The NoSleep Podcast - S19 Ep17: NoSleep Podcast S19E17

Episode Date: May 28, 2023

It’s Episode 17 of Season 19. We ponder weak and weary with tales about family frights.“Sweet Winds” written by Winona L. (Story starts around 00:04:25)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Lola – Tanja Milojevic, Mira – Kristen DiMercurio“The Pig” written by Thomas LaPorte (Story starts around 00:31:25)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Kyle Akers, Morgana – Nikolle Doolin, Emelia – Nichole Goodnight“Heirloom” written by Caleb Clark (Story starts around 00:34:50)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Linsay Rousseau, Father – Mike DelGaudio, Voice – David Cummings“A Hunter’s Tale” written by Pearl Dublin (Story starts around 01:03:30)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Matthew Bradford, Uncle Joe – Dan Zappulla, Voice – Matthew Bradford“From the Red Dirt” written by LP Hernandez (Story starts around 01:20:40)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Joseph – Jeff Clement, Mama – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Grampa – Jesse Cornett, Jessie – Mary Murphy, Tramp – Graham Rowat, Long Jake – Elie HirschmanClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about the Astonishing Legends podcastClick here to learn more about Winona L.Click here to learn more about Thomas LaPorteClick here to learn more about Caleb ClarClick here to learn more about LP HernandezExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“From the Red Dirt” illustration courtesy of Emily CannonAudio 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.

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. Our sleepless tales for you in store, and the terror shall be lifted. Brace yourself for the no sleep. Welcome to the No Sleep podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. If you're a writer, a crafter of words, a person who conjures stories from your mind onto the page,

then you've likely heard one of the cardinal rules of writing. Write what you know. That is, write about things you know about or have experienced. And if you're a horror writer, well, may God have mercy on your soul. but also you'll know about the cardinal rule of horror writing. Write about what scares you. So you're to combine the things you know with the things that scare you. Is it any wonder why so many horror stories involve family members doing weird, creepy, harmful, or downright awful things?

Most of us have families, so we have parents or siblings or children in our life, and when it comes to being scared by them, well, that can take on many different forms. Whether your family members are trying to harm you, or whether you're terrified of something doing harm to them, horror is ripe for tales involving our family and the darkness found within or without. In this episode, we're presenting tales with a familiar and familial premise. And if you know the writing of Edgar Allan Poe, you'll no doubt be familiar with one of his best-known tales, the fall of the House of Usher. And as an aside, I hope you're like me and anxiously awaiting the next to the next.

Netflix series of the same name, created by our friend Mike Flanagan, and starring honorary no-sleepers, Kate Siegel and Samantha Sloyan, among many other stars. It'll be coming out a little later in the year, so consider this a wetting of the appetite, so to speak. The story is about a man who visits the Usher Mansion, old and crumbling, to discover therein Roderic Usher, a frail and timid man. He lives there with his infirmed sister, Madeline. We learn that Roderick fears the demise of himself, his family line, and the Usher estate itself upon his passing. Here's a short passage which outlines Usher's melancholy. He admitted, however, although with hesitation, that much of the peculiar gloom which thus afflicted him

could be traced to a more natural and far more palpable origin, to the severe and long-continued illness, indeed to the evidently approaching dissolution of a tenderly beloved sister. his sole companion for long years, his last and only relative on earth. Her decease, he said, with a bitterness which I can never forget, would leave him, him the hopeless and the frail, the last of the ancient race of the ushers. Yes, family bonds can be ones which strengthen and uphold us, but they can also bind us and force us to suffer a loss of self.

Truly a fertile ground for inspiring horror. And now, our tales come to you upon a midnight dreary. Best not to ponder them while weak and weary. In our first tale, we meet two sisters. The younger sister used to tease her older sister because she was afraid of something quite uncommon. The Wind. And in this tale, shared with us by author Winona L.

In order to understand this strange phobia, the younger sister decides to ask what caused this paralyzing fear. Performing this tale are Tanya Milosovich and Kristen DiMakurio. So understand that most phobias are not trivial or the source of teasing, even if the fear is caused by sweet winds. My older sister Mira hates windy days. Not just windy days, really. She hates any kind of rapid change in weather. It happens at every outdoor event we've ever attended together. As soon as a light breeze picks up, she's out of there, and she'll drag any person in the vicinity with her to escape from whatever threat she sees or senses in the air.

She's a grown woman that's married with two kids, but the second she notices a pile of leaves getting picked up and twirled around in the air, she acts like it's a portal to hell about to open up. I used to make fun of her for it. Just some light teasing and jokes about how she can see things the rest of us can't. But last week, my brother Tommy pulled me aside at the family cookout and asked me to take it easy on Mira. She's been through some traumatic stuff, he said.

I had smirked when he said that. Sure that he was just playing one of his usual tricks on me. But the serious look on his face drained any lightness from the conversation. Naturally, I was curious. Despite Tommy's urging that I leave the subject alone, I went to ask Mira about it. Mira's always been protective of me. She's protective of everyone, to be honest. It's just the way she is.

She was 15 years old when I was born. So I often find myself thinking of her as more of a mother figure than a sister. Our parents were away a lot during my childhood. They had migrated back to their own parents' home country while they left us with our grandmother, hoping that we'd have a much easier upbringing. I still don't know if they made the right call. When I asked Nira what Tommy had meant about her wind-related trauma, I wasn't sure what I expected her to say.

Perhaps something about a tornado or a hurricane or some other bizarre weather event that had managed to turn her into the uptight summer breeze hater that she is now, the story she told me was, well, it might be best if I love. let her tell it in her own words. I recorded our conversation, with her permission, of course. Here's how it went. Of course you wouldn't remember. You were too young.

You have to understand, Lola, there were things happening back then. Horrible things. It was 1992, the summer I graduated from high school. And children were disappearing, vanishing without a trace. No evidence, no leads. Just gone. Sure, the police investigated, if you can even call it that. Most of the kids were older, so they chalked it up to unruly teens running away in search of adventure.

Things were different then. This was before Amber alerts and people actually giving a fuck about kids. They just assumed they were runaways half the time. Plus, most of the kids were black or brown or dirt poor or from immigrant families. Why would anyone kidnap a child whose parents can't pay? a ransom, right? I remember that day, so vividly, every second of it. It was hot, burning hot, easily 110 degrees. Granny bought her house in an up-and-coming neighborhood in the late 60s, a down payment from the insurance payout after Grandpa's fatal accident at the sugar refinery.

She had a pool. I don't know if you remember it. Her house was on a small hill that dipped down green and steep. From the yard, you could see the sugar cane plantation. I'd never seen anyone go in there before. No farmers, no machinery, nobody. The sugar canes were just there, like there had never been a time when they hadn't existed. And beyond them, on the other side, was a vast forest,

a thick grove of beach and sycamore. Oh, it was hot. So hot. We were outside, and I was supposed to be watching you and Tommy, while Granny took her afternoon nap. She was an ornery, old lady, always cranky if she didn't get her rest.

You were playing down by the grass. You had this new plastic bubble blower that I'd got you for your third birthday. You loved that toy. You'd entertain yourself for hours with it, running around and giggling as you chased after your bubbles. I wanted to go inside. The sun was baking us alive,

and I just wanted to sit in front of the metal fan in the living room and let it blow air through my hair like I was in a drop-top Cadillac, speeding down the highway with my girlfriends. But you wanted to play, and I wasn't about to risk you throwing a tantrum about your playtime being cut short. That would wait Granny of.

So I settled down on the wicker lawn chairs with a magazine until Tommy decided to splash me. I dropped my magazine, scowling at the shit-eating grin on that boy's face. We were always pranking each other like that. Tom was a lonely kid, and I guess I was one too. I had friends.

Hell, I was what you would consider popular in high school, but I still felt like nobody knew me or got me or really understood me the way Tommy did. So I stood up and splashed him back. We play fought like that until I was so drenched I'd just dove into the pool fully clothed. I loved being down in the water. I'd swim down and press my palms against the cool, blue, tiles, letting my hair fan around me like the snakes of Medusa. It was calm down there. All the sounds are muted and you get to just hide yourself away for a little while. That sounds really nice.

I don't remember that pool. That doesn't surprise me. Granny had it filled in and covered with concrete that fall. Why? I don't know. Should I continue my story? Right. Yes. I'm sorry. What happened next? We swam for a short while, half-heartedly splashing each other. It can't have been more than five minutes, ten minutes, tops. We were supposed to be watching you. I don't know. I thought if anything happened like you fell or hurt yourself, you'd cry out and we'd hear you, but... But... I got out of the pool and lay down on one of the lounge chairs. I could feel the sun baking my clothes dry already. I planned to nap out there until we could go back inside, but pretty... much the moment I closed my eyes. I jerked back up. I realized it was silent. Tommy noticed it

a split second after I did. Where's Lola? I asked him. He stared back at me, eyes wide. I half ran and half leaped to where you had been. Your bubble blower was lying, discarded on the grass. All I could feel was panic. Panic and fear. Tommy was whimpering, muttering about how you had just been there, you couldn't have just vanished. That was when the breeze began to pick up. I swayed a little as it blew, scanning the empty yard. The wind was blowing in a single direction,

turning my body towards the slope of the hill. Fear. I swear something whispered, fear into my ears. The wind was nudging me towards the fence, across the stretch of dirt, through the sugar cane plantation, and into the forest behind it

that stretched for miles and miles. It wouldn't stop until I began, began to move in the right direction. I couldn't even think. My feet carried me towards the fence. I walked backward, unsure of what was taking control of my body. Tommy was shaking, staring at me with his mouth open. His gaze flitted between me and the screen door leading to the kitchen.

I was halfway to the fence when he let out a sob and yelled my name. Mira, Mira, what are you? We have to get Granny, he said. I ran back to him. regaining control as soon as I heard the crack in his voice. He was squeaking like a toy rabbit, chest heaving and tears beginning to gather in his eyes. He turned and began to run towards the kitchen, but I was faster than him. I tackled him to the ground.

He scooted back, terror in his eyes. He cursed at me. Are you fucking insane? he said. He'd never cursed in front of me before. I don't think he'd ever said that word out loud in his life, but it seemed as good a time as any. to graduate to big kid words. He said we needed to call the police. You'd disappeared.

Just a baby. We had to call the police. I touched a finger to my temple. I felt a migraine forming behind my eyes. This was all my fault. I was supposed to be watching you both, and I let myself get distracted. I took him into my arms,

pushing him down to the grass as I held him, resting my chin on top of his head. I whispered empty, comforting words to him, inhaling the scent of pool water and soap and the coconut castor oil blend Granny had massaged into his scalp the night before. Beneath it was the classic scent of a 13-year-old boy and the stink of fear.

Stay here, Tommy, I told him. Don't move. I'll bring Lola home. I'll be right back. I'll be right back. I don't know why I was so sure that you had disappeared into the sugar cane. I just knew.

I knew it from the secrets the wind whispered. to me. It was blowing violently now, twirling clumps of dead grass and straight leaves in miniature tornadoes around us. Tommy stared blankly, blinking at me. Then he nodded. He let his body fall limply onto the grass, his gangly legs folding beneath him. I turned and ran before he could change his mind. Once I got to the bottom of the yard, I scaled the fence. I had done this a couple of times before. I used to sneak out of my bedroom window to drink cheap beer and smoke pot with with some kids from town in the back of somebody's pickup truck. But it hadn't been a graceful operation under the cover of darkness, and the bright afternoon sun didn't lend me any assistance.

I landed hard on my hands and knees, shaking the tension out of my limbs with a few rapid movements. There was no way a toddler could get out of that backyard, not without help. But I refused to let that thought grow any further. You were just taking a poorly, timed adventure, I told myself. The breeze steered me towards the crop line. There was a sign painted on a plank of wood. Tresspassers will be prosecuted. I elected to ignore it. I slipped under the rope fencing and ducked into the thick foliage. The plants were tall, much taller than me. The biggest ones were probably nearing 15 or 20 feet. I tried my best to clear a path through the sugar canes, holding my arms out in front of me and calling out for you. Lo!

Lola, Lola, baby, where are you? I'd cry, heart-pounding as I paused to wait for a response, but I heard nothing. The wind had stilled by now, and the humid air pressed down on me like a heavy quilt. After a few minutes of this, I paused by a particularly dense cluster of sugarcane's, wiping sweat from my forehead and fanning myself uselessly with one hand. Something compelled me to look down at the earth, an old, dirty metal thing, lay abandoned at the base of the crop. I kicked at it with my bare foot, unsure of what it was. The fact that I'd forgotten my sandals by the pool didn't bother me.

I had never been one to shy away from nature, but something about that object left me feeling uneasy from the moment that it came into contact with my skin, and yet I bent and picked it up, ignoring every alarm bell going off in my head. It was a compulsion, something far beyond my control. I turned it over in my hands, examining it as the cool metal sent a shiver through me. It was a firelighter. Lord knows what a lighter was doing laying abandoned in a sugarcane field. There was something engraved into the side of it.

But the damn thing was so dirty I couldn't make out what it said. Somehow, the wheels still functioned, so I rolled it and pressed down on the ignition. Nothing happened. I tried it a couple of times, still nothing. Lola, are you listening? Yes, of course. I lifted it to my ear and shook it. No sound.

Do you understand what I was saying? It was empty? Yes, it was empty, no fuel in it. The lighter didn't work. I assumed that was why somebody had dumped it there, so I didn't. the same. I tossed it aside and continued, forcing my feet forward. I walked for a while, pushing fronds out of my face and calling out for you. I was close to panicking again by then. The plantation seemed to be never ending. I felt like I must have reached the other side of it by then.

Every direction I turned looked the same. The wind was starting up again. I could hear it whistling through the tops of the trees. The sweet, grassy fragrance of the sugar cane had started to make me feel sick. I crouched down, lowering my head between my knees, breathing deeply to ward off nausea. It didn't work. I yelled out in frustration, but my voice didn't travel very far. I let myself fall on my bottom, staring up at the stalks of sugar cane swaying in the breeze. The sweet scent was getting stronger. All I could think about were all the summers I spent in. as a kid, chewing on chopped up chunks of the very plants, closing in on me at that moment, forming a natural prison. I was suddenly very aware of my own thirst.

Every mouthful of air was so sweet. A sickly, smoky, acrid kind of sweet. The sky was darkening, from a gentle blue to an alarming dark gray. The longer I looked at it, the more it began to look like smoke. Something was burning. Burning, but the lighter. The lighter was empty, I told you that. I know, but what else could have started a fire so quickly? I don't know, but whatever it was, it was heading directly for me.

I couldn't see the flames just yet, but I could hear them, smell them too. Crackling heat, sticky sweet. I backed away from the sound, toppling over sugar canes in my path. I scrambled over them backward like a tarantula until I regained enough balance to stand up. My senses were working on overdrive. I looked this way and that, footstands ready for takeoff. But I paused. Three things were going through my mind at that moment.

The first was a string of profanities, cursing every hand that had weaved the web of fate to land me in this position. The second was instinctual. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. I had to run. I knew I had to get out of there. Fast. But my strongest thought was of you, Lola.

What if you were in there with me? What if you were in there with me lost between endless rows of vegetation completely oblivious to the flames closing in on us? I couldn't leave without knowing you were safe. What kind of person would that make me? I don't think anybody would have blamed you for trying to save yourself.

I mean it. You must have been terrified. You wouldn't have been able to keep me safe if you were dead. And how could I have lived with my life? if I had run away. How could I live knowing I was so close to saving you, but I gave up and selfishly chose to save myself instead? No. I guess it's a pointless debate. You're here telling this story to me. Even if I don't remember any of this we both survived, I know how this story ends. No, you don't. The story isn't over yet. I wouldn't leave without you,

so I turned and ran, horizontal to the direction of the fire, praying that it wouldn't extend along the entire length of the plantation. I screamed your name, despite my cracked voice and drying throat as the tendrils of smoke approached. Pretty soon I had no choice but to slow to a walk, stumbling and coughing, wishing I had a machete or even a goddamn pocketknife, anything to cut the plants down with. I nearly tripped at the sound of my name. At first I thought it was the wind, toying with me again, but the voice was unmistakably childlike. I screamed your name again.

legs pumping as I ran towards your response. The sound of you calling out to me was coming from my left, away from the fire. I could have cried in relief. I screamed out our call and response as I ran until my throat was scratched raw, and my words came out muted and hoarse. Hope kept me pushing. I tried to tune my ears to pick out any sound that wasn't the overbearing crackling of flames. I couldn't even feel the heat anymore.

After a few moments, all I could feel and hear were my bare feet hitting the ground and the pounding of my own heart. I kept running towards where I had last heard you cry my name, faster than I'd ever run before. I swore I could have taken flight. I prayed, silently begging God to forgive me for whatever transgressions I had committed to deserve this, pleading that he spare you and take me instead, bargaining that I would devote my entire life to him should he grant me this one request. The wind had picked up once more, roaring loudly around my ears amidst the sounds of crying in the distance. I just whimpered. I felt no pain.

Only fear. No heat. Just fear. I could hear the flames pursuing me. The rush and crackle of the wind and the embers and the smell of the charred sugar. But I felt? Nothing. Physically, nothing.

Nothing but the ground beneath me and the plants surrounding me. I turned my head to take a peek, hoping to find a fair distance between myself and the fire. But as I did so, my eyes stared into pitch black. Nothing. Behind me was an empty nothing. No fire, no light, no forest. Nothing. I fell out of the plantation, landing on my back and gasping for air.

I blinked stupidly. I stared up at the clear blue sky, breathing hard and shallow. trying to comprehend what I had just seen, or rather not seen. It was quiet, apart from a light breeze, no smoke, no flames, no trace of evidence of what I had just experienced. It made no sense. I crawled backward, staring into the menacing gaps between the sugar cane, terrified of what could possibly be in there,

or what could be controlling it. The dry grass crunched underneath my body. but I was shaking too much to stand up. I backed away from the plantation without looking away from it, until my hand touched something cold and wet. I thought it may have been mud or a puddle of water

until I moved to wipe my hands on my linen shorts and they left a dark red smear. The blood was beginning to coagulate. Reams of it, coated the grass and splatters of it decorated the circle of trees up ahead. At the base of the biggest tree was a figure. the size of a small child.

It was being held up by something. I don't know what, but the moment I stood up and moved towards it, I felt ice running along my spine. It had your face, Lola. Your eyes, they were open, glassy, and staring straight ahead. Blood dripped from it. Your head, your hands, your limbs, your dress was soaked with it. It seemed like there was too much blood that could have fit inside,

your tiny body, and yet somehow I knew it was yours, that the child hanging from the tree was you. But that's not possible. My legs gave out beneath me. I fell to my knees, unable to scream or cry. I just stared and wrung my hands together. Something behind the tree was approaching. The, I don't know what to call it.

It wasn't human. It wasn't a person. It looked like one almost in a way that I can't quite. describe. The face was wrong, blank. Its limbs were long and lithe. It tore through the strings that were attaching you to the tree. I couldn't move. Even if I could move, I don't think I would have figured out where to go or what to do. It laid the body down in front of me, and then it whispered something in my ear. After it spoke, it touched a disgusting, bloody, finger to my forehead. Pain erupted from the spot it touched me, and I think I must have blacked out.

It was dark when I came to. I was back at Granny's house, lying on the cool concrete tiles next to the pool. A police officer was shining a flashlight in my eyes, and I squinted up at him. There were more officers around. They asked how I could be covered in so much blood when the only injuries they could find on me were shallow scratches and cuts, and a strange, circular burn. on my forehead. I took a deep breath and chewed on my lip. Unsure how I could rationalize

what I had seen, how I would explain what had happened to you. But before I could say anything, Granny emerged from the house, Tommy in tow. She shouted for the cops to stop crowding me,

waving one-handed them and carefully bouncing the toddler on her hip. There you were, Lola. You were exhausted, eyes barely able to stay open. but you were alive. I was basically babbling, completely incoherent at that point.

I was in disbelief how my sister could be here, completely unharmed, when I had held her cold, dead body in my arms what felt like seconds earlier. But I was fine. You were perfectly fine. Not a mark or a single speck of dirt on you. The police explained that they had found both of us near the plantation fence, on the side closest to the house. I was unconscious and you were just sitting next to me, staring into space.

I didn't want them to call the men in the white coats to take me away, so I just accepted that you must have run off, and I must have hit my head trying to go after you. But sometimes I can still hear the voice on the wind, and I just... What did the being say to you before you lost consciousness? Does it matter? What did it say, Mira? Tell me. In this horrible, icy voice, it said, very few come this far to reclaim their young.

I am sorry that it is too late. It is only fair that I send you back with one of ours. Children are a delight, aren't they? No, seriously, I'm asking, are they? I don't have kids, and the ones I've met are rarely a delight. and when it comes to their imaginary friends, oh, yeah, the potential for creepiness is unlimited. And in this tale, shared with us by author Thomas Laporte,

we meet a mom and her young daughter who has a rather disturbing imaginary friend. Performing this tale are Kyle Akers, Nicole Doolin, and Nicole Goodnight. So hopefully your kids stick to normal, fanciful friends. Anything would be better than. The pig. Good night, Amelia. Sleep well.

Dream well. Morgana lifts the covers to her daughter's shoulders. Loink, wink, it's time to call the pig. Amelia yawns, turning on her side. Her bed creaks as she shifts. That's right, baby. Morgana leans over and kisses Amelia. You get to spend time with your imaginary pig.

I missed my pig, mommy. He hasn't shown up the last few nights. Well, if you wish hard enough, he'll come to you in your dreams. I'm sure of it. Tonight is the night for the pig. I hope so, Mommy, I miss Piggy. He's always so funny, and he gives the greatest hugs. Good night, Amelia.

Sleep well. Morgana hits the light switch and closes the door. She heads down a spiral stairwell and enters her kitchen. And as she fixes herself a cup of tea, she pauses, thinking lightly of the pig. Why a pig? And what is Amelia's fixation with the pig? They're ugly, after all. Morgana, mixing milk in her drink, feels a chill down her spine,

devastated by a sudden realization. For when she was a child, she too saw animals. Boris the boar. Henry the hyena, Matilda the mongoose. But they were more than just animals, especially Boris. That's what her mother shrieked. That's what a priest established. they were all more.

As Morgana reminisces about the conjurings of her childhood, a familiar sound pulls her from thought, the squeal of a pig. Amelia's mother scurries up the spiral stairs. She knows everything about the pig is wrong. Pigs don't visit at night. They're not nocturnal creatures. And when was the last time she saw a pig give a hug?

Nonsense. The cycle is repeating itself. She bursts open Amelia's bedroom door and turns on the lights to see her daughter sitting up in bed. The pig is here, mommy. The pig is here. When it comes to combining horror with family relationships, it should go without saying that the most disturbing premise is that of the abuse that exists within families. And abuse in the form of physical violence is something that no amount of societal disapproval can quell.

And in this tale, shared with us by author Caleb Clark, A woman describes her father's obsessions with a particular family treasure with a sinister history and how it led to his undoing. Performing this dark tale are Lindsay Russo and Mike Delgado. So know when it's time to end certain family traditions. Sometimes you need to destroy an heirloom. No one expected father to murder my family. By all accounts, he was a number.

an honest man who loved his family, worked hard, and had a heart of gold. When they interviewed his colleagues, they said he always wore a smile that lit up the room. I answered those questions in the same way. Those were lies, of course, because when he came home, that smile never came with him. His face was always set in a scowl, his jaw always locked. My father was a very unhappy man. No, he was more than that. The things I saw him do, the things he would say to me, were wholly unnatural.

My father, I think, was not really a man at all. Not at the end, at least. Not after what he'd seen and spoken to. Father was a hoarder. At least that's what my mother called him. He compelled himself to hold on to nearly everything he came to own. He packed his toolbox full with bent and misshapen tools, promising himself he would find a way to fix them.

The garage brimmed with air conditioners, lawnmowers, and household appliances he wanted to repair. The attic was stacked with boxes filled with photographs and letters, some from past girlfriends, others from family members, and others so faded you couldn't tell who they were from. The family heirlooms were the worst, though. He didn't just hold on to them.

He defended them. They weren't just possessions to him. To my father, these old objects were almost people with histories and feelings of their own. He and mother would fight over them constantly, but none were worse than the fights over the whipping board. The whipping board was a long, flat plank of oak that ended with a thin handle. It had been part of my father's family for three generations and was the centerpiece of corporal punishment for them. My father recounted tales of his father using it on them constantly. In one instance, when he turned it on his wife,

he would usually tell these stories with a smile, as if there was a punchline to them that never came. Whenever we didn't laugh or not in agreement, his mood would sour and his face would drop. Well, he deserved it. The whipping board hung over our fireplace. Father never used it on us, not until the end. He would threaten it, though,

and he would remind us how lucky we were that he didn't use it. mother hated it. For one, the whipping board was hideous with the wood rotting and chipping away. Secondly, she didn't like what it represented. Mother felt corporal punishment damaged kids in a way that could never be fixed, and she didn't like this violent thing looming, quite literally, over her daughter's heads. One day, Mother tried to put it away. She didn't throw it away, mind you.

She just simply put it in a box upstairs with all the other heirlooms. When father came home and saw the board missing from the mantle, he would have thought someone had snuck in and murdered the whole family. He was belligerent, red in the face, and flipped between weeping hysteria and thrashing anger. Mother told him to calm down. It was just in a box upstairs, and there was nothing to worry about. He told her he wanted it right where he left it,

that putting it in a box was wrong. That's my childhood you're putting away. You're trying to box up my whole life. After more heated yelling, Mother finally went and pulled the whipping board from the attic. When she showed it to Father, he jerked it from her hands and clutched it to his chest. She told him to put it wherever he wanted, and he told her he would keep it down. If she wasn't going to respect it or him, he would put it somewhere proper. He stormed out to the garage with it, and that was the last anyone, except for me, ever saw of it until the end.

Father's strange behavior didn't just surround the whipping board. It also related to a particular screwdriver in his toolbox. The paint on the handle had chipped away long ago, showing the aged wood beneath. The iron itself was coated with something brown. When I first saw it, I thought it was rust. The substance flaked off too easily. You know what that is, right? No, it's not rust, is it?

No, it's not rust. That screwdriver belonged to my great uncle. He was a real son of a bitch. Worst than my dad ever was. I remember my father saying similar things. He always talked about how brutal his father was, but for all his savagery, he was never the worst. It was always his uncle or his grandfather,

but never his father. The others were cruel and vicious. But his father only dished out what others deserved, even when it ended in death. Mason was a hard man And he worked hard fixing all the equipment for the farmers in his county After granddad hung himself, Mason became even crueler At least that's what dad said

He had a boy named Jeremy And he couldn't have been any older than you when this happened Jeremy was working in the garage with his dad tuning up some neighbor's tractor or something Mason's there and he's cussing up a storm cursing this And he's cursing that So he tells Jeremy to get that screwdriver right there So Jeremy runs over to the toolbox to grab it

And when he turned around, though, the boy tripped over his shoe and fell forward, and he drops the screwdriver, slides across the ground, and he lands at Mason's feet. Well, Mason turns from the tractor and he sees this screwdriver lying there on the ground. And his face twists into a snarl, and he scoops it up, and he storms over to his son, and he cracks it over his head. Right here. My father ran a finger over his right eyebrow. Busted it right up. Mason told Jeremy that if he's going to break his shit, then he's going to go buy his old man some new tools,

and they're not going to be cheap. And he shoves that screwdriver in the boy's hand and tells him, hang on to it. Mason didn't care about Jeremy crying, and he didn't care about the blood running down the boy's face. Father stepped closer to me. I wanted to step away from him, but I held my place. Well, Jeremy decides his old man needs that screwdriver at that very moment.

and while Mason's back is turned, he pushes that screwdriver right here. Father turned and tapped his fingers on the soft base of his skull. It went right through. He killed Mason on the spot. They charged Jeremy as an adult, and he gets killed in a gang fight in prison probably five years after he's convicted. I looked down at the broken flakes on the screwdriver and wondered if it had ever been cleaned. Father's hand snapped out, and he locked his fingers around my wrist. I stared up at him.

His face was right next to mine. There was something wild in his eyes. Oh, and I know you'd love nothing more than to put that thing right through my skull. I never put a hand on you, girls, not once. You're lucky. You never had to deal with Mason or my dad or, God forbid, my granddad. You all would never last with them, and they'd never give you a chance to do it. Father blinked, and that wild look drained from his eyes.

He looked down at my trembling hands and saw his fingers clenching my wrist. He let go, but the skin was red and raw where he had been holding on. He stood there, staring at the marks for a long time before turning and mumbling something to himself. All of these things occurred when he was still normal. Things began to change, though, when the dreams began. At first they were harmless things. They were things any normal teenage girl had nightmares about. Embarrassing happenstance in front of classmates, arguing with parents, things of that nature.

Sometimes they would have a frightening supernatural element, like the sensation of some unknowing things standing over your bed, watching as you slept. These weren't uncommon, though. Everyone had dreams like that. Mine were not dreams. I woke up to find what stood over me. The thing was short and stood towards the side of my side of my life. my bed, near to the door leading to the hallway. Its face was paper white and illuminated by some

unearthly light. Thick black globs ran from its nose in the corners of its eyes. Its nose twisted to one side, and one side of its face was puffy and swollen. When I looked into its milky eyes, it smiled, and in its mouth were more globs of black blood oozing between large gaps where teeth were supposed to be. I wanted to scream and jerk away. from this dead thing in front of me, but I couldn't move. Its hollow gaze had locked me in place. My throat swelled as I choked on the air trying to rush from my lungs, and I could only sit there and behold this horrid thing. As my fear subsided to the rush of adrenaline, I saw that this undead creature was a little boy. He couldn't be more than five or six. There was no malice in his

eyes, though there was no life either. The dead boy waved a clammy hand in the air and hobble. to the door. He turned back to me, still lying in bed, before waving again and wobbling on his decaying legs out the door. I don't know if it was fear or curiosity that pushed me out of bed, but I did follow. I felt like I was floating, as if my mind were suspended in mid-air and drifting through the interior of my house. Yet I could feel the hardwood floors creaked gently beneath my feet. I felt the smooth, varnished finish of the wood give way to the icy roughness of the concrete in the garage. The dead boy hobbled in front of me, leading me through a maze of boxes and gardening equipment. We came upon what looked like a shrine in the far corner of the garage.

On the ground near the wall was the whipping board, with two lit candles sitting at either end of it. On the wall was a picture of my grandfather. His expression was hard and stoic. just as I remembered him. Lastly, on the floor in front of the whipping gourd, was a box of old letters. The dead boy raised a fetid hand toward the box, grunted and nodded its head. The sound was wet and abhorrent.

The candlelight did nothing to warm the boy's white and gray skin. In fact, the light did not seem to bounce off him at all. It didn't even cast a shadow. My attention fell from him to the letters before me. I pulled them out and scanned over them. trying to find some reason the boy had led me to them. Most of them were yellowed and too faded to read, but all were written in sharp and elegant handwriting.

I discerned most of them were to my grandmother from the time my grandfather served in Korea. The letters must have been written by him. One letter on top of the pile drew my attention. This was the reason this dead childhood awakened me in the middle of the night. The ink on the page was new, the paper itself still crisp and white. The writing, though, was that of my grandfathers, though he had been dead for six years.

The words burned themselves on the inside of my skull, searing my mind forever with their intent. I can still recite it word for word to this day. It read, They don't respect you, boy. Hell, I don't blame them. You're weak, and you let that bitch walk all over you day in and day out. Those girls will grow up twice as bad, and they will suck out every last bit of your manhood until you're nothing but bones. You have to put yourself on top. Make them understand who is in charge. Women are like horses, son. You have to break them. Otherwise, they will pull you two and fro

until they knock you off entirely. Break them, boy, break them hard. Start with that wife of yours. Do it soon. I turned to the dead boy whose gray and harmless eyes watched me as I read. Why? I asked him. Why did you show me this? The boy smiled again, and that black blood spilled through his gaping teeth. Bugs came with it, millipedes and ants and earthworms. More than I could count. They spilled out of his lips and down his chin, staining his shirt and dribbling towards the ground. What are you doing out of here so late?

The boy and his bugs were gone the moment my father's voice penetrated the air. I whirled around and saw him standing there. He wore an orange-brown bathrobe, a ha-haired. hand me down from his father. His feet were sheathed in brown moccas and slippers, the same type his father wore before bed. I said, what are you doing out here so late? I just... The words caught in my throat. The letter in my hands had jumbled my mind and I couldn't wrap my head around that as well as talked to my father. I couldn't sleep. Yeah, me either. Father slid down and sat beside me, looking up at the picture of his father.

I come out here to think sometimes. You know, clear my head. I nodded but said nothing. The letter felt heavy in my hands. It's just... I know you don't understand these things yet. Things are just... Difficult.

And your mother, I can never make her understand. It's always a fight. And... I just wish... I could make her. I didn't understand what he was talking about. Looking back, I'm not sure he understood either. He was just trying to piece things together, just as I was.

Sometimes I come out here and just talk. He pointed up at the picture on the wall. To him, he just always knew what to say. I know you probably don't remember him that well, but he was always so full of wisdom. He always knew exactly. what to do. Women are like horses, son.

You have to break them. But... Oh, shit. Where was I going? His eyes were rimmed red, but there was clarity to them. It was one of the last times I saw that in his eyes. He looked at me, and in those clear eyes, I saw so much anguish and torment and fear.

I saw a man conflicted with who he was and what he wanted to be. I saw my father tortured by the things he was about to do, the atrocities he was so close to committing. You know, I would never hurt you, right? You or your mother or your sister? Break them, boy. Break them hard. Start with that wife of yours. I know, Dad. It's all I could bring myself to say. I love you. I looked at him and something changed in his eyes. eyes. Did he see the fear in mine? I love you too, Dad. All right. Get to Ben. I'll be right behind you. I just need to think for a second. After that, things were fine for a while. My nightmares subsided and the boy didn't visit me again. But I suppose like all good times in that

house, it didn't last. I never told my father about the letter and I never confronted him about its content. Maybe that makes it all my fault. If I had told him, I had told him, him to stop going out to that shrine if I had told him to get help. Maybe he wouldn't have done the things he did. Maybe the thing that spoke evil into him would not have had the same power. The boy came to me again. But this time I didn't panic. I knew there was something else he wanted to show me. He waved me to the door and hobbled out to the hallway. I followed him. My mind floating as it had done before. When we came to the door of the garage, he turned to me and pressed a finger to his lips.

He slipped the door open, and we padded quietly into the garage. In the heavy silence, I could hear someone mumbling. The sound came from the other end of the garage, where a weak flicker of light danced against the weighing darkness. I already knew my father would be there, but I didn't expect what I saw. As we worked our way through the maze of boxes, I heard a thwap, like a mop slapping hard against the floor.

The boy reached the perimeter of the candlelight and turned to me. He pointed toward the shrine, but never went any closer. A stack of boxes stood back away from the weak pool of candlelight, and I peeked around them to see what awaited me. The shrine was there, just as it had been. Grandfather's picture hung on the wall, and the two candles sat in the same places as before. The whipping board, though, was in my father's hand.

He was shirtless and bruises lined his back, already turning purple. Beads of blood swelled and cold. cascaded down his back in thin, precise lines. Another thwap resounded as father brought the whipping board over his shoulder and into his back. More blood swelled. He was mumbling something, but I couldn't hear what he was saying. I moved out from behind the boxes. I couldn't help myself. It was if some other force was compelling me forward, bringing me closer to my father. My fault. That's what he was mumbling. My fault. My fault. Dad? My voice sounded weak against the violent slapping of the whipping board. My father looked back at me, his eyes were glassy and hollow. It didn't seem like he was

looking at me at all, but rather seeing through me and into the past. It was my fault. Daddy didn't know. He thought Jackie did it, but he didn't. I didn't know who Jackie was. I'd never heard the name before. I turned back to the boy and he nodded my way, his way of telling me to keep listening. Dad, what was your fault? Something shifted in his eyes and for a moment my father saw me. At least he understood someone was there, someone he could unload all this pain on. It was the garden.

Daddy always loved his garden, growing corn and tomatoes and meats and strawberries, anything he could really. But the bugs were so bad that year. and they were eating everything. Daddy didn't know what to do. And he just thought his garden would wither on the vine and be nothing but bug food. I didn't want that. That garden made him so happy.

So I took all the money out of my piggy bank and I took it down to the store. See, they had this new pesticide there, kills pests fast. I remember it said that. I took it up to the garden when Daddy was at work and I put it all over the plants so the bugs would go away.

I must have left the case. can lying out by the garden. And when Daddy would come home, the garden was always the first place he would go. He must have saw the can that I used, and he brought it into the house to them. I ran to the door to tell him what I did. But something in his eyes stopped me. I could see that telltale anger. He asked me, who did this?

Raising the can to my face as he did so. I was so scared. I didn't want him to be mad at me. so Jackie's name just, it slipped out before I even realized what I said. Daddy moved right past me and took the whipping board down from the wall. And Jackie was just, he was just playing with the cars in his room laughing to himself like he always did. Father comes into the room and he stood over him. You trying to poison my garden?

Oh, Jackie just looked up at him and you could tell he didn't know what Daddy was talking about. But it didn't matter, though. Daddy hit him across the face and sent him sprawling to the ground. Jackie didn't even scream. I could see the blood running from his nose and his mouth. And then Daddy brought the whipping board down again, this time right across the back of his head. And Jackie went down, and he didn't get back up.

I didn't even think he knew what happened. Father stopped and looked into the small flickering flame of the candles. And no one doubted Daddy when he said Jackie fell down the stairs? Even if they did know they didn't say anything, stuff like that happened all the time when we were kids. It was just the way of things. The far-seeing looks snuck its way back into my father's eyes. It was my fault. I should have gotten it, and not Jackie.

I'm the mistake. I'm the failure. Me! Father's hands snatched out and held tight to my wrist. I never told you this, because I didn't want you to know what Daddy was, what I am, any of it. I tried to pull away from him, but his grip was too tight. My fingers prickled and started to go cold from the cut-off circulation. I have to make it right.

You know that. Daddy knew what's best. He had good reason to do it, and he's telling me I have good reason too. Dad, please. I was crying now. You're hurting me. He squeezed tighter. The worst part, the garden was fine.

All the bugs died, and Daddy's plans were bigger and healthier than ever. I killed my brother for no reason. Grandpa killed him? Father squeezed my wrist so hard I thought it would snap. No, Daddy didn't do anything wrong. It was me, me. Me, me, me, me, me, me. And I have to make it right.

Dad, stop! My cry shook him back to reality. He jerked his hand away from me, and I stumbled back from him. He looked at me with wild sadness still lingering in his eyes. Please. I need help. I need you to help me. Can you do that?

I didn't say anything, but nodded weakly. His face dropped, and those pleading eyes were reprimed. placed with something harder, something akin to my grandfather's gaze. Get to bed. It might be the last sleep you ever get. I fell in behind the stack of boxes again, but the dead boy put his hand up to stop me. What could he possibly want me to wait for? You know what needs to be done. An icy chill went up my spine and put all the hairs of my neck on end.

I know. You have to take control. I couldn't place where exactly the voice came from. It seemed to be coming from the room itself. I know. I know, I know, I know, I know. Break them. When?

Tomorrow, before they go to bed. I looked over at the boy and he was smiling. The blood and bugs were spilling out from his missing teeth and twisted nose. They wiggled through his eyes and squirmed down his face. and I felt myself stumbling away from him and away from this horrid place. My mind was racing. What should I do? Who should I tell?

Who could I tell? No one would believe what I had seen, what I had heard. Another would write me off. Then it came to me. There was only one thing to be done. I found my father's toolbox and grabbed the screwdriver. The one used to kill my uncle Mason and rushed inside, slamming the door behind me. Neither the boy nor my father followed.

I held on to the screwdriver all the next day, keeping it tucked into the pocket of my jeans. Father was at work, and my mother was out running errands with my sister. My father came home and went straight to the bedroom. I thought maybe he wouldn't go through with it. Maybe he would lock himself in the bedroom and these dark thoughts would pass in time. I never heard him walk past my room. Never heard the door to the garage shut. It was the dead boy, Jackie.

I knew who warned me to the danger. He appeared beside my bed, led me to the hallway and toward my parents' bedroom. Another letter sat on my parents' bed. On the side I knew my father slept on. I didn't want to read what was on it. I knew what was already there, but I also knew something within me wouldn't let me leave without reading it. I picked up the letter, and in my father's jagged handwriting, it read, break them, break them, break them, break them, break them, break them, break them, break them, break them.

Break them, break them, break them, break them, break them. On and on again. I turned to look at the boy, but he was already gone. I went to the door and peered down the hall towards the living room. The couch faced away from me, but I could see my mother sitting there. The messy bun of her hair swaying above the faux leather. My father stepped in behind her, blocking my view. The whipping board was in his hand.

He raised it up like a club and looked down at my mother. You trying to poison my garden? My mother said something in reply, but I didn't hear what it was. I wonder if she turned back to him, if she saw what was coming to end her. I never saw that, though. I only saw the whipping board come down, followed by a hard thunk. My mother didn't make another sound, but I heard my sister scream. I saw her run over to her screaming to make sure mother was okay.

father raised the whipping board over his head. I turned away, but I still heard that awful thunk. The house grew still after that, but in the stillness I heard my father sobbing. He called my name, practically blubbered it. I need help, help me. I need help, help me. I patted into the living room stealthily and silent on my bare feet. The screwdriver was clenched in my hand.

Father was leaning over their body. bodies. I tried not to look at all the blood. The awful way my mother's neck twisted to the side. I need help. I need help. I did help him. And the only way I could in that moment, I pushed the screwdriver through the back of his head. It was hard at first, but once the flat head punctured, it slid right through the soft base of his skull and into his brain. He jerked up and stiffened, and I I felt myself panicking. I pushed the screwdriver further until the wooden handle pressed into my father's head.

I twisted it back and forth, trying to grind up whatever black parasite had bored its way into my father's brain. He didn't cry or scream or pull away. He just stiffened there until he went lax and fell over. And that was it? It was over.

I knew what my father was, and I knew what he planned to do. But I lied to the police anyway. I didn't want to. him to be made out as a monster, no more than he already would be. He wasn't, not really. Something had damaged him a long, long time ago, and it grew inside him. It grew until finally it couldn't fit inside him anymore. The pain shed my father like an insect sheds its shell, moving on to infect something else. That something else was me. I still have that whipping board locked in a box somewhere

far away, but not too far. It's an heirloom to all the pain that has carried through my family for generations. I know someday my father's voice will call on me to use it on someone else, and I know that will be the end for me. I have no children to use it upon, but I know it will be used in time. Eventually the pain will be too big for me to carry, and I'll have to pass it on to someone else. That's what grandfather did to my father, and what my father did to me. I still have the screwdriver too. Maybe if I bury it there myself, shove that screwdriver up into my brain, I can kill it once and for all.

Maybe the growing and shedding will stop. Maybe the pain, all of it, will end at last. Wishful thinking, I know. These violent bugs are everywhere, growing in our friends and neighbors and loved ones, and they will continue to fester and spread. And there is no pesticide to take them away. They are always growing. Always.

Sleepless tales 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 Michalski, 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 past 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.