods. We'd walked the trail, carefully stepping over fallen branches and around deadfalls, but enjoying the outdoors for about an hour, before I commented to Emma that we should head back. We had briefly lost our way twice, and I thought at best we not push our luck. We were about to do just that when Emma saw it.

She always had eyes like a hawk. A lump forms in my throat now, and I'm almost crying again. But I swallow and fall back into the memory. I smile when I think of how pretty she looked that day, standing in the dappled sunlight, the sun caressing her soft hair, making it shimmer beautifully. Look, it looks like a little stone house. I followed her gaze.

Dearest, that's just a pile of rocks. Don't be silly. She grabbed my hand, pulling me behind her as she pressed forward. In a stand of trees, partially hidden in old yellowing weeds and last year's summer brush, was indeed what looked to be a pile of rocks. Yes, the pile was a little square-shaped, and there was a jagged, narrow opening at the front, but I'll be damned if it looked like...

See? It looks like a house for little people. Ferrys, perhaps. Or elves. Santa's supposed to live at the North Pole, unless his elves have a summer place in Missouri. She ignored me. Two windows up front, a little step here. She pointed to a flat slab of rock at the front. And a door.

And look. Even a chimney. She indicated a square-shaped rock that lay awkwardly on top. Emma, it looks like a pile of rocks to me. She swatted at me playfully. You just have no imagination. She leaned down then, peering into one of the small gaps in the pile that she said looked like a window. And there's another flat rock inside.

It looks just like a tiny tiny, table. And you have a vivid imagination. I walked around to the far side of the pile and saw an old wooden sign. Someone at one time had hammered it into the ground, but it was now almost completely fallen over. I picked up the wood post, noticed it was infested with termites, and dropped it immediately, absently wiping my hand against my jacket. I found myself gazing at the sign that now lay on the ground and silently read the faded words. Then we'd be able to. Then we'd Both heard it. A loud crack, as if someone had stepped on a large branch behind us. Emma cried out in surprise, and we turned around guiltily, as if we'd been caught doing a little

more in the woods besides staring at a bunch of rocks. But there was no one there. After a moment, Emma looked back at me, her eyes bright. She touched my hand briefly in that way that always got my attention. Race you home. A few weeks passed. and then a few weeks more, and we'd forgotten all about the little stone house. The cold had once more lain hands on the earth, bringing with it a harsh chill, and leaving the land crusty with frozen morning dew. We had unpacked and put away most everything,

with the exception of the few crates still sitting in the third bedroom. I don't know why we never got around to those. It just seemed to be one of those things where we would say, Ah, we'll get to it tomorrow. Two weeks ago, Emma and I were sitting at the table eating breakfast. Black coffee, scrambled eggs and bacon for me, the bacon fatty and underdone how I like it, fruit and a glass of orange juice for her. I'd been busy with work all that week and had done little in the way of repairs to the house,

nor spend time with Emma. That was something I planned to rectify quite soon, with special emphasis on the latter. Emma looked up at me over her juice and uneaten fruit. She did not comment on the bacon like she sometimes did, nose scrunched up slightly in an air of disapproval. Instead, she ignored my meal completely and said... I hear snuffling noises in our bedroom. What?

I paused to listen. I don't hear anything. No, last night. And the night before. Snuffling. Snuffling? You mean like a clog in the ductwork somewhere? The house was mostly heated by the pot-bellied stove that sat in the great room,

but the prior owner had installed central heating a year earlier, just before he had gotten sick, apparently. I didn't know precisely how it all worked, and wasn't sure if an animal could get into the ductwork or not. I thought not, but I knew little of modern systems. No, I don't know. Maybe. To tell the truth, I was asleep, and I woke up to a sort of snuffling sound, like a dog or something was in the room with us.

We have no dog. But when I was fully awake, I realized the room was completely quiet. I thought maybe I had trumped it, but then again... Well, I said, glancing at my watch, I was running late. I didn't hear anything. It must have been a dream, don't you think? She frowned. I don't know.

I put my hand under her chin, lifting her face slightly and kissed her forehead. You're going to be all right. The office had sent a car for me, and there was no time to dawdle. I'd be leaving town for a few days to cover a story in Kansas City, but I made a silent promise to myself that when I returned, I would take some time off and spend it with Emma. She touched my arm gently. Yes.

I'm just being silly. Then she smiled at me. It touched her eyes in the way I will always remember. Her smile was one of the first things I fell in love with. That and her beautiful brown eyes. I glance once more at our wedding photo and shiver. It's cold, even with the fire. I'm still in a sort of shock, I realize,

and that's probably why I'm so cold. I hold my hands out to the wood stove and try to warm them. Three days later I came home. It was late, well past midnight, yet Emma rushed out onto the cold porch to greet me and wrapped her arms around me. We'd missed each other, of course, but I lifted her face to mine, kissed her lips, and noticed dark circles under her eyes. Emma, you've not been sleeping. Are you all right? She smiled, wanly.

I'm fine. I just missed you, that's all. She was not telling the truth. I guided her inside, and we sat for a while in each other's arms. Tell me. What is it? She slowly shook her head, then chuckled slightly. It was a disconcerting chuckle, and it frightened me in a vague and unformed way.

Emma? She looked up and met my gaze. I'm hearing things go bump in the night. Time. It's as weightless as a feather. It floats by with such stealth, then pounces at your most fragile moment as if to say, Look at me. I'm your life passing by one second at a time and you don't even notice.

When you're happy in life is good, time floats past like a child's balloon. But when things go bad, hell, when your whole world suddenly gets torn apart, time is vicious and ruthless. It stops still, then grabs you by the... neck and shakes you mercilessly, as if to throttle the life out of you, and the world as you've always known it, no longer exists. I checked the old grandfather clock in the corner. The hands haven't moved. It's as if they've been glued onto the face. I sigh deeply. It's the grief I know, but I find I can hardly remember the last few days at all. I rub a shaky hand across my brow and think I might be coming down with something.

Brief thoughts of TB enter my mind, but that's nonsense, of course. Emma's death has thrown me into a tailspin. I'm spiraling downward, falling fast towards the earth, breathless because there's no air. But I never seemed to hit the ground. I thought back to what she told me that morning at breakfast. Snuffling noises.

She'd woken up in darkness. I'd lain beside her, but never heard a thing. Then it had happened again when I was out of town. And then, she told me as we sat together on the sofa in each other's arms, again, she said. Snuffling noises. That's the only way I can think to describe it. It was dark and I could just make out the furniture in our bedroom. I saw only shadows, which I knew to be simply the armoire against the far wall and the small sewing machine next to it,

The chest of drawers, the rocking chair in the corner, there was only that sound. I knew I wasn't dreaming, and I was so afraid. The snuffling turned into a sort of low grunting noise, like I imagine large pigs might make when they're eating. Only this sound was crafty somehow. I know that doesn't make sense. I laid there, moveless in the dark, truly paralyzed. I swear, I could not move an inch to save my life. She laughed slightly.

It was a nervous laugh, and I pulled her closer to me. The room was cold. You know how cold that upstairs bedroom gets, especially at night, but my body was warm. I could feel precipitation running along my neck, down the sides of my face. I could only lay there, listening to that snuffling. Then I felt a sort of tugging at the fall. end of the bed, just the slightest bit, like something was pulling itself up by the bed covers. I squeezed my eyes shut, and after that moment I could feel the weight of it on the bed as it moved

closer towards me, and all the while making that sound, snuffling and grunting low in its throat. I tried to scream, but couldn't, and I refused to open my eyes. I knew if I opened my eyes and saw whatever was making those wet, snuffling noises, it would drive me insane. Then I heard a voice, your voice, calling to me from downstairs, and I thought, thank God you've come home early. I could no longer hear those wet snuffling sounds, and the movement in the bed stop. There was only your voice calling. Emma? Emma?

I opened my eyes. I saw nothing in the room with me, but I still felt as though it were there. It's hard to explain exactly. It was just a feeling, you know? Anyway, I found I could move again. The paralysis, or whatever it had been, was gone. I scrambled out of the bed and tripped over the footstool, the one we keep at the end of the bed, and sent it skittering across the room.

I flung our bedroom door open and leaped into the hall. I was halfway down the stairs when I saw you. And God, dear sweet Jesus, you were lying at the bottom of the stairs. Your face was horrible, contorted. The left side of your head bruised and bloodied. And in that moment, I felt sure something had happened to you in Kansas City, and she were dead. Emma, I'm fine. You see, I'm fine.

You don't need to tell me all this. You shouldn't? Yes, I do. Please, I need to tell it. I need to tell you everything. Because if I'm going mad, you need to know. We both need to know. I started to protest.

Of course she wasn't mad. She was my beautiful wife. Then I saw the cold look of determination in her eyes. And a queer sort of raw fear. And I thought, okay. Tell it if you need to. And together we'll figure this out. I squeezed her hand.

She squeezed back and then looked away, lost once more in the memory. I knew you were away, but it was so real. You can't imagine seeing you at the bottom of the stairs like that. I was suddenly busy, and for one terrifying moment, I thought I was going to tumble down those stairs. I could see myself bawling, going down end over end like some rag doll. and I imagined I would land on my husband's corpse, unable to move, my neck broken, and I would remain there until death finally came for me.

I gasped, squeezing my wife's hand. Emma, what a dreadful thought. Yes, it was. But I did not fall down the stairs. Instead, I fainted. When I woke, I was in bed again. I lay there for several moments unsure what to do. Finally, I sat up and looked around me.

It was early dawn, and I could hear birds just beginning their morning singing outside the window. I could see the stool I had stumbled over was now back at the foot of our bed, unmolested. The bedroom door closed just like it always is. Dream. Just a dream. Then I remembered the image of your lifeless body at the bottom of the stairs and thought, perhaps, I'd had a premonition. I wished so badly that you'd had the money to put in a phone. I wanted to call you to hear your voice, but I knew I must be patient and wait till you return.

My thoughts then turned once more to the snuffling noises I'd heard, and the thing I felt sure must have been in the room with me. Yet, I paused, thinking there had to be a logical explanation for all of this. Here I was, alone in a strange place, and I had to admit that so many of the night sounds here are for, into me. Instead of traffic or honking horns and the sounds of neighborhood music, we have cicadas and crickets and owls. Even the wind rustling through the trees at night is not something I'm accustomed to, as you all know. Still, I felt sure something had been in the room with me.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, and for one terrible moment, I was sure it, whatever it was was under the bed, and it would reach out its slimy, putrid hand and grab my ankle. Stop it, I told myself. Calmly, I picked up a glass of water from the night table and began to drink. I closed my eyes, letting the cool water flowed down my throat, and as my bare feet gently rested on the floor, I resisted any thought that something awful might be hiding under the bed. I didn't really feel like eating, but I went downstairs.

and made breakfast anyway. I was glad I did. The simple act of cooking calmed me, allowed me to think. My mind was turning it all over, examining it, searching for that rational explanation, and I realized I knew what it had to be. A wild animal must have accidentally gotten into the house, a raccoon or possum or woodchuck perhaps. And that animal, whatever it was, had brightened me. and in my heightened state of fear and worry for you, I had imagined hearing you and seeing you that way. Of course. It was so simple.

I wondered why I hadn't thought of it sooner. I quickly finished breakfast, then went back upstairs to search. I remember getting down on my hands and knees to look under the bed, and just as I was lifting the skirting, part of my mind wanted to cry out, no, it's hiding under the bed. And it's not just some animal. something horrible.

But there was nothing. I looked in the closet, under the night tables, behind the armour and the chest of drawers, behind the heavy drapes. I looked everywhere, but there was no sign. And I thought whatever it was,

and however it had come in, it must have found its way back outside. But I could not sleep in the bedroom again. Not until you returned, and we figured out what it was. Nor could I have returned at the stairwell where I had seen your board. broken and bleeding body so vividly.

In fact, I avoided that part of the house altogether, choosing to sleep right here in the parlor. At first, it was all right. There were no sounds in the night. But then, oh, dear God, last night. Emma, I'm so sorry. I would never have gone if I had known. But she pushed me away, stood and went to the window that overlooked the cleared land at the back of the house and the woods beyond. She simply gazed out into the darkness for several moments

before turning back to me. And when she did, her beautiful brown eyes seemed almost black, startling me. I swallowed then, my mouth and lips suddenly dry and thought, no, you're not mad. Please no. She continued. I listened. I was asleep on the sofa, right where you're sitting now. I was dreaming about you, and I dreamed, I dreamed you were at the bottom of the stairs. You were dead,

and I had killed you. I heard then a loud crash, and it jolted me awake. I felt certain the grandfather clock had somehow tumbled from its place in the corner. The crash was that jarring, but it stood firm and sturdy as ever. I pinched myself to be certain,

but I knew I was awake. I knew it. I sat there for several moments and then heard quite distinctly the door to our upstairs bedroom open. You know how it sounds, the way it creaks, especially when you're trying to push it open slowly. And then a sobbed patter of footsteps, bare feet running down the stairs. I reached over and snapped on the lamp. And as I sat there, looking at the closed door to the hallway and the stairs beyond, I knew that whatever had come down those stairs was now on the other side of that door,

and then I heard movement against the door. Rubbing sounds, scratching sounds, as if whatever was on the other side needed to learn how to open the door. After a moment it stopped, and there was only silence. I could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock and the loud thumping of my heart. Then the handle turned, and the door opened. and the door opened and

it was you standing in the doorway it was you and you opened your mouth and dirt and worms and old leaves fell out and you began to chant feed it

feed it we have to feed it feed it feed it have to I opened my eyes and it was morning alone she paused in her story

and I remained seated immobile. And dare I admit it? Frightened myself. Yet her story was simply unbelievable. I spoke to her then. My words, sensible. My voice, neutral. Well, there you see. It was just a nightmare after all. Indeed, a terrible one, the worst I've ever heard, but still... No! No, it wasn't. It... Whatever it is, it wants me to think. it was a nightmare. Don't you see? It wants to hurt us. And it wants me to hurt you. Of course, it had to have been a nightmare. There was no other explanation. That night, I finally persuaded her to sleep in the bedroom with me. I assured her that now that I was home,

she would be safe. And if there was something in the house, I indulged her only a little, well, I would be there to protect her. And whatever stress or worry that might be causing this, If she had the nightmare again, I would be there to wake her. We slept together in the bedroom. We left the light on, for Emma's sake more than my own, and I held her tightly to me. After a while, I dozed. Then, in the middle of the night, I was jolted awake.

I think it was the lights, really, the bedroom lights. We had left them on, but I woke only to shadows and... Noises. As if a large dog. had somehow gotten into the room. I turned towards the sound of that noise. I turned towards Emma and... Dear God, what I was seeing in the dimly lit room could not have been real.

It was as if everything I'd ever known. Everything I'd ever believed in had been flipped upside down. Emma was lying flat on her back, eyes wide open and... Terrible. Those beautiful brown eyes had always known and loved were now large, black, gaping. things, bulging as if they might burst from their sockets at any moment. And something was sitting on her chest, something unimaginable. Whatever it was, it just wanted to...

To eat. I don't know how I knew that, but I did. It wanted to eat. I reached out to grab the hideous thing, to, I don't know, punch it away, I guess. Something. But I could not move. I could only want. watch as the thing crouched on her chest.

And I realized then that it was squeezing the breath out of her. It was trying to kill her. Perhaps because she would not do what it wanted her to do. Or, I considered, perhaps it was because we had not done what we should have done. There was no way to be sure. Is it possible to faint in the middle of a nightmare? I don't know.

I only know that I woke some time later and felt relief pour over me. The lights were on as we had left them. It had only been a bad dream. Emma's story had affected me more than I thought it would. That was all. I turned to her, and she was on her side. Her back to me. I gently touched her shoulder and rolled her over.

My body went numb. So complete was my horror that for the second time that night, I was paralyzed. I could not move. I could only stare into the gas. face of my dead wife. This morning, I made breakfast. Scramble eggs, bacon, fatty, the way I like it, and toast. But I couldn't eat it, not any of it. And I thought of the thing that had been sitting on Emma's chest, like a crouching shadow. I thought about it as I walked out to the woods behind the

field, the plate with the uneaten breakfast in one hand, raw, fatty bacon. And I stood in front of pile of rocks. And looking at it, I realized Emma had been right. It really was like a little stone house. I set the tin plate on the ground and began removing a few rocks that had fallen and covered the opening. Soon I found myself gazing into the tiny gap. I thought if I really let my imagination run loose for just a moment, I could visualize that

the flat stone that lay in the center of that small enclosure really could be a a miniature table or an altar, a stone altar, in the march cold. I crouched down and slid the plate through the narrow opening. I'm not sure why I did it, but I think it was the sign, really, that old termite-infested sign and some vague, indistinct hope. For a happy home, feed the troll. I recalled an old story my grandmother had once called me, Something the old-timers used to say.

Build a stone house for the troll. Feed it each winter, and it will protect you and your home. Don't feed it, and it will come into your house and take the thing that is most precious to you. Tonight I lay on the parlor sofa with the light on. I tried sleeping in our bedroom, but I woke up in the middle of the night from some horrible, half-remembered nightmare, sliding the plate of food through that slot in the pot. pile of rocks, and a hand, small and dirty, but strong, reaches out and grabs me by the wrist, and I think, too late. I'm too late. A nightmare. Only a nightmare. I try to shake the dream,

but even now, with all the lights on, I can't sleep. I look down at my hands. The dirt still caked between my fingers and underneath my nails from that awful troll house. And something else. There's a dirty smudge around my wrist. The smudge is small, with distinct little streaks, as if made by tiny fingers. And I find that I've never been more terrified in my entire life. Upstairs. Coming from our bedroom, I hear snuffling noises.

I have dispersed this night. Poetic works from darkness alight. We leave you with this a question on a theme. Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream? 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 Ollie White.

Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. Please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com for show notes and more details about the people who bring you this show. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for being a supportive season pass member and for joining us within the exquisite horror of our reality. This audio program is copyright 2023 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.