The NoSleep Podcast - S19: NoSleep Podcast S19 Summer Vacation 01

Episode Date: August 6, 2023

While we take a short summer vacation break, we’re featuring two stories from our Season Pass 19 episodes. Surf’s up! “Head Games” written by K.G. Lewis (Story starts around 00:01:00) Produced & scored by: David Cummings Cast: Narrator – Linsay Rousseau, Referee – Jeff Clement, Nurse – Danielle McRae, Doctor – Kyle Akers, Mother – Nichole Goodnight “From the Red Dirt” written by LP Hernandez (Story starts around 00:22:30) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Joseph – Jeff Clement, Mama – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Grampa – Jesse Cornett, Jessie – Mary Murphy, Tramp – Graham Rowat, Long Jake – Elie Hirschman Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Click here to learn more about LP Hernandez Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone “Summer Vacation” illustration courtesy of Alexandra Cruz 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.

Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. Now that school is out, I mean to say now that season 19 has wrapped itself up and crawled back into its sarcophagus, it's time for a bit of a summer vacation. As you can hear, I'm already in vacay mode as I'm down the shore and enjoying the sun and sand of the beach. But no matter how much the sun is shining and that tiki bars are jamming, there is still plenty of time. for horror stories to bring a chill to those warm summer nights. This week and next, we're going to share tales which were featured on Season Pass 19 episodes. We trust you'll enjoy listening to them no matter where you are during the balmy month of August. So the sun is shining, and it sure is bright, but brace yourself, because you're in for some frights.

In our first tale, we meet a woman who awakens feeling drugged, sluggish, and alone. in a strange room. As she struggles to make sense of what's going on, she soon realizes that she's being forced to participate in a strange competition. But in this tale, shared with us by author K. G. Lewis, the stakes she's dealing with are much more than mere life and death. Performing this tale are Lindsay Russo, Jeff Clement, Danielle McCray, Kyle Acres, and Nicole Goodnight. So pay attention if you want to get ahead in life? You'll need to know the rules when you play head games. The sound of a loud buzzer cut through my drugged slumber, forcing me awake.

I cracked open my eyes and had to squint until they adjusted to the brightness of the fluorescent lights on the ceiling. What the hell? I was sitting on an old Torazo floor, leaning against the wall in a room I didn't recognize and had no idea how I'd gotten there. The last thing I remembered was leaving the best of the bed. basketball game and getting in the car to go to the bowling alley with my friends, Libby and Thea and Josh, Thea's boyfriend. Our team won the game, scoring 32 points to the opposing team's 28 points. We were going to the bowling alley to celebrate. The bartender there was Thea's older brother,

and he had no problem serving us alcohol, even though we were underage. Where are they? They weren't in the room with me. I was completely alone. I pushed myself off the floor, keeping my back against the wall to maintain my balance. My head felt heavy and any sudden movement made me feel dizzy. Once I was on my feet, I looked around the room, trying to figure out where I was. The square space reminded me of a classroom, but I think that was only because of the old wooden desk that had been pushed against the far wall. On the desk was a large silver serving platter, the kind with a dome over it and three bottles of water. There was nothing else in the room except for a door, above which was a broken exit sign. At least I assumed it was broken because the light that

usually illuminated the red letters wasn't on. Looking at the water bottles made me realize how dry my mouth was, but I wasn't about to run over there and drink them, not when I had no idea what was going on. Getting out of there was my top priority, so the first thing I did was walk over to the door and try to leave the room. It wouldn't budge, which I figured would be the case, but I still had to try it. To confirm that I was trapped, as I suspected, I pounded on the door and yelled, Hello, anybody out there! I did that a couple of times before giving up. What now?

I turned and faced the desk. Now that I was closer to it, I could see that there was an envelope sitting in front of the platter, with something written on it. As I approached the desk to get a better look, I could see that the writing on the envelope was my name, handwritten in a fancy cursive script. I started to wonder if Thea and Lerner, Libby were also trapped in similar rooms.

Only one way to find out what's going on here. I reached out and picked up the envelope, turning it over in my hands. It wasn't sealed. The flap had just been tucked inside it. I lifted the flap and removed the folded up piece of paper that was inside the envelope. Written in the same flowing cursive script was this. Congratulations. You've been chosen to participate in this region's head games. On the platter before you is the head you must use.

to compete in the games. This is a timed event, so make sure to complete each game as quickly as possible. Your time starts as soon as you leave this room. To unlock the door and begin, simply pick up the head and proceed to the first game room. Good luck, contestant. This has to be someone's idea of a sick joke. I folded the paper up, slid it back into the envelope, and then tossed it onto the table. I bet there isn't even a head under there.

I tried to convince myself while staring at my reflection in the silver dome covering the covering the platter. If there is, it's probably just a mannequin. I placed my hand over the little handle on top of the dome and began to lift it. Oh my God. I released the handle and let the dome fall as soon as I saw the jagged stump of a severed head sitting on the platter. It's real. Not only was it real, but I also recognized the wavy brown hair I saw. I'm backed away from the table shaking my head and putting as much distance between myself and the platter as I could. No, no, no, no, this can't be happening. I started crying and was on the verge of hysterics

until a timely intervention allowed me to regain control of myself. The two loud knocks on the door startled me. I whirled around just in time to see an envelope slide into the room from beneath the door. Let me out! I ran over to the door pounding on it as I repeatedly begged whoever was on the other side of it to let me go. After a few minutes of that, I gave up and turned around. leaning against the wall in defeat and exhaustion. Eventually, I slid my back down the wall until my ass hit the ground.

Once there, I looked over at the envelope that had been shoved under the door. Like the one on the table, it had my name written on it. Angry at being locked up, I tore the envelope open and tossed it aside. Inside it was another folded-up note. This one said, You have 30 minutes to enter the game or you forfeit. Should that happen, it will be your head. on the next player's platter instead of your friends.

I crumpled the note into a ball and tossed it across the room. Fuck you! I sat there for a few minutes, stewing in my anger and frustration, feeling completely helpless. Whoever had done this had backed me into a corner, knowing that if I wanted to live, I was going to have to play their twisted game.

All right, you sick fuck! I yelled to whoever was listening as I got back to my feet. You want me to play your game? I'll play it. But when I'm done, I'm going to find you and put your head on that platter. I was addressing the ceiling as I spoke, thinking there was a hidden camera up there watching me. Do you hear me? I intended to walk over to the table and toss the lid of the platter aside.

But once my hand was on it, I couldn't do it. Instead, I grabbed one of the water bottles and chugged it, stalling for time. Just do it. get it over with. I slowly lifted the lid and set it aside. I'm sorry, Libby. I could only stand to look at the decapitated head of my friend for a second before I had to look away. That one glance was enough to tell me everything I needed to know. There was a small part of me that had hoped it was just a really good replica, but that wasn't the case. The head was real. There was no doubt about that. Without looking at the head, I reached my hand back and grabbed a fistful of

hair, lifting it off the platter. The jagged flesh of the neck where the head was removed from the rest of the body, stuck to the smooth surface of the platter for a moment before peeling free. All right, I said, swallowing back the bile that was climbing up the back of my throat. What now? The exit sign above the door suddenly lit up. That was followed by the click of a lock being disengaged. I considered dropping Libby's head and rushing through the door, but I figured creep who was running things would have already planned for that possibility. The door opened into a wide hallway lined with additional doors, once again giving me the illusion that I was inside a school of some sort.

Painted on the wall a little way up the hall for me, was a large red arrow pointing at one of the doors. I guess I'm supposed to go that way. But I didn't. Instead, I walked across the hall and tried to open the nearest door, but it wouldn't budge. Shortly after I left the doorway, the door to the room I was in clicked shut behind me.

A second later, I heard the sound of a lock being engaged. That's when I noticed that all of the doors had electronic sensor pads next to them, the kinds you could open with a key card. As far as I could tell, all of the doors were locked, except the one with the arrow pointing at it. It was the only one with a green indicator light. The rest were red. This isn't a school.

I started to think it might be an office. building because my dad had to use a key card to enter certain parts of his building, but I quickly discounted that thought. An office building would be carpeted or have a better looking tile on the floor. Maybe it's a hospital. It didn't really matter. Knowing what type of building I was in wasn't going to help me much other than keeping my mind occupied on something other than the dismembered head dangling from my hand. I walked over to the marked door, pulled it open, and entered the room. Before the door could shut behind me, I kicked. off my shoe and shoved it between the door and the frame, keeping the door from closing all the way.

You're not locking me in again! When I saw what was in the room, my jaw dropped. You've got to be kidding me. I scoffed upon seeing the arcade basketball machine against the wall, the kind where you had 30 seconds to make as many baskets as you could. Next to it was a table with an assortment of what I assumed were padded helmets of some kind. I approached the first table. On it was a little card that said, said, to ensure the integrity of your head for the games, you must secure it with headgear. Obviously, it was referring to the head I was going to be tossing through the hoop of that basketball machine and not my own.

I set Louise's head on the table, turned it so it was facing away from me, picked up the nearest headgear, and started putting it on her. While I was distracted, someone moved my shoe and let the door to the room close. I didn't realize it until I heard it click shut and saw the exit light go out. but then it was too late to do anything about it. So I just focused on getting the head gear in Libby so that it was nice and tight. When I was done, I walked over to the basketball machine. Taped to the front of it was another note. To begin, press the red button.

You will then have 30 seconds to score as many points as possible by tossing your head through the hoop. I set Libby's head on the panel of the game and then press the red button. A timer appeared over the hoop. It flashed the number 30, a couple of feet. times before starting to count down. I was planning on letting the Tiber count down to zero without playing. Then I reconsidered that idea. If I didn't participate, it would likely make me stay in the room until I did. There were 15 seconds left on the timer when I picked up Libby's head with two hands and tossed it at the basket. I'm sorry. I apologized to Livy for the second time that night

as I watched her head arched toward the basket, hit the metal rim, and then roll into the basket. I wasn't to score any points, but I guess it was good that I did. That way, whoever was in charge couldn't say I didn't try. There were five seconds left on the timer when Libby's head wobbled back to me. I picked it up again and tried to make another basket, but I wasn't even close. A buzzer sounded and the game ended. When I looked up at the scoreboard, it said that my score was 32 points. That's weird. I thought each basket was only supposed to be worth two points. I didn't have time to dwell on the odd scoring system used by the game. The door was unlocked and the exit sign lit up,

letting me know it was time to move on. Before leaving, I put my shoe back on and retrieved Libby's head from the basketball game. Wow, you sure do work fast. I said after stepping back into the hall and noticing a new red arrow painted next to a door at the opposite end of the hallway. That must have been when my shoe was moved so I could be locked inside as the next door. game room was prepared.

I didn't waste any time lingering in the hall. It went straight to the indicated room and let the door close and lock behind me. I should have guessed. I set upon seeing the arcade bowling machine that extended across most of the room. There was no table in the room like there wasn't the other two. There wasn't any room for one. The instructions for the game were taped to the bowling lane on a little card. I pulled it off after setting Libby's head down on the floor so I could read it without having to bend over.

this is what it said. Roll the head down the lane. You only get one try to knock down as many pins as possible. This is so stupid. What's the point of all this? Does watching me play with my dead friend's head get you off? I wasn't expecting a reply, but I got one. An envelope with my name came sliding under the door.

Why don't you show yourself, you coward? Still, I leaned down to pick up the envelope. I tore it open and read the note inside. Do you want to live or die? That was all it said. Fuck you! I flipped the card back under the door, stormed over to the bowling machine, picked up Libby's head and flung it at the pins.

Two of the pins were knocked down immediately. The third one wobbled a bit before falling. The fourth one fell over onto the head, leaving it leaning. I wasn't sure if that one counted or not. When I looked up at the scoreboard, it said my score was three or four. Make of your mind. Is it three or is it four? I heard the familiar sound of papers sliding across the tiled floor and turned to see another envelope waiting for me. Please see the referee for your final score.

The door was unlocked and the exit sign above it lit up, letting me know that I was free to leave the room. I released my hold on the envelope and the note, letting me be a lock. them both flutter to the floor. When I peeked my head out into the hallway, I saw that the double doors at the end of the hall were propped open. Thinking that I was finally going to see who was behind all of this, I ran over and grabbed one of the bowling pins I'd knocked over, intending to use it as a weapon. But when I tried to leave the room, I found the door locked again.

Fine. I dropped the pin. The door was unlocked. I considered propping the door open and grabbing the pen again, but I was sure I would only find the double doors at the end of the hall locked if I did. Guess I'll have to tear you apart with my bare hands. The double doors led to another hallway that was lined with doors. But these doors are different.

They had frosted glass windows at the top of them. Taped to one of them was a piece of paper with the word referee on it. I guess that's where I'm supposed to go. I barged into the room hoping to gain the upper hand through surprise. That didn't happen. There was nobody in the room. There was, however, a desk upon which there were three television monitors. All of them were playing something except for the one on the far right, which had a badly damaged screen.

The first television was playing a video loop of me, Libby, Thea, and Josh leaving the basketball game. The second television was playing a loop of the four of us in Josh's car driving to the bowling alley. The third monitor looked like someone had punched it, leaving a large circle with cracks radiating out from the point of impact. What I found odd was that both of the videos that were playing were recorded from my point of view. How is this possible? I will answer your question, but only after we figure out what you score is. I hadn't heard the door. I whirled around to find a man standing behind me.

He was wearing black jeans with a black hoodie pulled low over his face, so I couldn't see his features. On top of the hoodie was a black and white striven. Reperite shirt. He stood a head taller than me and was looking down on me. Even though he looked ridiculous, there was something incredibly imposing about him. What? Your score, should it be three or four? I don't know, aren't you supposed to decide that?

If that's what you'd prefer. This felt like another game, a mental challenge. Should I let him decide? should I decide? If I choose to decide, what should my score be three or four? I thought about it for a moment. Three. My score should be three. The pin never touched the ground. I didn't think it was right to claim it as a point. Three, it is. After he spoke, he reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a remote. He aimed it at the broken television and pushed a button. It came to life and started looping another video on its broken screen.

The third video, like the other two, was from my point of view. I was laying in the middle of the road surrounded by broken glass. When I turned my head, Libby's decapitated head came into view. I looked away from the screen as the memories of what I was seeing came flooding back to me. The referee reached out and placed his hand on my shoulder. I woke up screaming, thrashing my arms and legs around as blinding pain coursed through my body. She's back. She's in shock.

We need to sedate her before we lose her again. A few moments later, my limbs felt heavy, and the pain began to subside as the medication they had given me pulled me into the darkness. I had no idea how much time had passed when I woke up again. All I knew was that I was in the hospital,

hooked up to a bunch of machines. Don't try to move. It took me a few seconds to place the voice of my mother. I'm going to get the nurse. A few minutes later, a nurse walked into the room and began looking over all the machines I was hooked up to. When her inspection was over, she focused her attention on me. How was your pain?

It wasn't as bad as when I woke up the first time, but it was still pretty bad. Seven? The nurse reached over and grabbed a remote attached to a machine and placed it in my hand. If it gets unbearable, just push this button. She tapped the remote with her finger. That will administer your pain medication. Okay. Do you want anything to eat or drink?

I shook my head and then changed my mind. Water! I'll be right back. She turned and left the room. My mother, who had been sitting silently in the room's only chair since she went and got the nurse, got up and approached my bed. Do you remember what happened? I did, at least most of it.

I knew I was driving my friends and myself to the bowling, alley after the basketball game at the high school. I knew there had been an accident. Tears welled up in my eyes as the image of Libby's decapitated head flashed through my mind. I turned away from her and nodded. My mom reached out and placed her hand over my wrist and shook her head. They released me from the hospital a week later. A couple days after that, the police came by to inform me that they were going to be pressing charges against me for the accident. The same day, I got a letter from a lawyer informing me that Libby and Thea's parents were suing me for the wrongful deaths of their daughters. I should have said my score was four.

What did you say, dear? Don't worry about it. You wouldn't understand. In our final tale, we travel back to the time of the Great Depression, under the heat of a Texas sky. A family farm is suffering due to drought. To make matters worse, Grandpa just died. But in this tale, shared with us by author, L.P. Hernandez,

The young grandson who had to bury his grandpa soon realizes a rather disturbing fact. Grandpa didn't stay buried very long. Performing this tale are Jeff Clement, Sarah Thomas, Jesse Cornett, Mary Murphy, Graham Rowett, and Ellie Hirschman. So if you're charged with burying someone in the hot dry ground, you'd better make sure they don't come back from the red dirt. East of Dumas, Texas, 1933. I buried grandpa as the sun went down, only he didn't stay that way. Dirt so hard it nearly cracked the shovel. I haven't seen a storm cloud in months.

Kind of forget the way the land smells after rain. I just remember I used to like it. Took most of the afternoon to make the grave deep enough the coyotes couldn't get to them. They're starving. out here like the rest of us, so I can't say I blame him. Daddy gave up burying the livestock. Wasn't much to bury anyways, and the coyotes were mad with hunger. I had to put bullets in them, and we don't have many of those left, but it was different with Grandpa. Daddy left day before yesterday, walked to town to buy a car so we could join up with the folks headed west.

It was all the money we had Everything The life's work fit inside a coffee can with room to spare Maybe grandpa was waiting for him to leave And died on purpose in his rocking chair So his son wouldn't have to find him that way Can't say it's much better his grandson found him I might have thought he was asleep

Or in a deep thought The chair was rocking with the wind just so almost looked like it was pushing himself with the toe of his boot. It was the fly that caught my eye. I saw it crawling over the creases in his cheek, went straight into his mouth, and he didn't even flinch from it. I dropped the hammer I was carrying and grabbed Grandpa by the shoulders, shook him, probably too hard,

and his head snapped back like a broken dandelion. Mama cried and told me to cover him up before my little sister saw him. Said I could take him to the barn since. there wasn't animals in there and Daddy would handle it when he got back. The flies didn't wait for Daddy. Mama went inside and called Jesse upstairs while I stripped the sheets from Grandpa's bed. It was yellow and stank of sweat and tobacco. A whiskey spilled from a slumbering hand.

It was his smell, for better or worse, and whatever had been brewing in his body he didn't tell us about. He bruised easy, took a long time to sit or stand. But Grandpa always said the Lord would tell him when his work was done. So he kept working, even when there wasn't nothing to work. He can't make nothing useful out of dirt without rain. All you can do is move it from one place to another. The wind tipped him halfway out of the rocking chair when I came back to the porch.

His mouth was open and there was a whole mess of flies there, dipping in and out, going in dry, and coming out wet. I laid out the sheet and pulled him onto it. No way to be gentle about it, and he'd upset the flies quite a bit. It sounded like a hornet's nest in his chest. The worst of it was his eyes open partway. Though I could only see the bottom half, it still felt like he was looking at me. I wonder what he would have thought if he could see me.

Eleven years old, with tears in my eyes, Mama singing a hymn to my sister in the background. I wrapped him the best I could, had a knot in three places so I didn't have to see any part of him. Grandpa wasn't a large man, not that it was possible given our lack of food, but he was still too heavy for me to carry, so I had to pull him.

I grabbed him round the ankles and dragged him over the porch floorboards. Then I stood for a time, breathing hard, thinking about how I could get him down four stairs without damaging him too much. I figured it would be less violent to grab him under his arms, but I couldn't stand the thought of his head resting against my thigh, even with layers of fabric between us. His skull thudded off of each step.

The sound, I'm afraid, I will not be able to forget. There wasn't a cloud to block the sun, but off in the distance, in the direction of town, there was a wall of dust, the color of old blood. Already the wind was picking up, shooting little needles of dirt and my neck and my face.

I pulled Grandpa's body over the brittle grass, which crunched under my boots. The wind snaked inside the wrap, filling it like a ship sail. I caught sight of him again. His mouth opened with a swarm of flies sipping whatever moisture

was left on his tongue and lips. The sound of Mama's hymn was eaten by, the wind, which had eaten so much of our lives already. I shuffled faster, tripping over my own boots a few times trying to beat the dust cloud. I'd been caught outside in a dust storm before, and it gets inside your eyes, your ears, in your teeth. Worse, I think some of it gone into my spirit.

It was like the hopelessness abraded my soul. It killed everything we own. And it was inside of me always. I made it to the barn with Grandpa's body right as the dust hit. Run back to the house as the world went dark. Mama was asleep with Jesse. Both of them snoring right through the storm. It was just me then, sitting in the dark with my thoughts,

listening to the wind tear apart our family's livelihood. Kind of sounded like the ocean from a distance. Though I'd only been to the coast once in my house, life and was probably too young to remember it. A few hours later, the sheet, once white, then yellow from Grandpa's sweat, was a whole different color. Black. It was black with flies desperate to find a respite from the dust and the wind. The hollow over his open mouth rippled from the inside, and I knew I could not wait for Daddy. It was an ugly side and would get worse overnight. when there was more stirring than just flies.

I found a spot under the dead oak tree with the low branches I used to play on and started digging. Didn't ask permission, just knew it had to be done. We could speak the words and make the marker for him after he was in the ground. Mama saw me through the kitchen window, came out with a glass of water. She looked at the hole, about a foot deep then, and cried a bit. It's bad, Mama. Just keep Jesse inside.

The sun felt like a coal held just above my neck. The skin of my hands broke, old blisters torn open. But I heard the coyotes in the tall grass. They caught the scent of Grandpa's death. I wasn't afraid of even half a dozen major coyotes. Just one rabid one. So I kept digging. I pulled Grandpa and his new cloak of flies

out of the barn and dragged him back over the broken earth. The flies sought the leaking blisters on my hands, and I wanted to scream, but I didn't have the strength. The sun was setting then, a coyote's in a frenzy in the field. We didn't have a dog left to chase him off. The last dog, Buster, ran away, Daddy said. There was also meat in the stew that night for the first time in months. I rolled Grandpa into the grave, couldn't bring myself to arrange his body in any specific way, just started shoveling dirt. I did see an arm was loose of the wrap, the liver spotted hand quickly covered with the red dirt that defines so much of his life.

When it was done and my body felt like it had been trampled to just before dying, I ripped a few big stones from the ground and placed them atop Grandpa's grave. Maybe, I thought, it would keep the coyotes busy. I slept on the floor beside the fireplace. The stairs might as well have been a mountain. I fell asleep with coyote songs in my ears. Don't remember dreaming. Probably too tired.

I just remember the sound of Grandpa's rocking chair when I woke, thinking it must have been the wind again. It wasn't. Jesse screamed, and that woke. me up the rest of the way. I ran with pins and needles in my toes to the porch. She was already gone. I heard her footsteps going up the stairs while Mama asked her what was wrong. There he was, back in his chair. He wore the same overalls, the same boots as the day before. Everything was caked with red dirt, like it was his second skin. His head was. His head was.

downcast so I couldn't see his eyes. Grandpa? I was halfway out the door and thinking about going back in for Daddy's rifle. The chair moved a bit, and this time it wasn't the wind. When he lifted his head, I had to hold my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming. Felt the floor beneath my feet shift like saying. His mouth opened to speak. but only flies came out.

A cloud of him, like the puff of smoke from a train. After the flies came the soil, mostly dry and clouded. The red dirt I had buried him in. My heart felt like he didn't know if it wanted to beat fast or slow. Like it could go either way. Grandpa? He looked at me with those dead eyes. flies expelled from his stomach clustering there to lap up the moisture he spoke with a voice like two corn husks rubbing together

grandpa got up from his seat then and retraced the boot prints he left on the porch there was a cigarette in his right hand unlit the kind he rolled himself it was stained with the same red dirt as the rest of him my stomach twisted when i noticed the denim around his rear was wet and the greatest number of flies was congregating there. He descended the stairs like a baby learning its first steps, wobbly at the knees. I didn't have a thought left. I just watched him walk away in the direction of the barn. With our livestock dead or sold, there wasn't any work left to do just shoring up the house against the dust until we could leave all of it behind.

But that was where he was headed. I think he even whistled, or tried to. Probably couldn't because of the flies. What happened? Mama's eyes were like a barn owls. She pinched her robe closed, worried lines carved deep into her face. Grandpa came back.

What? He was dead. You saw? He was dead. Had flies in his eyes and in his mouth. I buried them, put stones over the soil. And... No.

It is. We both watched as he opened the barn door and disappeared within. Door closing partway behind him. He came back? I turned to her and noticed how the shadow scarred her face. She was holding on by a thread. For two years, she watched the farm collapse into piles of red dirt, watched her husband.

bend in half from the pressure of keeping the family together. She smiled when there wasn't cause for it. Reassured me and Jesse when there wasn't no real hope. Just the memory of it. But even the strongest steel will bend under enough pressure. It's like the story's at church, Mama. Church? How Jesus died and came back.

Remember? She looked off into the distance, probably recalling Sunday school lessons from her childhood. I didn't believe in the stories myself, especially because of all the suffering Godlight happened to us and everyone else in the county. But it was enough for Mama in that moment to push her back from the brink of whatever madness she was about to dive into.

She nodded and smiled, her eyes cloudy like they was looking at something I couldn't see. Take care of Jesse, okay? She ducked back inside the house, and within a few moments I heard the sounds of pans clattering. Don't know what she could have been doing with them, if we hadn't had nothing to cook in the pan for a long time. Just beans in the pot when we can get them. Used to be due on the grass in the morning. Not anymore. It's just as stiff as in the daytime after it's been cooking under the sun.

I followed the broken grass and remnants of Grandpa's bootprints. What could he be doing in the barn? There wasn't a hog to slaughter, no horse hooves to grind. All of it was gone, just the smells left behind. There wasn't a quiet way to approach. The grass cracked and popped under my weight, like static on the radio, before Daddy sold it. I grabbed the handle to slide the barn door open, barely an hour past sunrise, and it burned like a hot kettle from the sun.

I pulled a bit of my shirt loose and my overalls and wrapped around my hand. Still felt the heat through it. He was standing ten feet in front of me, facing the other way, which was good. There was a sound of metal clanking together as he raffled through the box of tools. Grandpa? What are you doing? It was the last question I wanted answered, but I couldn't think of a better one. How are you standing there? Aren't you dead?

Those were closer to the mark. But no one teaches an 11-year-old boy how to talk to a dead man. Ready for what? The question hung in the air between us. Maybe it couldn't penetrate the soil still clogging his ears. In the absence of his speaking, there was just the sound of flies. Again, they grouped around the wet places. I'd seen plenty of dead things in my life,

a calf that wandered too far from its mama and too close through a coyote that was hiding in the grass. It doesn't take long from carrying the rot in the Texas heat. When it does, all those juices got to go somewhere. I swallowed, but my tongue was as dry as leather. Thought about what might be going on inside Grandpa's body. More metal clanging, and I turned away. closed the barn door, leaving him mostly in darkness.

I didn't know what to do. Not that a boy at my age would have any idea. The Young's family lived down the road two miles or so, if they hadn't left for California since the last time we spoke. They had only crops, no livestock. So when the rain stopped and the dust took its place, they had nothing to sell. We shared what little we had,

but wasn't enough for a family to live on. Still, Mr. Young's was a man, and he would know better than me what to do. The air outside the house smelled of something cooking, in my stomach, which was pretty good at staying quiet, started rumbling. I dashed up the steps for getting Grandpa for the moment. Jesse sat at the table, all big-eyed with a fork in one hand and a knife in the other. There was a sizzling sound at the stove, where Mama tended to a skillet with her wooden spree. Boom. What is it? Mama's making breakfast.

Mama turned to me. Her mouth and eyes telling two different stories. It's not much, hon. Just some potatoes and a bit of dried meat. Your daddy said to save it for a special day. I don't know if that applies to today, but I didn't know what else to do. It smells great, Mama. I took a seat beside Jessie and must her hair. At six years old, she didn't know a life on the farm that wasn't just suffering. She didn't know the dusty fields were once green, that the hay and the barn had a purpose other than for just playing on.

How is he? Jesse spoke before I could answer. Grandpa's all dirty. Why grandpa get himself so dirty? It's just a game, Jess. Can I play? I shook my head. I don't think so.

I think the game's over. But we can play another. I don't know, Mama. I think he needs to be where he came from. Got a smell about him. And the flies. Mama nodded. Like Jesus then?

She turned, skillet in hand, smiling with only her mouth. I don't. I don't. know, Mama. She scraped potatoes onto my plate. It was the most food I'd seen since Thanksgiving fellowship at church. When Daddy didn't have enough to tithe, we stopped going, then most everyone left anyway. I forgot about the world while I ate, the salt burning my broken lips, but I'd take the pain over hunger any day. Mama had a small plate and took her time eating, moving the potatoes around,

cutting them into smaller and smaller pieces to make them last. When I heard the creek at the porch steps, I shot up from the chair. Upstairs, Jesse. Before she could get mad or ask why, Mama nodded and led her that way, speaking to me over her shoulder. I love him, and I'm sorry. I can't see him. The door-in-awed jiggled.

I opened it and backed away. Grandpa stumbled inside, boots scraping over the floorboard. He smelled awful like the little pond on the property after it dried up and all the fish died. The flies covered his face like a shifting beard. He opened up his mouth, maybe to speak, but just coughed, spraying flies out. His eyes looked like old milk when it gets that yellow skin on it. They were furry with flies, stuck open because he couldn't blink. He held a wrench in his right hand.

hand, the big one died he used for the tractor. We didn't have nothing he could use it on. I wondered if he was just retracing his steps from life. Grandpa sat at the table, which took some effort. He sniffed Mama's potatoes, but it rattled in his throat when he did. His face and neck was swollen in places. The wrinkled skin stretched tall. There was liquid running out of his ear like rust water.

tears stung my eyes and I turned away. He was like my second daddy. When daddy was over my left shoulder, teaching me how to do something, Grandpa was over my right saying not to listen to him. Grandpa, why'd you come back? I accepted that he was dead. His body was breaking down in front of me. But I also accepted that he was sitting at the table,

smelling Mama's potatoes like he did in life. He didn't look about to speak, so I left him there. Hadn't changed my shirt in days and my neck was grimy from sweat. Figured a washrag and a new shirt might help me think. Daddy said he wouldn't come back without a car. I knew how much was in the coffee can. It wasn't enough. Maybe someone would take pity on him.

When the knock came, I thought it was Grandpa. I'd heard the chair scrape over the floorboards and the front door opened a half hour before. Thought maybe he forgot how to come back inside. The girls were in the kitchen cleaning the mess from breakfast, and so I ran over to answer the knock before Jesse could. He had backed off the porch, was standing in the yard in front of the steps.

Help you, mister? He was a weathered man with a scar across his nose, like it was cut off and stitched back together. By his feet was a sack with the handle of a pot sticking out. His clothes hung on him like he stole them from someone half a foot taller. His boots were mismatched and of different sizes. His cap was like the ones of kids selling newspapers and big cities wore. And it probably didn't do too much to block the sun.

He looked past me at the front door as Mama peeked through it. Jesse worming her way under her arm so she could see. In the field, what can I do for you? The man glanced to the right and then behind. It wasn't nothing living out that way, and his smirk showed that he knew it. Just looking for work, is all. If he's not here... There was a railroad, a few miles east. On quiet nights, I could hear the trains thunder and down the tracks. Sometimes it's slow there was cattle passing through. If it slowed enough, some of the tramps that ride the rails would hop off there. It wasn't the first time one came by asking for work. It was how he didn't look at me, how he pinned his black overcoat to his body

with one hand like he was afraid the wind catching it and me seeing something I wasn't supposed to. It was the fact that he danced around without speaking it. Daddy was gone. There was no man in the house. Like I said, he's out in the field. I had to put an old bull down. Broke its leg. The man looked down so I would not see him smile. Work for supper.

If he's planting on butcher in it. I gritted my teeth. I'll be sure to tell him. The man nodded and tipped his cap at Mama. Then he turned away, walking slow like he was underwater. I only noticed when he disappeared from my line of sight my fingernails were carving sickle shapes in my palms. Is it okay, Joseph?

I shook my head, no. Left too quick, I think. If a starving man gives up easy, it's because he's got another plan brewing. Can you get Daddy's rifle? She stepped out of the house and stood beside me, looking at the place he disappeared. He took it with him. Mama put an arm round my shoulder and my back stiffen, son.

It wasn't a good feeling, not like it had been before. He had all of our money, son. All of it. Couldn't risk losing it. There was little strength left in her fingers. She squeezed, trying to reassure her. But it just reminded me of how broken she was. It'll be okay, Mama.

When I lie, I try to do it over important things. Our house, the paint chipped away by blowing dust, was a gray island in a sea of brown. My first thought was to gather the girls to make a run for the Young's property. But I had a feeling the man hadn't gone far. It was maybe waiting, just beyond the little rise in the land that met up at the dirt road. Figured it'd be better on a gray island than in a sea. When I couldn't see what was in the water. I saw Grandpa by the dead oak tree.

Found he might jump back in the hole he climbed out of, but he only looked at it. The denim of his overalls was dark, and the right arm was swollen some, bulging against the seams of his shirt. I wanted to yell at him to just get in the hole. I had enough to worry about without my dead grandpa stumbling around the property,

body ballooning up in the heat. I spent the whole afternoon looking for weapons, in case the tramp came back. I would have treated everything in that damn coffee can to have Dada here, with or without his rifle. The house still smelled a breakfast. There wasn't anything quite so good for supper. One potato split three ways,

with a bit of broth spiced with burnt bits of meat that she scraped off the skillet. I had mallet data used to put down the cows, but it was too heavy for me to swing. Maybe just the sight of it would be enough. Jesse chatted while we ate, telling us what she thought California might be like. A family from church went that way a few months back, and the daughter was a year older than Jesse, sent a letter talking about strawberries the size of a baby's fist. By the end of the meal, I was hungrier than when I started.

But I would never get in the way of Jesse dreaming out loud. It's just telling yourself stories. which we all needed then. Mama sent Jesse up to get ready for bed. It was still light, but the shadows were stretched out, and I could hear the coyotes, likely getting stirred up from Grandpa's death smell. What are you going to do with that, Joseph?

Mama nodded at the mallet. Hopefully nothing. If need be, I'll do like daddy showed me. It's not right. You're just a boy. There's no right or wrong about it, Mama. I don't need to kill him. I just need to keep him from getting to Jesse. If he makes it past me, that'll be your job.

Mama nodded. She rummaged through a drawer next to the sink and pulled out a knife and then dropped it in the pocket of her apron. Leave the window open in case you need to jump. We hugged for a long time. I felt the warmth of her tears soaking in my shirt, though I didn't hear her cry. You don't be okay, Mama.

Maybe Daddy will come driving up in a car tonight. It wasn't a lie, telling myself a story. Maybe so. I pulled up a chair to the window in the sitting room. I cracked it a bit and listened to the sounds of day giving way tonight. I figured I would hear him before I saw him, the grass crunching under his mismatched boots. It was so dark at night, even with a half moon and no clouds.

From where I sighed, all I could see. was shadows, and all of them looked like the tramp with a stupid hat. An hour after dark, I had to pinch myself to keep them non-and-off. I got out from the chair and I walked around the room, checked the lock on the door at the back of the house. I suppose if I was the tramp, I would likely use that door instead of the one I guarded. I'd wedged a chair under the doorknob, but it wouldn't survive a couple of good kicks. I imagined how it would go down between the tramp and me.

I'd hold the mallet with one hand up near the head of it and the other grip in the handle. If I could jab it at his stomach, I could stun him, knock the air out of his lungs. After that, I didn't know. Couldn't do much else with the mallet that wouldn't haunt me for the rest of my life. I snapped my eyes open,

only then realizing I drifted into a dream. My chin rested on my forearms and a bit of drool was leaking out of the side of my mouth. Why was I awake? Some sound I heard on the edge of the dream, but it planted itself in that part of my mind, and I couldn't recall it. My eyes adjusted to the dark, son,

enough so I could tell the shapes apart. I put my ear next to the opening and listened for the sound to come again. It did after a few seconds. Voices. Not one voice. Voices. I stood up, mallet and hand.

Felt impossible to wield like I was a kid playing night with a man's sword. Your daddy cut up that bull? I didn't know what to say. Maybe I could make my voice deeper, but I don't think it would fool him. I didn't think so. I think your daddy is dead. I've gone away. That makes you.

You're the man of the house now. Isn't that right? I opened my mouth, but didn't have any words ready. Oh, come on. I can see you in there. Holding something looks like. I gripped in the mallet tighter. Hope it's bulletproof. Some of the strength bled out of my legs. Now, I know you ain't got much. Barely got four walls on a roof.

Wouldn't be worth it to rob you. What if I just take shelter for the night? Think your mama would mind the company? Go to hell! There he is! There was a sound of the doorknob, ratting him behind me. Sorry, brought a friend with me. Hope that's okay.

That's long jake back there. Don't know how we got the nickname. He ain't exactly tall. Got a nasty case of syphilis, though. Maybe Long is referring to something else. The door shuddered from an impact. And if I'm keeping your mama company, I guess Long Jake will have to make do with the little lady. The door shuddered again.

Well, that's rude to me, isn't it? I can see you, but you can't see me. You know, it's awful dark in there. Careful little light. There was a brief spark. And then the flame grew. He stood off to the side of the porch step some, holding a bottle up near his face,

burning rag hanging out of it. He held the bottle back like he was going to throw it. I ran to the front door and grabbed the knob, not really think about it. I unlocked it, but didn't open it. It was what he wanted. He wanted me to come out. Back door rattled again.

Wood sounded like it was splintering, I couldn't fight them both off. Maybe not at all, and definitely not running from one to the other. It's getting hot over here, young man. The door behind shook, chair buckling. Then it went quiet for a moment. It felt like a long time, but probably wasn't. Then a scream.

Thought long Jake might be getting ready to bust through, but wasn't that kind of scream. I backed away from the front door and took a couple steps toward the other man. Another scream. I started running. The tramps was fighting behind the house. No idea why, but it was the best I could hope for. I kicked aside the broken chair and pressed my nose to the window. It wasn't the tramp.

I opened the door and stepped outside. My eyes adjusted some, not enough to see color. But one man was on the ground. with his hand up. The other's standing over him. Grandpa? The other man yelled, scooting backwards. The smell hit me then,

and it felt like my stomach flipped upside down. I covered my mouth, but the smell changed the taste of my tongue to something rotten. Grandpa lifted the wrench with his left hand. In life, he was right-handed, but the right arm was swollen like it was about to pop. He brought the wrench down, not fast, but it was heavy.

The man on the ground seemed injured already, and he hid behind his arm instead of deflecting the blood. The wrench caught him in the teeth, and the next scream was choked with blood. I just stood there, not knowing what to do. Long Jake coughed blood and probably any teeth he had left. He was looking at the blood spilling on his chest. and none at the wrench Grandpa held over his head. Two quick explosions. The wrench fell out of Grandpa's hand.

The tramp with a stupid hat was standing about ten feet away. Didn't bring the fire with it. Grandpa! I ran a few steps toward him, but the odor drove me back. Grandpa looked at his belly, touched it with his fingers. The smell of gun smoke mixed with the stenchews. of rock. I dropped to my knees and vomited my supper. The tramp flipped his gun around so that the grip was facing out. He walked toward Grandpa, and I realized I couldn't lift Mallet. My hands felt like

there wasn't mine anymore, like I couldn't control him. I was about to watch Grandpa die for a second time. Guess he wasn't lying about you, Daddy. What the fuck is wrong with him? It smells worse than pig shit. The tramp reared back at the same time Grandpa turned to face it. I couldn't see Grandpa well in the dark, just the shape of him. But the tramp saw him just fine. He took a step back as Grandpa came toward him. The tramp tripped, stumbling backwards, gun slipping from his fingers.

Grandpa stood over him. He touched his belly, probed the exit wound with his finger. The tramp's boots came free as he scooted. Grandpa's hand came loose of his stomach with a wet sucking sound. Looked like he had a mound of mashed potatoes in his hand. But they was black and the smell got worse real quick. Grandpa collapsed onto the tramp who wouldn't stop screaming. He beat Grandpa in the head with open palms, but I doubt Grandpa could feel it.

Long Jake was sitting upright, touching the ruins of his mouth. The tramp found his gun and probably was about to use it. He opened his mouth to scream, but it ended quick, as Grandpa shoved a handful of whatever he had pulled out of his stomach into the tramp's mouth. Grandpa pinched the tramp's nostrils and hovered just over him. The tramp gurgled and thrashed, sucking the rotten entrails into his lungs. Grandpa's face was just a couple of inches from the tramps. Then they was connected by a black stream, clotted flies and filth,

as more of what was rotten in his belly was expelled, filling the tramp's mouth. Long Jake was standing. He looked at the ranch, and then a grandpa. Couldn't see his eyes in the dark. Couldn't guess what he was thinking, jaw hanging onto the skull by sinew, his buddy choking to death just a few feet from him. He didn't look at it.

me. He didn't look at the house. He walked into the tall, dry grass, trailing blood. The tramp's arm was moving, but his legs was still. He wasn't fucking anymore, just waving his hand like shoeing a fly. Plenty of those around him. That stopped after a few seconds, and then it was quiet again. Three souls and I was the only one breathing. coyote yaps came soon after from the tall, dry grass. A couple more screams, not a whole lot behind him. Grandpa, I couldn't bring myself to touch him to come any closer. I could still smell him.

I didn't even thank him as he stood. The river of gore between his mouth and the dead tramps snap. He walked forward into the night in the direction of the dead oak tree, to the red dirt that defined so much of his life. I called to him again, but he didn't turn back. His head was angled at the sky, listening to something I couldn't hear. The Lord, I imagine, telling him his work was done.

No coyote songs that night. They was too busy eating. When I woke the next morning, there wasn't a whole lot left to bury. Mama and me didn't tell Daddy the truth of what happened, not the whole truth. Even the part about the tramps nearly broke him, and there was only so many times you can break a man

before he can't ride himself. Grandpa was a hero. Took down two thugs with just a wrench, sacrificing himself in the process. Daddy didn't need to know the other part about how Grandpa came back. back. It made it harder to leave, though. Known Grandpa was in the dirt we put in the rearview mirror of Daddy's Ford. I just hoped he'd stay there. 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. If you would like to find out how you can hear the extended editions of our program,

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