The NoSleep Podcast - S19 Ep23: NoSleep Podcast S19E23

Episode Date: July 9, 2023

It’s Episode 23 of Season 19. We ponder weak and weary with tales about vile vanishings. “Fixed in Time” written by Steven Paulsen (Story starts around 00:04:15) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Pat – Ilana Charnelle, Dr Singh – Rima Chaddha Mycynek “The Prizrak Case” written by Rene Rehn (Story starts around 00:21:20) Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Narrator – Ash Millman “What Happened When Paula Got a Dog” written by Zach Moser (Story starts around 00:41:00) Produced & scored by: David Cummings Cast: Narrator – Erin Lillis, Gerald – Jeff Clement, Paula – Mary Murphy “To Mend His Head” written by Marisca Pichette (Story starts around 01:06:00) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Jill – Erika Sanderson, Jack – James Cleveland, Voice – David Ault “The Dresser” written by Jacob W. Brannan (Story starts around 01:20:45) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Narrator – Mike DelGaudio, Evan Harp – Jesse Cornett, Aubrey Nielsen – Wafiyyah White, Reade – Dan Zappulla, Kelly – Jeff Clement, Celine – Linsay Rousseau, Nurse Amy – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Vance – Atticus Jackson, Captain Lambert – David Cummings, Detective Smith – Graham Rowat This episode is sponsored by: Betterhelp - This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. Give online therapy a try at betterhelp.com/nosleep and get on your way to being your best self. Green Chef - Green Chef makes eating well easy with plans to fit every lifestyle. Whether youíre Keto, Paleo, Vegan, Vegetarian, Gluten-Free, or just looking to eat more balanced meals, Green Chef offers a range of recipes to suit your preferences. Go to greenchef.com/nosleep50 and use code nosleep50 to get 50% off plus free shipping! Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Click here to learn more about Steven Paulsen Click here to learn more about Zach Moser Click here to learn more about Marisca Pichette Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone “Fixed in Time” illustration courtesy of Thea Arnman Audio 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. and face yourself for the no sleep. Welcome to the no sleep podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. Now you see it, now you don't.

It's a phrase often used by magicians, right before a coin, a card, a rabbit, or even your wallet disappears before your very eyes. Beyond slight of hand, when something vanishes, it can be a cause for concern. We don't often want to see things disappear, except for those wrinkles around. the eyes, am I right? Well, in this episode, we feature tales involving people who disappear under

strange circumstances. And when it comes to strange disappearances, there are a few more written about than the mysterious disappearance of someone you might be familiar with. His name? Why, it's Edgar Allan Poe. You see, in the weeks before his untimely death, Poe went missing for almost a week. He was traveling from Richmond, Virginia to Philadelphia to do some editing work. And even without Today's instant communications, friends found it strange that no one had seen or heard from him in many days. The mystery deepened when he reappeared in Baltimore on October 3rd in a terrible condition. Poe was found by a passerby who noted Poe was delirious, dressed in shabby clothes which weren't his own, and lying in a gutter. He was semi-conscious and unable to move. He barely managed

to tell the passerby of an acquaintance he knew in Baltimore, a doctor which the man summoned to aid Po. Four days later, without fully returning to coherent consciousness, Poe died on October 7, 1849, in Baltimore. To this day, the cause of Poe's death remains a mystery. Many theories have been suggested, including Poe being beaten by a ruffian who felt Poe had offended a woman, or that Poe, not one to handle alcohol well, had overindulged and found himself stupefied by it. One interesting theory is that Poe fell victim to a practice known as Cooping, a method of voter fraud practiced by gangs in the 19th century, where an unsuspecting victim would be kidnapped, disguised and forced to vote for a specific candidate multiple times under multiple disguised

identities. The fact that Poe was found on election day outside a polling station gives credence to this theory. We may never know for certain what happened to Poe in the final weeks of his life. One can only imagine that the man himself could have crafted a captivating story about it. Perhaps his famous detective character, Auguste Dupin, could have solved the mystery. So make sure you keep track of the things most precious to you. They might just vanish in the blink of an eye. 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 a woman completing a session in rehab. A childhood trauma has made her adult life a struggle as she tries to deal with an event in which she lost her friend. And in this tale, shared with us by author Stephen Paulson, the woman and her therapist decide that the best way to be released from the trauma is to visit the site of the disappearance. Performing this tale are Ilana Charnel and Rima Chal Chathamysic.

So try not to hold on to the past. We all move forward, even when some are fixed in time. Congratulations, Pat. You're officially dry. Again. But when I stay dry, I wondered. The booze still whispered to me with its silver tongue, called my name. I looked down at the grey vinyl floor between my feet.

There was a moment of silence. I sat on the bed in my small rehab clinic room. Dr. Singh sat opposite me on the moulded plastic visitor chair. On her lap, she held a fat manila folder stuffed with documents. I see you've been drawing again. She stood up, put the manila folder on the chair, and went over to leaf through the pile of sketches on the desk in the corner. These are very good. You've got quite a talent.

Not enough to make a bloody living. Perhaps if you chose different subjects. Always the girl in the house. I shrugged. Your childhood friend? Yeah. The incident with her happened 15 years ago, Pat. When will you stop blaming yourself?

You were only a child. Ten. It's time you put all this behind you and moved on with your life. I can help you do that. I'd chewed at my thumbnail. She held up a pencil sketch and examined it. It was a good one. I had captured the childlike sparkle in her eyes.

The hint of a mischievous smile at the corner of her mouth. Pat, last time we spoke, you stopped your story when Mary reached the door of the house. Can you tell me what happened after that? I shook my head. I had stopped telling people years before. Nobody ever believed me. The bastards all thought I was crazy. Give it a try.

I clenched my fists and opened my mouth to reply. But nothing came out. She nodded encouragement. I took a deep breath. The abandoned house was near my primary school. All the kids reckoned the house was haunted. It gave me the creeps, so I always ran past it. Mary used to laugh at me, the way kids do.

Dr Singh selected another sketch from the pile. This house? It was not as good as the one of Mary. I had scribbled it in Biro in the midst of my withdrawal, and it was full of anger and minimalistic sharp lines. Nevertheless, it captured the basics of the house. Double story, gable windows and a high-pitched roof, A front veranda.

What happened? One day Mary went into the house. I squirmed. My head was throbbing and I started to sweat. I would have given anything for a bloody drink. You can trust me, Pat. I pursed my lips and staled myself. I suppose she was right.

If I couldn't trust her after all this time, who could I trust? I didn't want to go in, but I couldn't leave her there alone. So I ran after her. By the time I got to the front door, she'd already gone inside. and started up the staircase. I remember the expression on her face when she glanced at me, the determination, the recklessness in her eyes. Dr Singh put the picture back on the desk,

crossed the room, picked up the manila folder, and sat back down on the visitor chair. Gone? I followed her, but something was impeding me, making every step an effort, like I was trying to wade across the river. Mary paused at the top of the stairs, peering along the hallway there,

but I couldn't see her properly. She seemed somehow to be wavering, insubstantial. I closed my eyes and saw her again across the years, remembering pushing up the stairs toward her, the struggle of each step physically painful until only a couple of paces separated us. Pat? It was cold, icy cold.

I was shivering, though I still don't know to this day if it was from the cold or the fear. Dr. Singh touched me on the knee. Pat? I opened my eyes and looked at her. By the time I reached the landing, Mary was already moving along the hallway. Then suddenly the house seemed to warp and distort. I felt dizzy. I thought I'd throw up.

Dr. Singh leaned in closer. What do you mean the house warped and distorted? How much should I tell her? I wondered. What if she decided I was crazy? But she had been my shrink for three years and she hadn't sectioned me yet. I went to the desk, rifling through my sketches until I found the one I was looking for. I held it up for her to see, like this. Like someone grabbed hold of the damned house and twisted it.

She took the picture of the misshaped hallway from me as I sat back on the bed. She arched an eyebrow. The floor was tilted, the hallway curved, and the angles were wrong. The tall grandfather clock against the wall was bending forward, its face peering down, the way it looked at Mary. What happened next? There was an open door at the end of the hall. A blinding white light shone out from it.

In my mind's eye, I could see Mary's standing frozen, silhouetted. The tick of the clock began to get louder and louder. What did Mary do? She just stood there. I tried to call out to her, but my voice was little more than a horse croak. Mary's short, sharp breaths had come out in small puffs of cloud. I reached out to her, but it was like putting my hands into a bloody freezer. The cold air rasped at my throat, like I was breathing razor blades.

By then, each tick of the clock was like a clap of thunder. I tried to lunge for Mary, but I couldn't move. I was fixed in time like a statue. Then the grandfather clock struck the hour. Gong, gong, gong, it seemed to go on forever. The sound still gives me goosebumps. and it all turned shit? I choked back a sob.

Dr. Singh handed me a box of tissues. What happened? I snatched some tissues and wiped the tears welling in my eyes. Then I met her gaze and she nodded for me to continue. Mary screamed. Then she vomited blood. It gushed bright red down her chin, all down the front of her scorchionic.

She cupped her hands and the blood steamed as it spilled over them. I broke into deep, shattering sobs. Dr. Singh took control. She consoled me with cool professional efficiency and waited until my tears subsided and my breathing started to return to normal. Hey, can I get you a glass of water or a cup of tea? I blew my nose on a couple of tissues.

That memory, that bloody image of Mary has haunted my dreams, my nightmares for the last decade. I can still smell her blood, sweet in coppery. I'm sorry, Pat. I know this is painful for you, but in order to help you, I have to ask. What happened next? I leaned forward, clasped my head in my hands and looked at the floor, at the blandness of the vinyl, at the grubby laces in my running shoes. After a few moments, I took a deep breath, sat up and continued. There's not much more to tell. Before I could do anything in the hallway twisted again.

The bitterly cold wind howled in from nowhere, lifted Mary from her feet and blew her away from me into the room. The wind cut through me, like driven icicles. But despite its Arctic power, the wind only took Mary. The door to the room slammed shut and the hallway went dark. Then something thumped me in the chest, something hard and solid. I wiped away the tears that ran unbidden down my cheeks and looked away. Dr. Singh waited in anticipation. I picked it my fingernails.

I woke up in hospital. The police found me unconscious at the foot of the stairs. They called an ambulance. I had a concussion, broken ribs, and a broken leg. Mary? She was gone. I looked squarely at Dr. Singh and inspected her face, looking for any sign of a smile or a sneer.

But her expression was open, guileless. There's no mention of any blood at the scene in the police report. I shrugged. Do you blame yourself for what happened to her? Mary's parents blamed me. They came to see me in the hospital. They didn't believe me when I told them what happened. Her mother said I was a liar.

When I came out of hospital, me and my family moved away. I've never been back. Dr. Singh opened the middle of folder on her lap, flicked through the papers and paused to read one. Well, the police said she was probably abducted by a person or person's unknown. who pushed you down the stairs. I think that sounds like a more logical explanation, don't you? Great, I thought. She doesn't believe me either. I know it's a hard story to accept, and sometimes I hardly believe it myself, because I can't help wondering, what if everyone else is

right? Maybe it was all just a story I made up when I was a kid. It also said the blow to your head, the trauma of what you witnessed, made you block out the real events and create a fantasy to explain what happened. I should never have opened my mouth, I thought. She's just like everyone else. Dr. Singh studied me thoughtfully. I think you're telling the truth, Pat. Or at least your version of the truth.

Something strange did happen in that house. My heart began to race. Did you really mean that? A wave of relief washed over me. It might be helpful for you to go back there as part of your therapy. I lurched back. Are you for fucking real?

She nodded. No bloody way. It's perfectly normal to be scared, but I'll come with you. If it gets to be too much, we can come straight back here. What if I'm wrong, I thought? What if the house isn't there? Or would she believe my story if the house is still there? I drummed my fingers on my knees.

Fuck, I need a drink. Any gut rot will do. She rose to her feet and took me by the hand. Come on, let's give it a try. We can be back by lunch. I stood up and followed meekly. I had always found it hard to say no to Dr. Singh, and she was probably right. If I was ever going to make a real life for myself, I had to confront the fear. But I didn't like this at all. Dr. Singh showed me to her car and we set off. It was okay at first, but as the streets and suburbs flashed by, I began to squirm in my seat. Beads of perspiration broke out on my forehead.

I'm not sure that this is a good idea. We're almost there. The car's GPS navigated us to the street where it had happened. She parked, and we got out and looked around. The school was gone, replaced by a housing estate. Just one of the many baby-bimmer schools that popped up for a decade or so, when almost every house in the area rang with the shouts and laughter of children. We walked along the footpath to where I remembered the house had been.

I was trembling, sick to my stomach. Dr. Singh tried to counsel me with calming words. That's the house, I said when we reached the spot, but I couldn't bring myself to look directly at it. Other things in the neighborhood had changed, but not the house. I could still feel it. Goodness, I see what you mean. It is a creepy sort of place. It almost feels like it's watching us.

It's run down, just like your drawings, and the yard is overgrown, and there's no sign. of life. I looked at my watch. It was almost 11. I felt chilled to my soul. Let's get the hell out of here. Hold on. You're just getting anxious, Pat. Breathe like I showed you. In one to, hold, out one two. I breathed like she told me and steadied myself. And I glanced at the house, up at the gable windows. It's Mary. There she is. Dr. Singh clasped my shoulders. in a firm grip. It's natural to have a hallucination after what you've been through. No, up there, in the window. I followed her gaze as she looked up. Mary was staring down at us, still ten years old, with bright red blood running down her chin, all down the front of her.

I turned to Dr. Singh. Her face crumbled. Oh, dear God. Somewhere in the distance I heard a clock striking the hour. Mary placed her bloody palms against the the window pane. Red rivulets dribbled down the glass. I started to run up the path to the house, but Dr. Singh moved quicker and grabbed my arm. No, the house will get you too. I told you it was true. I started to laugh and couldn't seem to stop. Dr. Singh pulled me away, dragging me along with her. I struggled to pull free. Stop it, Pat. Are you crazy? You can't go in there. I stopped laughing. No, Dr. Singh. I'm not crazy. I am vindicated. Then there was a sound from the house, the complaining of old

timbers moving against their will. We spun around. Mary was beckoning to us with her finger. Dr. Singh released her grip on me and stared at Mary as if in a trance. Then she started up the overgrown path towards the veranda steps. I lunged for her, but she swatted me aside with unexpected force and I stumbled and felt the ground. As she reached the house, The front door swung open with a creek. If one person disappears, it can be a bit of a mystery. If a large number of people disappear from a specific location over a period of time, it will require substantial investigation.

That's what we learn in this tale, shared with us by author René Rain. In it, a woman asks her grandfather to share his strangest case while he was working for the Soviet police force. It's an investigation. he'll never forget. Performing this tale is Ash Milman. So when things don't seem normal, it might make sense to think they're paranormal.

At least if you worked on the Pryzerich case. This is a story my grandpa told me. When he was younger, he worked with the Soviet police, the militia. He told me many stories about that time. Most of them didn't have a happy ending. Grandpa admitted he'd done his share of bad things. but he often tried to make people's life at least somewhat better.

It was a couple of weeks ago that I asked him what his strangest case was. At the time, he had told me about a murder case. It was rather tame. I mean, if you can call a murder tame, I was a bit disappointed since it wasn't too different from his other stories. A few days later, however, he approached me. He admitted that he had lied. It wasn't long before he told me what the strangest thing he'd ever experienced.

truly was. It was something that he called the Prisrujerk case. It all happened in a small town called Khrushchev in southern Russia. It was the late 50s, a time of heavy industrialization in the Soviet Union. At the time, the Soviets built what Grandpa described as factory towns. I looked it up, but Grandpa said most of them were long gone and forgotten. The principle was simple. First, look for a suitable location for factories or other production for factories. Once these were constructed, cheap living quarters for the workers were built nearby. Khrushchev was one of these towns. The one thing that was different about Khrushchev was that the region had a history.

During the time of the Russian Empire, the area was the estate of a noble family. The old mansion still stood, but it was vacant and abandoned. Once the factories were constructed, the old building was renovated and used as makeshift living quarters. They divided up the vast, lavish rooms into small one-room apartments and relocated the future workforce there. The case started when an old woman arrived at Grandpa's station in Volgagrad. She said that she was worried about her brother. The man lived in Khrushchev to the south, but she hadn't heard from him in months.

She was too old to visit the small, distant town by herself, so she pleaded with the militia to find out more. Grandpa was the one who talked to her. Khrushov might have been hours away, but it still fell under their jurisdiction. In the end, he assured her he'd check it out and made the long trip there. Grandpa told me he'd heard his share about these factory towns, but he had never seen any of them for real. Once he arrived, he saw that things were even worse than he imagined.

The old mansion was dirty and run down. People lived in a state of utter poverty. They were either old or migrants from other parts of. the Soviet Union that had nowhere else to go. Some weren't even fluent in Russian. Needless to say, many were scared when they saw a man of the militia arrive. The Soviet police had a bad reputation, and there were more than enough reasons for it. People thought Grandpa was there to take them away or drive them from their home. Once Grandpa arrived, he found no trace of the man. When he asked around, though, no one told him a thing. He actually had to toughen up on the

a bit, he admitted, with a blank expression on his face. His first suspicion was that one of the other inhabitants had murdered the old man. He quickly learned, though, how much more was going on. It wasn't just the old man that had gone missing. In the course of the past three years, he learned, more than a dozen inhabitants had vanished. A person going missing wasn't strange. The times were hard, people rarely had enough to eat, people running off, going missing, or dying from starvation wasn't unheard of.

A dozen people vanishing without a trace, however, was an entirely different story. Grandpa informed the local factory overseers, as well as his higher-ups in Volgagrad, and soon an investigation was started. They weren't concerned about the people, of course. All they cared about was their production quota. For days, they questioned the people living in the old mansion,

but even now, no one seemed to know a thing. Or they weren't willing to talk. An investigation of the building itself revealed nothing. Even consulting the blueprints bought them nowhere. They were old and shoddy. There was one thing, however, that Grandpa had heard from time to time. It was the word Prisruch that people mumbled and whispered to one another. Only when they thought he wasn't listening, though.

Prisruch is Russian for ghost or phantom, Grandpa said. Whenever the militia questioned the inhabitants, about it, they all pretended they'd never heard about it. It was clear that something was going on. The militia made plans to move on to some stricter methods of interrogation. Then, one of the factory workers finally started talking. It was an older man, most likely in his late 50s, named Dimar. The man was as scared as anyone else, but he said someone had to talk.

He asked the militia for a stiff drink, to which Grandpa complied after a month. moment. He downed the drink in one go. Then, cursing, he started to tell the militia about the noises that haunted the building. They'd started years ago. At first, people thought it was someone messing with the other inhabitants. God knows there was no shortage of shady characters in the building. Yet, the longer the noises continued and the more often they could be heard, the clearer it became that something else was going on. The nature of the noises, it was all right. It was all right. At times it sounded like heavy steps, at others like scratching or beating against the walls. Sometimes they echoed from afar, at others they seemed to come from right next to you.

Occasionally, Dima said, they originated from rooms long vacant or empty. It didn't matter what time of the day it was. You could hear them early in the morning one day, then in the middle of the night. It was an older woman who first started to talk about the legend of the Prisruc, Dima said. Whenever the noises started, people freaked out. The old women would cry and even the men were scared. Everyone thought that the Prudzeruk is going to get someone again. At this point, Grandpa interrupted Dima, asking what he meant.

With a scared expression, he told him that it's always during the noises that someone vanishes. Ever since the militia came, the noises happened daily. It was only a matter of time, the man said, till someone was taken away again. When Grandpa asked why he didn't leave, Dima laughed. Where would he go? He was poor, he had no money and almost nothing to eat. It was the same for everyone else. If they left, where would they go?

After that, the man was quiet. His expression was somber. He said he was never one to believe in ghosts, but with everything that had happened, especially now, because he talked, he couldn't help being scared. Grandpa assured the man they'd find out what was really going on there and make sure nothing would happen to him.

It was during the next days that Grandpa looked into the story of the so-called Prisruch. He didn't find much. It was nothing but an old urban legend. The first time the Prisrach was mentioned was more than a century ago. Back then, the mansion was still home to a noble family. It was said by many people that the place was haunted. Strange noises could be heard at night, and more than one servant vanished. throughout the years. No one could say what the Prisrug actually was.

Some said it was the ghost of a serf killed by the family, while others said that it was the spirit of a disfigured family member that was locked up in the basement all his life. Yet others said it was something much older. It was all nonsense, of course, Grandpa said, nothing but silly ghost stories. The inhabitants, however, believed them to be true. Grandpa had never been superstitious,

or religious for that matter. During his years with the militia, he'd learned one thing over everything else. The darkest and most vile things are always committed by men themselves. Of course, he didn't think so without reason. There was one thing that Demar had said. The noise happened daily

ever since Grandpa had arrived. Then why had none of the militia members ever heard anything? It seemed that whatever, or better whoever, was responsible, made sure none of them were around. The plan that Grandpa hatched was simple. They'd bug the place, storm in when the noises were going on, and catch the perpetrator. Of course, that's not what they told the people.

Instead, they said they had to do a sweep of the building to find evidence. Their real aim, however, was to plant a handful of simple listening devices. It wasn't anything sophisticated, of course, but it was enough to do the trick. Once they were done, they only had to wait. The militia divided into two groups. Grandpa and a few others would enter the building while the rest kept tight surveillance of the outside. The goal was either to catch the perpetrator inside the building

or while he tried to flee the scene. It was only a few hours after they'd installed the devices that the noises started up again. They moved out right away. The inside of the building was in an uproar. People were hoarse. Huddled together in the hallways, some of the old women were crying and praying. Some of the men even went as far as to accuse the militia of angering the prisoner.

It took Grandpa and the rest almost half an hour to restore order. Once everyone was accounted for, they realised that one person was missing. Dima. Grandpa immediately rushed to the man's room, but found it empty. A search was conducted right away. Even after checking all the rooms, however, there was no trace of the man. The group outside also attested that they'd seen no one in the area or leaving the building. For all they knew, the man had vanished into thin air, just like all the other people that had gone missing.

They'd checked the place already, but now they planned to do a complete and thorough investigation. There had to be something that could tell them what had happened. The inhabitants were swiftly evicted and put into strict surveillance in a factory warehouse. house nearby. Some were reluctant, but after a few threats, they fell in with the rest. They went through the building rigorously from top to bottom. They checked each room, went through everyone's private belongings, but there was still no hints. Worst of all, Di Ma's room showed no signs of a struggle. The search took hours. Some started to voice their concerns, questioning if maybe there was more to the story of the Prisrug. When the son dawned,

Grandpa was about to give up altogether. That's when one of the other men noticed something. He'd been in Demas' room, rechecking it for what must have been the fifth time. A part of the wallpaper looked a bit strange. It was more darkened than the rest and seemed to hang loosely in front of the brickwork below. At first, he thought it was due to the building's lousy condition. When he went closer, though, he noticed something. It wasn't just the wallpaper that looked a bit strange.

brickwork behind it also didn't look normal. Part of it looked different from the rest, as if it didn't belong to the wall. The moment the man touched it, he noticed that he could move it. At that moment, he called out to the rest. They removed the loose part of the wall, and a small entry to the room next door was revealed. At least, that's what they thought they'd found. When one of them tried to squeeze through, he found himself somewhere else, in a space between the walls. At this point, another member of the group left the room to compare the inner and outer lengths of the two rooms. He came to the conclusion that the wall between the rooms had to be almost a metre wide. They were all equally puzzled and consulted the old blueprints,

but the shoddy notes didn't say anything about the width of the walls. What they learned, however, was that this wall had been part of the original mansion. Sure, a lot of new walls had been added to divide the building, but the old walls were still there. When they entered the space between the walls, they were even more surprised. It wasn't a hole, no, it turned out to be a tunnel that continued on for the whole length of the wall. It was easily half a metre wide, which allowed more than enough space for a human being to pass through. While they explored the tunnel, they found that similar tunnels stretched on through all the walls of the original mansion.

There were also more of the secret entryways all over the building. From outside, those were almost invisible and blocked off to make entry impossible. At this point, it was clear what had caused the noise. It must have been someone moving through these tunnels. When checking out these other additional tunnels, they found more things. There was an old mattress stacked between the walls, a chair, a table, and even an improvised cooking area. It didn't take them long until they stumbled across Dima's corpse. The cause of death was strangulation,

but the man also showed a head wound caused by a blunt object. It was clear what must have happened. Whoever had been inside the walls must have entered Demar's room in the middle of the night, then beat him unconscious, dragged him into the walls and strangled him. Grandpa was quiet for a moment. He'd promised the man they'd make sure he was safe, yet they'd done nothing. The investigation of the wall tunnels took hours. Ladders connected them to similar tunnels on the second floor,

and even entrances to the attic and the basement were found. Finally, they also stumbled upon a stack of old, rotten clothes and various other items. It didn't take them long to discern what they'd found. It must have been the belongings of the people who had gone missing throughout the years. They all must have suffered a fate similar to that of Demar. One thing puzzled the militia, though. No remains, except those. of De Ma were ever found.

The investigation went on for weeks, but even after harsher methods of questioning, the perpetrator was never discovered. The only thing they knew was that it must have been one of the inhabitants. There were secret entrances to the wall tunnels all over the building, but none of them led outside. So after the perpetrator had murdered De Ma, he must have left the tunnels and mixed in with the rest of the inhabitants.

grandparents said that if they'd had more time, they might have figured out who it was. Regrettably, though, the higher-ups didn't seem to care much about the case. It didn't matter to them if a handful of workers or migrants died. In the end, the old mansion was demolished and people were relocated to a newer, more modern building. Grandpa and the rest left Khrushchev behind and returned to Volgagrad. Grandpa said the case bothered him for years. It wasn't because people had died. It wasn't even Demar's death.

It was something else he'd realized. There had been a routine to the murders. A person was killed only every few months. At first, I didn't know what he was trying to say. But then he reminded me what they'd found in the walls and what they didn't. There was a reason for the cooking area, and there was a reason they'd never found any remains. It was indeed a terrible time, Grandpa said, shaking his.

head and it was indeed an impoverished area. Bill Murray once said, I'm suspicious of people who don't like dogs, but I trust a dog when it doesn't like a person. With that in mind, Bill might not like Gerald, who will meet in this tale, shared with us by author Zach Moser. You see, Gerald's wife has come home with a new puppy, and even though Gerald generally likes dogs, something about this new one doesn't sit right with him. Performing this tale are Aaron Lillis, Jeff Clement, and Mary Murphy. So there's no need to sit up and beg. We'll tell you about what happened when Paula got a dog. Gerald didn't like that dog. Gerald liked dogs. Gerald loved dogs, but he didn't like this one. And Gerald could see the roadmap of how his dislike would morph into hate. Though,

might not be the right word, perhaps. Disgust. That was the incoming feeling. When Paula asked about bringing home a puppy, Gerald veered between apathy and mild excitement. He hadn't owned a dog since he moved out of his parents' house. Years of single life had left room for not much else in Gerald's life, save for work, long nights at whichever bar he and his friend settled on, and occasionally some casual sex. However, Gerald had in the past two years found he could make room for Paula. Making that space in his life was as if Gerald had redone the layout of his living room to suddenly find that he had the setup wrong all along. There was plenty of room, and he never even realized. Now, he was beginning to see that the rearrangement of his life

had allowed more space than he expected, or would have dared believe. Weekend trip to in-laws and parents and weddings with friends he knew exclusively on social media were quickly planned, completed, and enjoyed, as far as anyone they knew, at least. So why not room for a dog? But why Paula settled on this dog, Gerald could not understand. It's a purebred. Apparently as puppies, they sell for over $1,500. How could you ever get yourself to cop that up?

He was dropped off last week. They think he's two. Don't worry, he'll only get a little bigger. Well, hopefully its nose doesn't get any bigger. Paula rolled her eyes. Hilarious. And his name is Mixon. But it was only a half joke.

The dog, Mixon, did have an exceedingly long snout. Not like a doxoned with a cute silliness to it, but long and thin. It was like a horse's face, but wrinkle, and Harry, worse yet were the eyes. The eyes were too human, for one. They were grotesque ovals on either side of the skull. Gerald thought it would be hard to get out of the dog's eye line. The eyes rolled around in their sockets,

and though they didn't spend more than half a second on any one object, they seemed to linger whenever they landed on Gerald. Disgust. Gerald could already sense it bubbling. Something else, too. something close to horror. As much as Gerald didn't want to admit it, the dog scared him. But Gerald was not about to be frightened of his dog in his house.

He was sure he'd learned to love it, and if he didn't, what, it was only 10 years, earlier once the baby came along. If Paula was obsessed with the lump in her stomach now, Mixon would be an afterthought the moment it was born. With some tactful persuasion, he might be able to convince, Paula, that Mixon was great when they were younger, but would now be too much for a growing family.

He could tell her they would send him to a good home to live out the rest of its short days, or they could turn it into fertilizer for all Gerald cared. You do like him, though, don't you? Of course, Bob. He's great. We're going to have a full house in a couple of months. Paula grabbed Gerald's collar and pulled him in for a kiss. I love you. I'll take Mixon inside. He can get cozy and check out his new digs. Gerald's eyes followed her inside and stayed there until after the door slowly shut.

He loved her too. He was surprised, not by the emotion. Gerald's parents loved each other and their parents loved each other, and the rest probably loved each other all the way back to when the first two monkeys decided it would be much more pleasant to stay with the same monkey in the same tree every here, rather than fighting and finding a new mate every time they started feeling. baby fever. He expected love. What surprised him were the ways the love seemed to come out, in the little things Gerald watched her do, the way she spoke to the child inside her,

how when she read, she put her book on her lap to contemplate a passage. It was hard to pinpoint, but he was always finding new quirks that made him love her all the more. Gerald sighed and followed Paula and Mixon in. make any noise. Paula gestured towards Mixon as the hound chewed on a ball with what Gerald assumed was the loudest squeaking mechanism in current production. He's making a ton of noise. I'm going to be hearing that squeak in my sleep. Well, yes, but he's not growling or gnawing. He's still making a lot of noise. What did they put in that toy? And just saying, Paula leaned her head back into the crook of Gerald's arm on the couch. He doesn't bark or wine or anything. Gerald couldn't argue. Mixon was unnervingly

quiet. When it walked through the house, it barely made any noise. In the last week, Gerald had turned around at least three times to find himself staring at those horse eyes, which would stare back for a few moments before rolling around to look elsewhere. You're right. He is quiet. He sheds a lot. needs that coat. It keeps him warm. Worm. Mixon did look like a worm. Its long snout led to an equally long body. The high, visible ribs added to the effect

and made the dog look segmented. A pale worm. What? Paula half turned, still absentmindedly rubbing her belly and looking at the dog. Nothing. I'm sure he's warm. Didn't you say it was nearly done growing? Paula was only half listening as she opened and closed cupboards later that week.

Yeah, nearly, but he will get a little bigger, I guess. Look how much bigger he is. He's huge. Gerald was still staring at the dog who was tilting his head looking from one parent to the other. This would be cute from another dog, but on Mixon, it had the effect of making the dog look like it was actually listening. to the conversation. Well, I guess he's getting bigger than we thought. I have to run to the store. We have nothing for dinner.

And with that, Paula gave Gerald a quick kiss on the cheek and headed to grab her keys. Gerald turned away from the door back to the kitchen and froze. In front of him was a twisted human, hunched at the neck over the counter with a long head and huge rolling eyes. Gerald's eyes scanned down to the floor where the splayed feet clicked and clacked on the tile. The creature turned its head so that both eyes lulled until they landed on Gerald. Mixon, get off there. Gerald had unconsciously dropped his voice an octave, trying to cover for the fear that it gripped him a minute ago.

Mixon slowly lowered itself, staring at Gerald all the way down. Person. You know, dogs are supposed to be man's best friend? Nothing. The fact you creep me out is your problem. You know that, right? Nothing. Humans and dogs have been bred to like each other,

and I still don't like you. Don't you see the issue? Mixon gave no indication he understood the issue. But all the same, Gerald had the sense he was understanding something. No need to push. Well, Mixon, I'm going to take you out to pee, but then let's try to spend some time away from each other until Paula gets back. Have some me time. Sound good?

Mixon barked. It wasn't a howl or a bay. It was the sound of a breath caught in your throat, a coughing noise that Gerald didn't like, but took his affirmation anyway. After he took the dog out to do his business, Gerald retired. to the TV room. With a Miller light in his hand, he began flipping through shows. Continue watching,

just added, action, comedy, family. I watched Tarzan once. Horror? Because you watched The Office. Because you watched Hannibal. Suspense.

Documentary. Dog. Sports. Movies based on real life. Thriller. Why don't I just take a nap? Gerald closed his eyes and waited for the show.

the afternoon light to put him to sleep, cluttering in the kitchen. Gerald stirred and slowly sat up on the couch. Paula, I'm in here. I was a shopping. No answer. More rummaging through what could only be the cabinets. Paula? The rummaging stopped. Gerald heard soft padded steps move across the kitchen, and then the sink came to life. Paula, what's up? your headphones in? A stupid question. If they were in, would she be able to answer anyway? But at that moment, the last thing Gerald wanted to do was get up and see why Paula

was not answering. Or, if there was no Paula to answer, who was thirsty at 4.30 p.m. in his home. From the couch in the living room, Gerald had a view into the short hallway that led to the kitchen, and so could only see walls. The sink was at the far end of the kitchen, and therefore as far away as possible from Gerald. The water shut off, and the soft padded feet treaded quickly away from the sink, towards the door that led to the living room he had just been napping in. Terror gripped Gerald.

He was certain he did not want to see what was about to exit the kitchen, but the steps stopped short, and he heard the hollow clank of a bowl being placed on the floor. Slowly, Gerald heard the low, loud and messy lapping of a dog bent over the bowl. Oh my God. It's Mixon. Mixon filled up the bowl and is drinking from it.

Mixon. Gerald wanted to scream, but the idea of alerting the animal made him bite his tongue. The lapping stopped, and Gerald held his breath. Unable to take his eyes away, he stared at the door to the hallway, his eyes straining not to blink. Slowly, the snout of a dog emerged from behind the doorframe. It continued to grow out the doorway. Its profile hideous and elongated. It looked like an eel slowly extending out of a rock in the cold of the ocean floor.

The dog's entire head was now in view, staring with its insane eyes. Gerald could barely breathe. Then its horse-like eye moved slowly from staring straight ahead until it was focused on Gerald. Hello there. You were right, Gerald. There is something a little off about the dog your fiancé brought home. Still, Gerald couldn't make a sound, much less a dash for the door outside. Then, with a strange awing that sounded like a sigh, mix an open. its jaws into a half-crazed, open-mouthed smile. Gerald swallowed a stream as the ma' unhinged even further, more than was physically possible.

The dog now had the lower part of its jaw nearly against its breast, and the awe rose to a horrifying shriek. Finally, Gerald felt his lungs hitch and loosen, and he let out a scream of terror. Gerald! Gerald, whoa! Gerald's eyes flew open, and he heard the last few notes of his scream dissipate in the living room.

Gerald! Jeez, you're okay, baby. What was that? You were screaming. Paula was leaning over him with a look of concern that Gerald had never seen before. I was...

I don't know. I had a nightmare. It was real. Gerald was fumbling for what the nightmare was about, but the visions and sounds were rapidly fading. It must have been horrible. I came in ten minutes ago when you were tossing and turning. Then just a moment ago you started screaming at the top of your lungs.

Paula stroked Gerald's hair. You scared Nixon and me half to death. Mixon. Mixon. The image of the gaping jaw flooded back, and Gerald sprung up looking around. It was Mixin. He was walking around, and he filled up his bowl, and he was drinking from it, and he was looking at me, Paula. Gerald, it's okay.

It was just a dream. Where is he? His mouth is broken, his jaw. Paula put a hand on Gerald's chest, pushing him back into the couch. Mixon is in the foyer. It's okay. He was asleep when I got home. Both of you were zonked out. While I do all the work, by the way. Gerald's breathing began to slow. A dream. Just a dream. Of course it was just a dream. No dog could open its jaw that way. It was a dream. A nightmare. Holy nightmare. I'm sorry, pa. It was so real. I couldn't move. That's enough.

Paula kissed him on the forehead. It's over now. No Mixon, no nightmare. You're okay. Gerald slowly let out a breath. I know. I'm sorry. He was feeling more embarrassed by the moment.

A stupid dream. Where is Mixon now? Probably still in the foyer. Actually, could you take him out? He was whining. I think he needs to go. At your command. Gerald gave a goofy, fake bow that successfully elicited an eye roll.

He headed to the closet to grab the leash and found Mixon lying in the foyer. Okay, bud, let's go. Tinkle time. Mixin looked at Gerald and then the leash. Gerald knelt to attach it. He would rather not put his face so close to the dogs, and as he was attaching the clasp, the eye roll. rolled from staring ahead to looking directly in Gerald's. Gerald hooked the leash and slowly rose, never losing eye contact.

Mixon's mouth opened, wider and wider. But all that came out of the mouth was a yawn. How could Gerald have thought any differently? He shook his head and led Mixon outside. In the bright sunlight and the summer air, Gerald bounced on his feet, turning side to side as Mixon did his business. It wasn't embarrassing to take a dog to the bathroom, but for some reason, a side effect of the human canine bond, maybe,

there did seem to be a need for averted gazes. But this was strange. Gerald had let out Mixon right before Paula left, and he hadn't drank since her return. Why did he need to piss? Gerald looked at Mixon. Mixon was squatted on the ground, staring straight ahead. But Gerald had definitely let him out before this.

Maybe Paula had filled up his bowl before leaving. Gerald didn't know. At any rate, Mixen was done and ready to go inside. Gerald led him in and removed his collar. It's about ready. With that, he walked into the dining room and forgot anything about taking Mixin out one too many times that day. After dinner and dessert, a delicious key lime pie made nearly from scratch,

store-bought crust was better. Paula and Gerald retired to their room. Gerald, a little electrified from the course of his day and the wine at dinner, had tugged at Paula's arm, but Paula had turned herself over. Not tonight. I feel bloated. Gerald had to concede. The sex hadn't been non-existent since the pregnancy,

but he wouldn't say their love life was particularly spicy at the moment. So he stared at the ceiling, trying to will himself to say. sleep. As his eyes were beginning to shut, he heard a noise from across the house. It sounded like cups and plates being moved. The sounds weren't loud. They were slow and muffled. Gerald rose slowly. There had been reports of burglaries in the neighborhood. Lose some China or lose some manhood. Gerald generally sided with the careful approach, but decided to nix it this time, partly out of curiosity. Why was someone rummaging around in the kitchen?

To get some cheap plates and cutlery? Why wouldn't they have stopped at the doorway where the car keys and wallets were left? And why did the sound seem so deliberate? Whoever was down there was in no hurry. Gerald grabbed a heavy trophy off his nightstand, a prize won years ago for a sport he no longer had interest in competing in or even watching. He headed down the hallway slowly.

He walked on the balls of his feet, slowly putting his weight down on the floorboards so their noise would be lessened. He came to the foyer and saw that it was empty. God damn it, Mixon. The least a dog can do is be around to have your back. Just the breathing of a friend would help. Gerald heard more noise from the kitchen, but it didn't sound like rummaging. It sounded like someone was eating something. Gerald quietly slunk to the kitchen and approached the doorway, prepared to lean around the corner and get a good view of the room.

It was Mixon. He was suddenly sure. Maybe Mixon had woken up hungry and pawed his way into the cabinet searching for food, that bastard. Gerald would shove its face into whatever it was snacking on with relish, remind him who was in charge. Gerald looked around the corner. Mixon was standing in the middle of the kitchen. He wasn't leaning on anything. He was standing. Leg straight, arms bent like some dinosaur from the Jurassic Park, but with no loss of balance.

The dog chewed thoughtfully and then moved to the counter. Gerald felt something rising in his throat. Standing, the dog was nearly six feet tall. He could not take long strides, so he had to make. make short steps, but he moved quickly like some gruesome ballerina dancer. His arms reached out to a bag of pretzels on the counter and dumped a pile on the counter. He scooped this pile up in both arms and greedily ate them, perched on thin white legs the entire time.

Standing or not, Mixon still ate like a dog. He stared straight ahead, insane eyes looking into nothing and mouth working inefficiently. Crumbs and salt poured from his mouth. This is a dream. Gerald closed his eyes. This is another dream. And when I open my eyes, Paul will be passed out next to me in bed,

and there won't be a dog doing its best human impression in front of me. Gerald opened his eyes. The kitchen was empty. Gerald sighed deeply and put his hand on the wall leaning over. Jesus. I am losing it. Christ Almighty. I need a vacation to stop drinking. Gerald stopped talking as the sound of padded footsteps came from behind him. They were coming from his bedroom. Gerald kept staring forward into the kitchen. On the opposite side of where he stood was a door into the dining room. The dining room was in the corner of the house and led from the kitchen to the living room with a sofa facing two chairs.

From there was the foyer that then wrapped around to the small hallway with a door leading to the master bedroom. Master bedroom. Gerald thought that was a funny term for what he and his wife shared. Master bedroom made more sense in a mansion in Port Washington or a penthouse in Tribeca, not in his tiny home for two. Three. Three now. and the third was in the master bedroom. His master's bedroom.

Gerald had still not turned around, and the soft padding was still coming from behind. It was deliberate now. The steps would sound far away, pause, and then come closer, pause and go again. Make a noise. But he didn't want to. He didn't want to name what he was now certain

was standing over his sleeping wife. But the longer he waited, the longer the pauses in between the footsteps may last, the longer something would be peering over the face of the woman asleep. Mixing? Gerald tried to make the question sound like a command, but it came out almost as pleading. The padding behind Gerald stopped.

Then it began again, back and forth. No reply from inside the inside. the room. But Gerald couldn't just stand in the hallway for the rest of the night. Besides, his wife was sleeping in there. What if she woke up and saw whatever it was that was in her room? What if whatever was pacing eventually got tired of staring at the sleeping woman and decided to leave? It would run right into him, cowering in the corner like prey. He would have to go in. Gerald slowly crept closer to the doorway, and the closer he got, the more difficult it became to take another step. He felt like the north side of a magnet getting closer and closer to a like north side.

If he paused for a second, he would be flung back from the doorway. But finally, he came to the edge of the room and peeked inside. If Gerald had spent another five seconds inching towards the door, Mixon would have surely seen his owner around the corner. As it were, when Gerald did crane his neck around the doorway, his dog had its back to the door. Mixon was walking, on its hind legs, away from his bed and to the window on the far side of the room.

His tail hung stiffly down between his legs. and his arms bent at the elbows. The image was that of an overgrown, monstrous newborn chicken. He walked quietly, except for the muted tapping of his small feet on the carpet. Gerald spun around away from the door and reflexively put both hands on his mouth to hold in his scream. And thank God he did. Had Gerald stayed half a second longer gaping at the door,

Mixon would have turned and seen his owner staring, and Mixon must know, walking on his hind legs, staring. Mixon must have known the score. Mixon was aware he was real. And he knows you know. That was enough. The padding stopped and then started and came closer to the door. Gerald did not move from his spot by the door, but his eyes rolled almost to their breaking point as he looked. at the dorsal.

Slowly, a snout appeared. It extended like a worm coming out of the ground. Finally, the eyes appeared, and the Hell Dog's eyes rested on Gerald's. Then he screamed. Police officers were called soon. Gerald and Paula kept to themselves generally, but they were around enough to warrant attention

when their absence was noticed. The officers found no. signs of forced entry, no signs of a struggle. The lock was turned as normal and the keys were missing. All they found was an empty house. It wasn't clean, of course. Homes with disappeared occupants rarely are. Bed sheets were strewn around the ground, glasses were smashed, cabinets were open. Oddly, nothing appeared to be stolen. What they did find was a sunken patch on the thick, woolly rug at the foot of the bed in the master. Clearly, something, something had lain down for some time and matted the long carpet.

The space was large. The dog must have been six feet and fat. This hasn't happened yet. Later that night, a couple will stop on the side of the road five miles away from this police activity. They will see a shaking shape, a lonely, cast-out dog. The girlfriend will hold it tight and successfully argue to bring it home. The boyfriend will do.

agree, of course. But there will be something he doesn't like about that dog. Not one bit. 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 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 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.