The NoSleep Podcast - S19 Ep9: NoSleep Podcast S19E09

Episode Date: April 2, 2023

It’s Episode 09 of Season 19. We ponder weak and weary with tales about homicidal horrors.“10 Heads” written by Noreen Graf (Story starts around 00:05:10)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Marjorie – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Detective 1 – Mike DelGaudio, Detective 2 – Atticus Jackson, Attorney – Graham Rowat“I Found a Leg Bone in My Yard” written by A.M. Symes (Story starts around 00:29:45)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Jesse Cornett“The Witch of Flora Pass” written by Scott J. Moses (Story starts around 00:40:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Thomas Reardon – Peter Lewis“The Taking Tree” written by Evan Dicken (Story starts around 01:08:05)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Erin Lillis“From the Dura Mater” written by Marcus Damanda (Story starts around 01:15:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator – David Cummings, Detective Peyton Crawley – Jessica McEvoy, Doctor Corey Everett – David Ault, Rafer Gray – Jeff ClementThis episode is sponsored by:Vessi - Vessiís the only shoes you need because of how versatile they are. Vessis are my go-to shoes by my door. Check them out at vessi.com/nosleep for 15% off your entire order for your Vessi shoes.ShipStation - ShipStation makes it super easy to manage and ship all your online orders faster, cheaper and more efficiently. Keep growing your business all year long with ShipStation. Use promo code NOSLEEP today at shipstation.com to sign up for your FREE 60-day trial.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Edgar Allan Poe from author Rene RehnClick here to learn more about the Calling Darkness podcastClick here to learn more about Noreen GrafClick here to learn more about A.M. SymesClick here to learn more about Marcus DamandaExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“The Taking Tree” illustration courtesy of Alia SynesthesiaAudio program ©2023 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. The works of Edgar Allan Poe reside in the public domain. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The No Sleep Podcast has a killer episode in store for you, featuring the horrors of killers and the cops who catch them. And when it comes to getting down and dirty with criminals, you'd better be wearing the right shoes. That's why I love my waterproof vesey shoes. Winter may be over, but April showers bring mud and puddles for your feet to contend with. That's why vesees are perfect for my feet. I find...

Hey, wait a minute. I couldn't help it overhear you. Are you talking about vessies? indeed, Kelly. Oh, well, move over, buddy boy. You know how much I love my Vessie Cloudburst shoes. Oh, of course. That's the shoe with all the features of a rubber winter boot built into a sneaker. Oh, I love them. They're 100% waterproof, not just water resistant. And while they're waterproof and warm, they're lighter and more comfortable than boots. Well, they look great on you. Their lugged rubber outsole gives you that extra grip in wet conditions. And they have added lining inside for extra warmth in the cold. We love vesey so much we both have a pair.

They slip on and off, so it's quick and easy to get outside. And of course, vessies are made from Dimitex, a super soft knit material that keeps your feet warm in the cold, but cool in the warmer months. Doesn't feel like it should be waterproof, but it is. Would you say you'd kill for a pair of vessies? Well, murder might be a bit extreme, but I'd fight off anyone trying to steal my vassies.

Yes, vessies are our go-to shoes by our front door. Check them out at Vesies. Vessie.com slash no sleep for a pair of your Vessie shoes. That's V-E-S-S-I.com slash no sleep to find your own pair of Vessie waterproof shoes. Well, now that our feet are safe and dry, it would be a crime if we didn't start the show right now. 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 cat, Asks offers it sherry, deep and dry.

As you knock at our chamber door, we open our sleepless tales for you in store. And the terror shall be lifted. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. Killers and Cops. A staple of the modern horror story, you have terrible people. people doing terrible things for terrible reasons, and you have the police who try to catch them

and solve the puzzle of what drives them to commit their atrocities. The horror can be compounded if the killer is of the serial variety, one whose crimes happen over and over. In this episode, we meet the evildoers and the cops who try to delve into their crimes. We hope you find these tales to be arresting. And as I've previously mentioned, our mutual-doers, our mutual News this season, Edgar Allan Poe is credited with being one of the creators of the modern detective story, and in one of Poe's most famous stories, the murders in the Rue Morg, we're not only faced with a horrifying crime involving two murders, but also a thoroughly unexpected twist when Auguste Dupin reveals who really committed the crimes.

Be it true crime or fictional, we know that skin-crawling terrors can come from tales like these. And speaking of horrible misdeeds, it would be a crime if I didn't remind our sleepless listeners of the second season of the podcast, Calling Darkness. Calling Darkness is a woman-led horror comedy podcast following six women who came together for an acting seminar and accidentally summoned a demon. Season 2 is written by friend of the show, S. H. Cooper. And it features many familiar voices as the ladies continue to deal with the aftermath of their devilish interactions. Fun and frightening, Season 2 is underway now, so make sure you join the gang as the story continues. Calling Darkness, find it wherever you get your podcasts. 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're taken to a police interrogation room. In it, we meet Marjorie, a woman accused of a crime. she insists was committed in self-defense. But in this tale, shared with us by author Noreen Graff, we learn that whether Marjorie is a criminal or a victim is really just a matter of splitting hairs. Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas, Mike Delgado, Atticus Jackson, and Graham Rowett. So don't flip your wig over this one. It's too much hassle, especially when dealing with Ten heads.

This is Detective Kerry Mason interviewing Marjorie Nelson age 42 on October 27th, 2020. It's 3.31 p.m. For the record, can you state your name? What's wrong with you, people? Why would you take my wig? You think I'm going to braid it into a rope and hang myself? Yeah, sorry, Marjorie. It's the rules. We even had to take an artificial leg off a guy last week. He was piping mad. but I get why you'd be upset. That last cop didn't care a bit. He demanded I remove my hair before he took my picture. And he didn't return it.

He just put on these cuffs and left. Can you take them off, please? Sorry, he's probably a newbie. Insecure, if you know what I mean. Lean for it, I'll cut him off. Thanks. Hey, Marjorie, for the record, could you state your name, please? Sure, it's Marjorie Nelson.

And, for the record, are you speaking to me? me voluntarily. Yes, of course. It's not like you're holding a gun to my head. Thank you. So, let's talk about why you're here. Hair is the reason I'm here. It was just supposed to be a practical joke for God's sake. Right. Hair. Look, I really want to understand your perspective. What happened? I'm waiting for my attorney. Thank you very much. That woman was nuts, and I'm not going to take the blame for this one. Maybe I provoked her a bit, but she took it way too far. She came at me over and over. I thought she would stop, but it just kept getting worse.

So you felt you had to kill her? I haven't said I killed her. I defended myself against her attacks. She died as a result of her own actions. You cops are always trying to put words into people's mouths, which is why you have such a bad rep, which is why people won't talk to you without attorneys. Right.

Sorry. You said you might have provoked her a bit? Yes, provoked her to be mad or, may be sad, not a freaking lunatic. This whole thing was about raising awareness and increasing sensitivity towards persons who have alopecia. Alope... what? It's basically hair loss. Not the genetic kind. It happens when your immune system attacks your hair follicles. You wanted to increase sensitivity towards hair loss? I thought you said it was a practical joke. Can it be both? People don't understand what it's like for a woman to lose her hair in her 20s and live hairless for the rest of her life. A decent wig

Costs a fortune. But you know what happens if I go around without a wig? Nope. I get stares or condolences. I'm either a radical skinhead or a cancer patient. Sorry. I bet that makes you really angry. Is that what happened with the victim? Did she stare at you? Look, I'm not talking about this thing without my attorney, but I can help you understand my perspective. I was only 21 when I first noticed a small bald spot on my head. Right here, I checked that spot every day with a dime to make sure it wasn't getting larger. It didn't expand, so I just parted my hair on the other side and tried to ignore it.

But about a year later, I noticed another spot and needed to go with a middle part. Sounds upsetting. It was. So that's when a dermatologist introduced me to the word alopecia. By 23, all I had was little time. cups of hair left, which I hid under hats and scarps. You should have seen my collection. Huge. I mean, overflowing. Designer ones, too. Finally, I got a blonde wig that took me eight months to pay off. Wow.

You know what hair loss does to your dating life? I can imagine. Sure, I caught plenty of attention from men with my long wig, but I never could muster the courage to tell my dates that I was nearly bald. You know, what I wanted to say was, underneath my hair, I am bald. So what? But aren't we all? Even you are bald under your hair.

And hate to break it to you, but you're getting a bit thin on top yourself. That's what the wife says. When the last of my hair clumps fell out in my 30s, I had my long wigs cut short and bought several new ones, as lightweight as possible. One bore every day of the week. And I went from blonde to Auburn. When did you get that tattoo on the top of your head?

Gang symbol? God, no. It's new. It's called a witch's now. It's supposed to ward off evil. I guess it worked because she is the dead one, not me. You know, I was fine with my life, my disability check and my two Bassett hounds. Then, when I finally saved enough to go to Florida on vacation, this woman on the plane hits me on the head with her suitcase.

Ouch, that had to hurt. Call it my last straw. Instead of an apology, she informs me my hair is crooked. Of course, her hair was gorgeous, thick with low lights and highlights and freshly cut, smelling like exotic flowers. And then she did the hair flip that women like her do, prideful women. So the deceased was this woman on the plane? Jesus, no.

You're not a good listener. The plain woman was the catalyst. Huh? She provoked me, and then I ended up provoking that crazy woman who died. Yeah, that's what I'm curious. about. All right, try to listen better. I took out an ad in the newspaper. It said that I would give $1,000 to the first 10 women who shaved their heads and showed up at Catillion Park with a baggie of their hair as proof. You wanted their hair as proof? Wouldn't the bald head be enough to prove they

had shaved their head? I needed the hair for a side project of mine. Anyway, tons of women showed up, about 20, I guess. Only, I don't show up with the money. I mean, I was there in the middle of them without a wig, acting all outraged like I had just shaved my head. But of course, I'm not paying anyone stupid enough to shave their head. I remember that incident. We got several calls about it. Some of the women tried to camp at the park the night before, and we sent them on their way. I think some of them slept in their cars. One of my guys drove by in the morning and saw the crowd under the pavilion. Seemed peaceful enough. It was. When I got there, I saw a bunch of baldies like me, milling around with their baggies of hair, all excited.

Then one of them says, hey, what if this is all a joke? And the whole mood changes. They could have just got to know one another and had a party. But they start panicking. Life is all about choices. If it gives you lemons, you can make lemonade. I've heard that one before. And stop and smell the roses, right?

I heard that one too. So what happened next at the park? After about two hours, I started taking some pictures of the women, telling them we would sue the newspaper and whoever put the ad in the paper for false advertising. But most of them didn't want me taking their pictures. So I did it as secretly as I could.

So you wanted their pictures? I know, it sounds weird, but it's probably the greatest thing I've ever done. The greatest thing you've ever done. Taking pictures. No, you're not understanding. The event. More like it's the most impactful thing I've ever done.

The most influential. You know what I mean? I mean, I changed lives that day. I get it. Like, it's the most powerful thing you've ever done. Yes, exactly. And if she hadn't figured it out, it would have been perfect. You mean the dead woman? Yes, my attacker. Yeah. Okay, what happened next at the pavilion?

So, slowly, all those miserable bald women left the pavilion. I mean, there was nothing they could do, and it was starting to rain. I should have opened a wig shop and cashed in. But he who hesitates is lost, right? Right. What happened then? They just left, and I kept taking pictures of them, pretending to be texting. You know, them walking away all embarrassed and trying to find things to cover their naked heads.

But there was one baldy who seemed fine with just hanging around and watching. I thought about approaching her to ask for her pick, but something about her, stopped me. Something about her. What was it? She didn't seem upset about her bald head, or self-conscious. She was intense, sitting on a picnic table, watching everyone, scanning like a hop. I started to feel like she knew it was me who did this thing, so I decided to leave.

And then I made a mistake. Mistake? Some of the women left their hair bags on the tables, and one was in the trash can. I took the bags of hair and stepped them into my satchel. Then I headed home. I didn't know she followed me. I was being so stupid. Hmm.

How you figure? I discounted her as just another stupid woman. But I think this one was military or something. She was thick. Thick? Strong, muscular, solid. You know what I mean? Like a Marine or something.

Hmm. In the bags of hair. What did you need them for? Spells, actually. You know, magic, witchcraft. I'm kind of a novice kitchen witch. Really? You believe in that stuff?

Not exactly. But let's say you find out tomorrow that you have cancer, and you read that some people are cured by eating a particular type of spider. Do you eat the spider? Sure. Why not? That's how I believed then. Just like when I spill salt, I throw it over my left shoulder.

Can't hurt, right? I get it. Like going to church, even if you think, gets bunk, just in case there's a heaven and hell. Sort of. Anyway, hair is supposed to be a powerful ingredient in magic spells because it lasts forever. And I wanted to try a couple of things out, you know, just for fun. There are even spells to grow hair, believe it or not.

Hmm, I never would have guessed that. But really, you should never let people get a hold of your hair. Like, I was going to try a voodoo doll and a witch's ladder and a hoodoo jar, just experimenting. But where am I going to get hair? I thought about asking a hair salon, but it's too weird, you know? So, this lady from the park, she followed you home? Yeah. I had just gotten home and was petting my dogs, Mabel and Marty, and the doorbell rings.

I went to the door and saw the Marine Lady through the peephole. I pretended I wasn't home, but she wasn't buying it and kept ringing the bell. Eventually, I opened the door. And there she was, looking large and menacing. Hello, I said, can I help you? And she just stands there with her one hand held out. Eventually, she says she's there for her thousand dollars and reaches into her pocket with her other hand.

I think she has a gun, but she pulls out a baggie of white hair and holds it up to my screen door. Freaky. I know. And then she yanks open the screen door, busting the slide latch. Give me my grand, she says. I tell her she has it wrong that I was also a victim of the prank.

My dogs are behind me barking up a storm, but they're scared too. She just shakes her head and purses her lips. Her face is splotchy and red, and she looks like she's going to tear me apart. I step back and slam and lock the door. Then I watched through the peephole, but she doesn't move. So I yelled through the door that I'm going to call the police, and then I see her walk away. Wow, intense. Can you check to see if my attention?

attorney is here yet. Huh? Oh, sure. Can I bring you something to eat or drink on my way back? Water would be great, with ice if you have it. Yeah, sure thing, but I'll have to call Joe to buzz me out. Hold on a second. You know, that woman sounds pretty scary. Hey, Joe, can you buzz me out? Marjorie needs a water. Oh, before I go, I just wanted to thank you for giving me your side of the story. This guy who's coming in, I can vouch for him. He's a good guy. Loves dogs, too. That's nice, but I'm done talking anyway. Gonna just wait on my attorney. Sure thing.

I'll check for him on my way out. Make sure he didn't get lost. Oh, here's Joe. You take care now. Hey, Alby. I'm Detective Joe Yates. Sorry, no ice. But the water's wet and the glass is clean.

Thanks. I've been listening to your story from behind that window. Hope you don't mind me saying, but it's good to know you're not a monster. When I saw that body this morning, I was thinking that some kind of sicko must have done those things. I mean, with the tongue cut out and all the other stuff, I just figured, well, anyway, listening to your side, I'm starting to think that maybe this gal got what she deserved. Exactly. I mean, if she hadn't followed me home, if she would have just left me alone, then she would be fine, and her freaking hair would be poking out like daffodils in springtime. So after she left that first time, did she come back?

She left a dead cat on my doorstep with a noose tied around its neck. Does that count? My attorney here yet? Not sure. Detective Mason is checking on his way out, but could take a bit. Paperwork, you know? But you got read your Miranda rights, right? You know, you don't need to talk to us if you don't want to.

Of course. Everybody knows about the right to remain silent. I grew up on cop shows. Miami Vice, Hill Street Blues. No way. I loved Hill Street Blues. Let's be careful out there. That's probably why I'm a cop today.

Captain Frank Farillo. Remember him? But I get the picture, I think. This broad harasses you, and you have no choice. You've got to defend yourself. Because she's a freaking psycho. Mind if I stand? My back's killing me, and you got oxies locked up in my bag.

Of course not. I'll stand, too. I don't like looking up at people. Anyway, the next morning, after I bagged the cat, I'm totally freaked out. So I'm being extra careful and I lock up my place, windows and doors. That's when I see she has scratched the number 1,000 on my screen door. I take the bus to the grocery store for dog food and I think she could be following me. So I stay real close to people and I take a different route home.

Takes longer, but I don't want to establish a pattern. That was smart. Yeah, but when I get home, she has busted into my place and painted dollar signs all over my walls in bright green and totally trash the place. So that's when I call the cops. But I hang up when I get put on hold. Oh, come? I don't want to explain the whole hair event, figuring it might get me into some trouble. And I figure maybe she's paid me back enough to have gotten her anger out.

But in case she hasn't, I'm going to get a grand from my bank to get her off my back. Sounds like a good plan. Yeah. But then, as I'm looking at the mess, I noticed that psycho bitch has scattered her hair all over my place, and it's like snow. Must have been super short hair to begin with. And then I see she took a crap on my couch.

Gross. How disgusting. What kind of animal? So now I'm getting pissed off. I sweep up her hair and bag her crap. But then, mean, it was like she was begging me to do it. Do it?

Spells. Black magic. On her. Like voodoo and creepy shit like that? Sorry, I don't mean to offend. No, it's okay. At this point, I still didn't totally believe in any of this hocus pocus either. But I'm like desperate to get rid of this chick. And the amazing thing is that lots of these recipes call for hair.

And she just handed it to me. so I fix up my first batch of magic. God, lady, I'm on the edge of my seat here. Did it work? Nope, but only because I made substitutions, which I now know killed the spell. I used parsley instead of sage, and I didn't have an article of her clothing,

so I used something of mine. The pink scarf around her neck? Was it yours? Whoa. Don't try to trick me for Rio. I'm not talking without my attorney. Remember, I told you the spell didn't work. But if at first you don't succeed...

Right. Okay. Sorry. I was just thinking that since she was being such a bitch, you might have wanted to stop her and the only thing you had was a scarf to strangle her. So why do you assume she died from my Hermes? Just because it was around her neck? There were strangulation marks. Do you think you can't strangle someone after they're dead? You don't watch CSI, do you? Apparently you do. What do you think happened? I think someone had to defend themselves against a madwoman,

and she, or he, did what she or he had to do. Can you check on my attorney now? Sure thing. You know, those public defenders are never in a hurry. But you can wait in a jail cell if you prefer. What? And give up this lovely little eight-by-eight open layout? And the minimalist decor with avant-garde metal chair and one-way mirror?

Oh, and the blinding fluorescent glow and clanking fans adds perfectly to the ambiance. Funny. Can we sit down now? It's making me dizzy watching you pace the room. Sure, why not? So what I don't get is why you want to charge me with a crime when you know it was self-defense. Well, it isn't me who wants to charge you. It's more protocol. You're with the body and burning incense and chanting. Most innocent people would call the police in those circumstances. It wasn't incense. It was hair. And an eyeball.

I didn't see the eyeball. Because I ate it. Sorry. What did you say? Got you, didn't I? Chill for Rio. I didn't eat her eye. But I might have gotten a little tongue, if you know what I mean. Look, we don't need to talk about the incident. But since we're waiting on your attorney, I'm curious about the spells you do.

I've always been interested in occult stuff. What happened after your spell didn't work? Well, there was another spell in the book. If I was going to get control over her, I needed hair, which I had. And one other ingredient that I didn't think I had, I needed some of her body fluids. Piss, blood, or bingo, shit. She had crapped on my couch.

So I fished that bag out of the trash. What's that sound? Oh, buzzer. Looks like your guy's here. Hey, hey, what's happening here? Just talking about voodoo. Took you long enough. I've been waiting.

Zip it, sister. I'll be the one talking from now on. And you, Mr. sneaky detective man, out. Marjorie, it's been a pleasure. Can someone check on my dogs? Make sure they're okay. Jesus, I hope you haven't been blabbing to the cops. Would you tell them?

Nothing. I know how to keep my mouth shut with cops. Good. Let me grab a seat. Names Francis James Holloway, the third, and I got about 30 minutes before I need to be in court. Okay, what happened? This psycho bitch came after me, and I neutralized her. But it was self-defense. She had a weapon?

She had a knife. So she came to your house, uninvited with a weapon, forced to weigh in, intending to cause bodily harm? I didn't invite her, but I was ready for her. I left my front door open. I knew she would walk in because I cast a spell by burning her hair and shit. She walked right into my circle of mirrors with dead bloody rat parts. Somewhere rubber. I could only find one real dead rat.

Got a bag of blood at the costume store. That stuff is very convincing, and I mixed it with cottage cheese. So she enters your premises, then what? She was frozen, standing there with her knife and not knowing which way to turn. She starts making gagging sounds. Then I stick her boo-doo doll with a pin to her heart. and you should have seen her fold in half like a paper doll and vomit on the floor. I quickly shoot her in the neck with some morphine.

Morphine? Do those people from hospice really think anyone returns their leftovers? They were from when my mom passed. May she rest in peace. I was praying with her until... So you injected the intruder to subdue her, and... She passed out cold. Then I took her knife and cut out her tongue.

Well, more like half her tongue. It was step four of the cleanse. I needed the tongue to silence the speaker of long. the curator of evil. The righteous will never be shaken, but the wicked will not inhabit the land. The mouth of the righteous brings forth wisdom, but a perverse tongue will be cut out. Where's that from? The Bible, Solomon's Proverbs.

Have you heard it? Sounds familiar. So you cut out a tongue, then what? The spellbook didn't say what to do with the tongue once I removed it, so I put it in a copper wicker bowl with her hair and shit. I wasn't going to kill her, but she woke up and started coming at me. and her tongue was bleeding all over the plastic covering my floor, and she was slipping in it and gagging and making circles like a rabid dog in heat.

So then I hit her on the head with a marble book-in shaped like the world. She fell backwards and whacked her head. She wasn't moving much, but I tied her hands with witch's twine. I didn't want to kill her. But I just knew she was just one of those people who never let things go. Just like my mother, rest her soul. Is that it? She died then?

My mother? Not your mother. Oh, nope. I started to push her thousand dollars into her mouth, but she opened her eyes and bit me. See these bite marks? Pretty deep. Go on.

So then I shoved the money way down her throat with my fingers until she finally stops breathing and I know she's a goner. She was dead as a doorknail when I strangled the evil out of her with one of my best scarves. I saw this blue mist seep out of her eyes and then flowed out the crack at the bottom. bottom of my kitchen window, blending perfectly with the sky, back into the world, I guess. We're good here, Marjorie. Might need her psych consult, but it seems like she came to

your residence uninvited with a weapon, forced her way in and was intent on killing you. You defended yourself from the intruder. Yes, exactly what I have been saying. It was self-defense. I'll have you out in the jiff. Hang tight. One more thing. My hair. Can you get my wig back? Sometimes it's not the police who have to deal with clues which point to a rather obvious crime. People stumble across evidence and it can lead them to ponder whether or not to involve the authorities. And in this tale, shared with us by author A. M. Sims, we meet a man who has discovered something

gruesome on his property. Let's find out how he chose to deal with it. Performing this tale is Jesse Cornett. So understand that some people. people have skeletons in their closets, while this man tells us, I found a leg bone in my yard. It could be anyone's leg. There isn't a label tied to it. There's no identifying markers. It's just a bone from a leg.

A femur, to be exact. It's been 20 years since Mr. Douglas' biology class, but Google Images is pretty specific that what I have is a human femur. Most likely from a male, about 5 foot 6, given the bone's length and width. Ignoring the fact that this bone has been removed from a skeleton, it's in pristine condition. There are no bite marks from animals, no scrapes from a tool used to remove it from its home inside a thigh, and no splinters from previous breaks, pre or post-mortem. Still, the human femur is the strongest bone in the body, so it may not be that impressive to come across a femur in pristine condition.

If you don't factor in the improbability of coming across femurs in your yard, that is. It was under the dead Christmas tree my neighbor put behind my shed. She puts her tree in my burn pile every year, and it's kind of a spring passage of sorts, that my first bonfire of the year is burning the Christmas tree. I was raking leaves I hadn't picked up last fall when I rolled the Christmas tree over, and that's when the bone poked out at me. It could be anyone's leg. My yard backs up to a wooded lot that's part of a city park.

None of my neighbors have fences or security lights. I don't either, so it'd be real easy for a person to drop a femur while passing through. Perhaps they dropped a tibia and a metatartre. as well, but birds and raccoons snatch the smaller bones up. Or an animal could have dragged an entire leg, flesh and all, to my burn pile during the winter, and this is all that's left. We have coyotes in the area, and a silver fox lives under my deck. I'm not sure a fox would eat a human leg, but if the coyotes tore apart a body and the fox snuck a leg away while they were feasting, perhaps he could drag the leg to my house to have a

snag behind my shed. Both are viable and potential explanations for the femur in my yard. They don't explain the clavicle, or the mandible, though. After consulting WebMD, I've come to the conclusion that these bones also belong to a male who is about 5 foot 6 in height, possibly 165 pounds, not dissimilar in size to my neighbor's husband. The National Museum of Natural History has articles online about bone remodeling and photos of the minute tubes containing blood vessels, which I learned are called osteons. Given the high number of small osteon fragments in the femur, it's safe to assume the bone comes from a man 40 to 55 years in age, not dissimilar in age to my neighbor's husband. But they could be

anyone's bones. I've excavated most of the ground behind. behind my shed. I thought I was digging up a phalanche at one point, but it turned out to be a vole skeleton. Most likely the vole, I fed poison gummy worms to last fall. I didn't want to kill him, but he was ripping up my yard. I waited a few weeks, hoping an owl would find him to be a delicious dinner, but he continued to rip up my yard. My neighbor's husband was outside smoking and saw the little bugger tunneling around, so he offered to share some of his. his vole-killing gummies, and I accepted. The vol stopped terrorizing my yard that night. When I knocked on my neighbor's door to thank her husband for the help, she told me he'd left for

the store. She had a swollen left eye and blood dripping down her neck, and she was wearing her white sneakers, so I left her to be alone, telling myself she was busy and didn't need to be disturbed. The bones could be anyone's bones. No one in the neighborhood thinks twice about the police coming to my neighbor's house. They are at her house fairly frequently. But when they knock on the rest of our doors, we grow suspect. My neighbor's husband had gone to the store to buy an ice pack and a bottle of Advil from my neighbor after she accidentally walked into a door, giving her a nasty black eye and a two-inch gash on the back of her head.

He never returned. His car was still parked in the parking lot, and security footage shows someone roughly his size wearing his jacket and hat and white sneakers walking into the store, but never walking out. None of us saw anything. None of us heard anything either, especially not a chainsaw mere hours after my neighbor's husband. had left for the store. I had thought I saw footprints in the snow from her house to my bonfire

ring, but now I realize I was mistaken. If I had seen any footprints, they would have been after Christmas when she threw her Christmas tree behind my shed. You know what? The bones could be branches. My neighbor has a white birch tree, and when large, limbs break off, she carries them to my woodpile. White birch branches could be mistaken for bones at a passing glance. Since the police are no longer called to check on her well-being, and since the rest of the neighborhood no longer needs to pretend we don't hear anything in the middle of the night, there's really no reason I should concern myself with things I may or may not have found in my backyard. I bet I must took a branch for a bone. I spend my nights raking up leaves from my yard,

my neighbor's yard, and 50 feet into the woods behind our yards. When I come across what look like white birch branches, I throw them in my bonfire pit along with weeds and leaves, everything I find each night so that no one else comes across a birch branch and mistakes it for an ulna or a fibula or a rib. Anybody could mistake a birch branch for a bone? My neighbor brings over homemade cookies and we sit at the fire and enjoy its warmth.

I consider telling her the funny story of finding a bone under her dead Christmas tree, laughing with her over my mistake. But decide against it. We both already know what I really found under that dead Christmas tree. Make no bones about it. Finding evidence like that certainly is a challenging situation. So let's take a quick break to find out how to overcome other challenges. Like if you're a small business owner, you know all about the economic challenges these days, challenges that can be helped by using ShipStation. Listen, I can definitely attest that the current economic downturn is hitting all of us hard. And when running a business, every little bit of savings helps, especially on your shipping costs. Shipstation gives you access to discounts of up to

84% off USPS and UPS rates, and you can manage every order from one simple-to-use dashboard. When you lower your shipping costs and make returns easy, your customers stay happy while you save money. The Shipstation dashboard makes your shipping tasks easy and keeps you organized. If you're on the fence about using ShipStation, now is the perfect time to try it out. You can use it free for two months. That's 60 days for free. Take advantage of those great rates and grow your brand and business, just like the more than 130,000 companies that have grown their e-commerce businesses with ShipStation. And get this, 98% of companies that stick with ShipStation for a year become customers for life. So worry less about the bottom line when you save money with ShipStation.

Go to Shipstation.com and use code No Sleep today and sign up for your free 60-day trial. That's shipstation.com slash no sleep. Now let's get back to our killer show. This next story is one you won't want to pass. When confronted with people who have committed murder, it's easy to label them as cold-blooded, evil, or just plain malevolent. We reduce them to inhuman, even before understanding their motivations. But in this tale, shared with us by author Scott J. Moses,

we meet a man who must explain the bizarre circumstances which led to the untimely deaths of three people, including his wife. Performing this tale is beautiful. Peter Lewis. So keep in mind, sometimes the finger of blame can be pointed at the wrong person, especially when dealing with the witch of Flora Pass. Fourth day of January in 1912, my name is Thomas Reardon, and I did not kill my wife. I want to be absolutely sure the one recording this, type that correctly. Her hand is quick, and I must ensure that inattention to my words does not berth me a death sentence. Though death, if these two snickering B-O-I man are to be

believed, is what I'll more than likely be dealt. Some things can't be understood from the confines of our earthly senses, and while it may seem logical to condemn me for the deaths of my neighbors John and Mabel Lawrence, having found me screaming in their home covered in their blood, I say again, I did not kill them. I can't make sense of it, despite having lived through the entirety of the day in question, though I can relay this. I loved my wife. Floretta, Jean, Reardon, love her still, and though I did not kill her,

I could not save her. The events of October 27, 1911 will haunt me till my dying day. I am a man of 37 years. and have had the gift of powerless vigilance to watch those I love pass on without my say-so, without the fortitude or means to do much about it. But enough about that, enough about me. This is the true account of what happened that day at Flora Pass along the Potopsco River, in a small town, I'm sure, has grown smaller, given what transpired there.

I will withhold its name from this record, less curious. souls travel to that desolate place. My wife rolled the phrase along my tongue, tossing it up and along the roof of my mouth, tasting its strangeness, and yet peering through the dense pines at Cloretta, my love, knee-deep in the flora river, I knew it to be true. She ran her hands over the reeds as she went, the churning water rising to her calves below the hem of her gray dress. I'll admit I had suspicions Cloretta was up to something, though I was blinded by love, and perhaps still am, that most damnable of human conditions, and so here, even on the inevitable brink of my own destruction, I will not speak ill of her. She made life worth living for this poor

Maryland boy, and we had 15 glorious years together. I know your intent is to make us out as the murdering couple to sell more papers in Baltimore, this city, your organization, this account, are all corrupt. The things I've endured shouldn't be in a world ruled by a loving God, though if he exists, I assume the devil and his ilk must as well. She'd taken the Lawrence's cart from their barn early on the day in question and stopped it at the river's edge. Though tempted, I will not paint myself as the sleuth detective, only that I knew Cloretta well, and that she was a driven woman, and with the loss of our son stoking the fires of her soul with hate, I think she lapsed. So perhaps I only say this in retrospect to what occurred in the weeks thereafter.

Our son, Matthew, a boy of 11 years, died from fever in the same room he was born. He suffered. weeks before his passing, and we prayed to God for healing to take one of us instead, but alas, God saw the trade unfit. We had sinned much in this life, or so the reverend said, and took our boy so full of life but for the scourge which afflicted him. The weeks after Matthew's death near broke us, and we stayed hold up in our house on the outskirts of that, I mentioned down two weeks' time. A few members of our congregation dropped food and goods at our doorstep the days following the funeral. One couple had the audacity to sing hymns on our doorstep every second morning, lest the devil get in.

An unwelcome ritual, which ceased when I first cracked the door to dawn's light. How they scampered to their cart when confronted with the ones they had meant to comfort. disgusted with the sight of me. Cloretta behind me, though avoiding the light, she'd grown accustomed to the dark, and I believe it seeped endure. The weather by her own volition or by forced entry, I cannot rightly say.

I think Cloretta resented me for opening that door, for either inviting the world back in or freely stepping into an existence without Matthew, without our son. I can't help but notice the tight. The typist clutches her cross, typing with one hand, whereas two would be more useful. Where do I have to go? Am I late for something? Oh, a joke.

Go on, Dan. Laugh! Laugh at the man in handcuffs. Laugh at the man with nothing left to lose. I finished. Oh, continue. Interruptions will only further delay you from your own families. Those, I believe you'll hold tighter upon my accounts.

Conclusion. Hmm. So where was I? Ah, we lay together in the sweat-soaked sheets where Matthew passed days prior, praying for compromise, for the illness crawling throughout the bedspread to seep into us as well that we might be reunited with him. When Cloretta and I woke the next morning unmolested, she turned to me hair on-kewarmested. Kempt and matted to her face, something in her eyes. Gone. That spark, fueling her joy, her laugh, her sweet kiss, lost in our son's creaking bed. You do nothing to return him.

She said, restless circles beneath her dark eyes. What am I to do? I said, sitting up in bed, the anger swelling in me. Raise the dead. Have I not prayed with you these weeks? Matthew Heeded God's call walks with him as we speak, as Reverend Norson attested. My tears came then, and her dark eyes eviscerated me. I miss him, Cloretta, I do, but it's out of our hands now. We must accept this hell that it is and remains strong lest we break. She clared there in the half-darkness, said the last thing. as she ever said to me in the whole of our lives together.

Where is God in this, Thomas? If he exists, he has forsaken us. You may be fine failing your son, but I am not. I will not. From then on, Cloretta would leave with the horse from the barn, who'd yet to starve, thanks to our unruly neighbors, in the early mornings of that coming winter,

going who knows where, and in my anger, I, let her, too full of pride for reconciliation, overflowing with resentment at the things she had said that night in Matthew's bed. I was blind with rage at her silence toward me, how she'd exchange words with the ether in bed there beside me in the dead of those nights while I longed for her and her words. She would return with the setting sun most days, but as the weeks went, she re-emerged later and later, coming home with night long upon the landscape, the moon high in the sky. The circles beneath her eyes grew dark with ash or soot, and she would crawl into our bed

cold, tracking soil through the house for me to clean the following morn. It continued like that for weeks, and what do you mean was sheaf faithful? Are you implying there was another... Do your superiors see through the one-way glass, how you torture you? and already tortured soul. Floretta was changed, yes, not the woman I'd known, not the woman I'd married, but not in another man's arms. Perhaps something else is... I asked for this meeting, but I'll just as likely go back to myself to avoid being interrupted and...

Oh, you'll be quiet now, hmm? You want to hear what happened after all? Well, okay then. And you're right. It is best to keep a dead man talking. The more answered questions, the less paperwork. No. Eventually, as my wife wanted little to do with me,

I coped the way men do. By throwing myself into my work, I couldn't help but feel I'd failed her. And so I would provide in the only way I knew practically. A home, roof. Stocked, pantry, funds to boast. The foreman asked me thrice before I convinced him to allow my return to the mill just shy of two months after Matthew's death. What better way than work for one to occupy his mind, I'd said, in idle stillness, that's when my grief is loudest.

On the way home from the mill with Mr. Lawrence, yes, that, Mr. Lawrence. He mentioned something of a peculiar notion. He turned to me as we rounded the bend near my semi-secluded abode and said, Senior wife headed out Flora Passway while resetting my traps yesterday. What of it? I replied. I've cast my line there many occasions. The fish are large, delicious. I admit my anger contributed to the blindness of my situation.

In those days I hardly saw Cloretta, only felt her crawl into bed in the dead of those nights. I'm ashamed, but I was jealous of another looking on my wife in the sunlight when I was too prideful to address her lying next to me in the dark, conversing there with the nothing in our room grown cold. I had become used to my situation, if you can believe it. Grief works its way into your bones, boys, amongst other things. Flora Pass, he said, looking through the thick pine. My grand-da told me stories. It's an evil there. He clutched the cross around his neck as I swatted a bloated fly from my face.

Thomas, he said, cross still clutched. I suggest you speak with your wife and avert your eyes from Flora Pass or any duration there. I set the traps that way, sure. Something draws animals there, something hungry. But I check them every other day when the sun is full. bright, never at night, here. It raised my hand as he dropped me home and, stepping onto my porch, I jerked at his shrieked gasp behind me. I whipped around to the pounding of horse's hooves on the soft earth, glimpsing Mr. Lawrence's card receding round the bend as if to escape violent rains. I'd thought him a fool, nothing more. Mr. Lawrence quit the mill the next morning and did not arrive to procure me for the day's labors. I'd walked the mile to his house and beaten on his door for explanation, though he wouldn't answer.

And so I walked into down to the mill, seen as Cloretta had the horse arriving hours late. The foreman must have forgotten me in my grief by then, as he'd had no sympathy whatsoever when he fired me. And so, I bought a bottle of bourbon on my walk home. I thought of stopping by the Lawrence is again drunk and full of hell from multiple fronts. Rage for my wife, rage for him taking the one thing I had left. But I refrained. When I arrived home, Cloretta faced the rear wall of her main room, her back to me. She was still, her bare feet caked in mud, the tracks entering the house to where she stood.

The mud at one time wet, now dry, seemed she'd been there sometimes. She didn't acknowledge me, though this was commonplace. We hadn't spoken in weeks by then. I stumbled, catching myself on the table which slid along our hardwood floor. I'm still unsure if Claretta spoke to me or to the one in the wall, the one I'd yet to see, the one I knew nothing of. I retired to bed, reasoning I'd tell her about my unemployment in the morning when I was sober. Oh, the lies we tell our story. Before I fell into a drunken slumber, I heard our front door open, close soon after.

You ask about my hand, why the fingers are removed, the cluster of uneven knuckles, the only remnants. I already told you, though the redundancy of your asking must be for the sake of this record, and if that's the case, fine. My story remains unchanged. Matthew chewed them. off, nod them down to the bone. I must ask, is it standard procedure to mock those interrogated? At those whose stories are too surreal to believe? There are things beyond us. Things I've seen, continue to see, even in the dark of my cell. The typist is right to clutch her cross, just as Mr.

Lawrence had, too. Am I not allowed to converse with her? Fine, then stop interrupting me. I came of my own accord, remember? I awoke to Cloretta slouched on top of me, her nails raking my bare thighs. I winced, but in my drunkenness neglected an explanation, welcoming the thought of intimacy with my wife. We had not been together since before Matthew's death. She smelled of the river. She groaned when I entered her but remained still, utterly silent but for a low moan.

Her moss-ridden hair tickling my chest with each thrust. I spoke her name when it was finished, lying spent beneath her still upright form. She twitched, a croak in her throat and she leaned into me whispering in my ear. You'd give anything for your boy's return. No. I've missed you, love, I said, winded, breathless. No, she said, and slumped from me to the floor, a path of muck and grime from the river trailing her through the bedroom door. I was driven to thinking it all a dream then, or at least choosing to believe that the incredibly tall figure in the room's corner observing me was a figment of my drunken imagination the way it hunched

Their hands clasped rubbing together as one needs dough. I'd watched them, a season, all while conscious of the rifle by the cabinet adjacent to the bedroom door. My heart throbbed in my chest and ears, and as the front door slammed, my eyes lurched from it an instant. And when I look back to the corner, I... Well, I was alone. Eventually, I sat myself in the corner of our room, managing... minutes of half sleep, jolting awake to see the bed still upright and wedged against the door, the dresser still pulled before the room's window, stalwart as ever.

I awoke to a crash, something heavy flung through our front door. You and I know now it was the door itself ripped from its hinges, and muffled as they were from my makeshift bunker, a woman's screams, scampered up the walls. The sound of ten thousand swarming hornets crescendoed, only dying when the screams overtook them. Slow, heavy footfalls on the floor echoed amidst them. Thud, thud, thud! I sighted my rifle towards the mattress barring my room's door, sweating, muscles tensed as the cries turned to whimpers, and with a thunk someone fell to the floor.

I knew then what you'd confirm upon my arrival here, that it was Mr. Lawrence's wife, Mabel, that... What? What would you? If you'd have torn down that mattress and opened the door, you're a better man than I'll ever be. See, I dared not open it. Something deep within me, something primal, didn't allow me to so much as budge from that corner. I'm a coward. I freely admit that.

Morning seeped through the window in angular slivers. The room was humid, sour even, despite being October. Cowered or no, I was compelled to check the house to leave the room, which felt more a cage with the sunlight's intrusion, and so rifle in hand, I did just that. Blood was strewn along the walls of the floor, the ceiling. I collapsed, clawing my open-mouthed face. trembling, as my eyes took it all in through the gaps my fingers allowed. After a one-sided conversation with God, I glimpsed strands of loose hair amidst the dry blood stuck to the old planks, a trail of it leading out the front door. I remembered Matthew sitting there months earlier, whittling his wooden dolls, knowing that, is my story so unbelievable? Lowe even the typist

chuckles with my words emboldened by you strong detectives who snicker all the more loudly. It sounds crazy, and I know it's more plausible to condemn me the killer, though I'm what? Bleeding? Oh my, this is new. My eyes, what about them? Come now, no more interruptions. We are near the end, near the reason I've broken weeks. of unmovable silence. I picked myself up from that dingy floor, took up my rifle, and made for my old fishing spot. That place in the crevice of the mountain, the one Mr. Lawrence couldn't mention without invoking God. And as the wind stilled and the sun rose in a baby blue sky, I set out for Flora Pass, knowing in my marrow my love would be there. I hid, in a mess of brush within the pines as Cluretta unloaded Mabel Lawrence from their cart,

the one I'd ridden into town on many occasions. That's when Mr. Lawrence came out of the woodwork, his clothes torn and crimson as if he'd been mauled by something starved, rifle trained on my love. Damned witch, he said, arms shaking from the weight of his upright rifle. May you burn eternal. for killing my wife, Mabel, my... He swayed there before advancing on her and the river in an unsteady gate. Cloretta groaned, craning her ear to the wind as if for a voice to speak, though something did. Two whispered words.

I wondered if Mr. Lawrence had hidden in his bedroom as well, as Cloretta tore through his home, how she'd brought his wife to my wife to my wife. my house for the slaughter. Perhaps we men are all the same. Cowards, when it is most necessary to live up to everything we're told we must be. How much stronger is woman than we? But I digress. See, it was Mr. Lawrence's own fault, clutching that cross on my doorstep, choosing allegiances that day, perhaps seen in the window of my house, or atop the roof on all fours, the tall, lanky figure I had witnessed the night I lay with my wife. Loretta raised her hand, and Mr. Lawrence stilled before straightening.

He then planted the butt of the rifle to the earth, knelt, fastened his chin over the barrel's end, and wept before pulling the trigger. His body jerked from the impact and fell limp, shriveled there on the smooth stones of the river Bank. My love dragged the corpse to the river's edge. A lioness pulling on a fresh kill, jerking, writhing, she stopped, tilting her head to the river again. And I swear, to God above, though he doesn't seem to care, given all that has happened, Matthew, my boy, walked out of the river to meet her. It was him in the same clothes we buried him, trudging out from those most. murky waters back to us.

My family was whole again. I lowered my rifle and breathed in the cool air, watching through teary eyes as Matthew lifted his hand to the river. Cloretta wiped the tears from her eyes and without hesitation, walked into the river, pulling the Lawrence's in after her. Matthew watched her disappear beneath the water. I shrieked, covering my mouth for the sound. already gone from me and dropping my rifle. I broke from cover falling to my knees as my boy

bridged the gap between us in two few steps, shimmering as he looked down on my frailness, his lips a tight line. Ma thought for me, he said in a voice that was and was not his own. What do you offer, poor, useless man? Your bride has. told me much. But what are men? What are you? But useless in this age of gluttonous abundance? Matthew, I cried, erratic, my mind long gone from me. Matthew, my boy. He took my hand, kissed it, and whispered in the voice of an old woman. An offering. Before the landscape melted away. I saw someone on the horizon where the water touched the sky, closed. Boothed in long blacks and browns incredibly tall, standing hunched atop the river like

Jesus in the parable, the weeds of the land strewned through her hair, the air permeated sulfur, and fish rose to the river's surface, bobbing wide-eyed in the slow-moving current. My hand crunched, and the pain shot through my arm as the blood came. Matthew cradled my fingers in his cupped hands, offering them to her across the river, turning from me as I writhed there screaming. My periphery blurred, my thoughts, only pain, and as insanity scratched on the doors of my mind. Matthew saved me, turned back to me then, his smile calming, his eyes, nose, and the lips sliding down his face. like melting wax.

I leave you the others, he said, pointing to my remaining fingers, for the work which still needs doing. You found me in the Lawrence's home, clutching my bloodied hand, sprawled atop their corpses, rounded me up without question, and brought me here, letting me rot in that cell for as long as you have, has given me time to think. Hurrah for the American justice system. Oh, what's the matter? She seems to have stopped typing.

My apologies, but now it's I who can't help but smile. Oh, what's that? I couldn't hear you for the other man's screams. I did not kill my wife, nor the Lawrence's, though I did little to stop their demise. I have placed words throughout this account, words from my dreams, words which invoke her, when said in a certain order, in a specific tone. And now that I am hers completely, I have no choice but to indoctrinate others. See, I am a man forever changed, and my shredded soul.

has all but left me. My wife and her mistress feast on it together, one strip at a time, while the son, who is not my son, looks on, drooling, my severed fingers adorning his neck. I want to reiterate for anyone left alive that I did not kill my wife, for if you turn your head, you'd see she's here. Smell the cool of the river. See the fish belly up in your mind's eye. What's that? Your lips move but produce no sound,

though perhaps you can't speak with your jaw shorn, hanging there a jar, your bottom teeth, the necklace of bone. I shall make a record once I'm free of these cuffs, free of these chains around my ankles, which drop, almost as I say the words, as the glass cracks one line at a time, as it has for the entirety of our conversation, even now, again, there in the pan's corner, there, on the sill's lower portion, no, you are the only ones left alive in this facility.

Everyone beyond that glass is inthrall to my wife and her miss. Their souls thrust on the banquet table my mouth waters for, yet may not take part in devouring. Not yet. And as Matthew crawls atop your wrecked body in the clothes he was buried in, awaiting my completion of this account, I know he, they are not finished with me, for I still have fingers to spend. I could have told you of the flies sooner, how they crawl beneath my lids and the lids of my son. Had you only asked, though you were occupied, she has dragged you all about the floor, pinned the typist high in the corner of the rightmost wall, unnaturally wedged there like a marionette,

strings caught in malicious trees. And here I was, thinking I was talking to a corpse, but no, your lip quibious. Slumped there over your dead partner, the blood where Matthew stuck his hand in your side, pooling around you and the one you laughed with poetry. Oh yes, go on, reach for the cross the typist once clutched. I suspect you're an only on holiday sort of churchgoer. And, well, I'm here to tell you, God doesn't listen and doesn't exist or doesn't. or doesn't care and that your back pocket faith can't save you. But the thing in Flora pass, it's attentive.

It listened. Listens now. We're all just clocks, you know, tick-talking things, things which stop. Our flesh and bones, the hands on the wheel, turning, clicking. Be grateful for your fingers, though perhaps you should be afraid. Perhaps they want more from you. Perhaps you'll glimpse hell as I have. The blithless 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 nosleeppodcast.com for show notes and more deep. details about the people who bring you this show. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep podcast, we thank you for being a supportive Season Pass member and for joining us within the exquisite horror of our reality. This audio program is copyright 2023 by Creative Reason Media Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.