The NoSleep Podcast - S19: NoSleep Podcast - Tales of the Moon Crawler Part 3

Episode Date: September 17, 2023

During the month of September we go cryptid crazy with tales about those mysterious creatures that remain hidden from us…until it’s too late. “The Shepherd” written by Matthew Owen Jones (Story starts around 00:01:55) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Narrator – Nikolle Doolin, Grunwald – Peter Lewis, Rudi – Mary Murphy “Tales of the Moon Crawler – Penned in Ink” written by by Manen Lyset (Story starts around 00:27:00) Produced by: David Cummings Cast: Narrator – Ash Millman, Neville – Jake Benson, Father Edward – Andy Cresswell, Mary – Penny Scott-Andrews This episode is sponsored by: 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 team Click here to learn more about Manen Lyset Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Tales of the Moon Crawler editing assistance by: Rona Vaselaar Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone “Tales of the Moon Crawler” illustration courtesy of Emily Cannon 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.

From time immemorial, humanity has fought for its survival against the myriad beasts and animals with which we share this planet. And while creatures known to us have challenged our existence, there are those creatures unseen, unstudied, unknown, which have proven to be our biggest threat. Now, brace yourself, as you encounter the creatures. known throughout history as the moon crawler. Greetings, sleepless listeners, and welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. As we draw ever closer to the month of Halloween and the start of our 20th season, we hope everyone is getting in the spirit of the horror season.

We have so many exciting things planned for the coming months. We can't wait to share them with you. Soon. And as we continue the saga of the moon crawler this week, we know you'll be excited for next week's episode, as we feature the final two moon crawler chapters in one epic finale. You'll want to make sure you're fully braced for that one. And so, dear friends, lock the doors and get settled in a place of relative safety,

because you're going to encounter a series of creatures that will undoubtedly leave you sleepless. In our first tale, we meet a grandfather and his granddaughter. They live in a secluded valley with their sheep. It's a hard rural life they live, but making matters worse is the wolf that is haunting their knights and culling their herd. But in this tale, shared with us by author Matthew Owen Jones, we learn that protecting themselves and their sheep is a far more difficult task than they could have imagined. Performing this tale are Nicole Doolin, Peter Lewis, and Mary Murphy. So try to be like the sheep and always trust in the steadfast protection of the shepherd. Grunvald knew it would come again tonight. It was always more frequent around the new

moon. With an angry swing, he buried the axe deep in the twisted trunk of the old pine tree, and breathing hard, he stepped away to look down upon the valley that he had come to call his own. A little stream cut through the sloping pasture of rugged rocks and coarse-fated grass, running the full length of the mile-long valley. It was little to show for a long life, but it was his. The wind had turned cold the last few days, and he knew that winter crept closer. He felt it within his old bones. Each passing year, the winter seemed to get harder,

and his gnarled hands ached in the colder months. This morning he had found the savaged carcass of a ram in the stream. It had been butchered like all the others. The bloodied remains of wool and scattered bones were all that remained. His old weathered face scald as he considered the 32 sheep that were all that was left of a flock that had once numbered almost fifth, If the attacks continued, he would soon not have enough animals to even be able to sustain their meager life here. This was his land, his sheep, and he had worked too hard for everything to be taken from him.

Tonight, he was ready for the beast. He had killed wolves over the years when he had needed to. This one was different. It was huge for its kind and smart. More than once he had found its tracks in the soft earth around the stream. Paw prints the size of a man's spread palm sunk deep in the muck. Despite years of experience and seeking out all the likely places, he had never found its lair.

He knew it was no ordinary wolf that preyed upon his flock, in the same way that he knew it was the same beast that took his daughter two winters before and disfigured his granddaughter on the same night. scars that she would bear upon her face for the rest of her days. When one day she would come of age, more disappointments awaited her. No husband would want her, and she would likely live out her days in the same small cottage where she was born. She would at least be a companion to him in his old age, offering some comfort to an old man. What then was her fate after he had passed on?

He already felt every one of his sixty years. years and did not know how many more winters were left to him. With what time he had left, he would do what he could to carve out a better life for her. He owed her mother that much. He had gathered more than enough wood for his needs. He tied the bundle of stout wood branches together to carry them more easily upon his shoulder. And, retrieving his axe, he picked his way down the slope into the valley. The silver skies of early winter lent the land a bleakness that reflected his feelings well. Brunvald forded the stream at the old stepping stones

and paused to refill his water skin from the cool water before walking stiffly toward their simple home. Shouldering the wood bundle, his steps were slow and lumbering, causing him to pause occasionally and catch his breath. He had noticed this last year, how the coughing had grown worse when he labored more than he should. The old maple wood door that was worn and buckled with the passage of years, was unbolted.

Rudy had not barred it again, as he repeatedly insisted she did. The heavy wood bar gave him comfort that she was at least safe. Frowning, he put his free shoulder to the heavy door and pushed his way inside. The room within was as he had left it at first light. The ashes of the fireplace still smoldered,

but no new wood had been added. The place had lost its luster since his daughter was killed. Now it was done. dusty and bear. The dry stone walls and rotting floorboard served his purpose. But deep down he felt shame, knowing that his granddaughter deserved better.

Rudy? His voice was rough and thick, with the clipped accent of a man born to rural life. Rudy, what have I told you about the door? You close it after me, like I told you. The small slim figure of his granddaughter, meekly walked from the other room they shared together. Her head hung low, so her long hair hid the marred features of her face.

Today of all days, you do as I ask. Grunvald's tone softened toward the end of his words, as he heard the anger in his own voice. Yes, Grandfather. Rudy spoke quietly without looking up. Since the night her mother was taken, she had been sullen and distant. he did not blame her.

To lose her mother and be left with an irritable old man was no life for one so young. He placed a couple logs on the fire and poked it back into life. Sitting down in the old wooden chair, he began to use an old knife, sharpening the branches he had gathered. He cut them as short as a man's forearm

and sharpen the ends to make wooden stakes. As he worked, he watched Rudy sit quietly, dish passionately watching the flicker of the flames in the hearth. Eventually, Grew involved rose stiffly, his swollen fingers aching from the repetitive work. He ensured the heavy wooden shutters that served her windows were bolted securely, though he rarely opened them these days. With an armful of finished stakes, he left their home, leaving his granddaughter inside.

This time, he waited until he waited until he, he heard her bolt the door before turning away. He had spent the previous three days digging the pit 30 yards from the cottage. It was as deep as a man was tall and almost twice as wide. It would suffice. With a last look at the gathering clouds in the noon sky, he clambered down into the pit using the knotted length of rope he had tied to a post driven in the ground. He began hammering the stakes into the holes he had previously dug for them. Each would need to be firmly fixed in place. He had seen the method used once in his younger days when he hunted boar with his father.

The animals were too dangerous to bring down easily, so they would be chased into a pit to be more easily dispatched without danger to the hunters. Still today, he remembered the cries of the wild pig enraged and terrified. The sound had stayed with him. This was no wild pig, and he could afford no mislead. When he finally climbed from the pit, he was dirty and breathing hard. The day was already growing late, and he knew he needed to make the most of the daylight while he still had some. He dragged the branches he had previously gathered across the pit, layering them more strongly at the center. He was satisfied they would be strong enough to support the light weight of a tethered sheep. Anything greater would cause them to quickly break. leaning upon the long-worn handle of his axe, he stared out across the valley as the growing breeze tugged at his unkempt beard

and ragged sheepskin clothes. The tall clouds of afternoon told him a storm was coming. Maybe such weather would work in his favor. Grunvald considered his plan once more. The wolf would cross the raft of branches, and its weight would see it plunge into the pit below. If fortune favored him, it would be pierced upon the stakes. Otherwise, he thought grimly, he would need to finish it off himself.

His sheep were secured inside the low-roofed stone enclosure he had made long ago. The thick stone walls would serve their purpose, and he had reinforced the pen door with heavy timbers. The sheep pen did not concern him tonight. No beast would waste the effort to try digging under the walls when there was helpless prey in the open. He began tethering the young yew that he had chosen on a short rope to the thickest branches above the center of his pit trap.

It was young and nervous, the very reasons he chose it. The sheep bleated weakly and he soothed it with reassuring sounds as he checked the fastenings that would hold it in place. He was sorry to lose a sheep, but it was better to lose one than all of them. Reassured the branches and tether would hold it long enough. He walked back toward the door of his home and banged his fist upon the wood. Rudy unbolted the door and let him in as the wind blew her hair from her face for a moment revealing

the extent of her scarring. Although he was familiar with her injury, it hurt him deeply each time he saw it. The creature's claws had raked her face horribly, tearing her lip and ruining one of her eyes. He felt great guilt that he was not there to protect her. When he had found her left for dead, he had been forced to stitch the wound himself with his clumsy old fingers. When he looked upon the face of his granddaughter, he saw only his own shame. The old man walked quietly to the fire to warm himself and prepare a meal for the two of them. Grunwald made a simple stew with the little foods he had stored. The work of the last few days meant he had been too busy to replenish his dwindling stalks.

He placed a bowl before Rudy. and watched as she ate mechanically without any pleasure. The old man had seen the change grow within her these last two years, as though she detached herself from all the things that used to bring her joy. Sometimes he felt he had lost the little girl he once knew and loved. He did not know what to say to bring them close again, and each season the silence grew heavier between them. His wife would have known how to heal the rift between them,

but she was long dead and he was just a tired old man. The dark rings beneath his eyes revealed the sleepless nights he had endured. Grunvald closed his weary eyes and prayed for the strength to put an end to this beast that had stolen the peace from his days and haunted his nights. The howl from outside made Grunvald wake suddenly, sitting bolt upright in his chair. Rudy stood over him, watching him with a strange and night. intensity that unsettled him. There was a cold detachment in her sometimes that had no place in a young girl.

Frustrated in realizing that he had slept without intending to, he shouted Rudy to fetch his axe. The old man fastened his sheepskin cloak about his shoulders, as his granddaughter returned with the tool. He knelt down to be level with her face and took her shoulders firmly in his hands. You bar the door and stay inside. Do you hear me? Rudy's eyes looked down, lost in the tangles of her own Auburn hair.

She nodded her acceptance of his words. He would have liked more firm assurance, but there was no time. He cupped her cheek tenderly for a moment before taking the axe and drawing himself to his full height, before reaching for the door. The words were softly spoken behind him like a prayer, but he heard them all the same. A sad smile tugged at his thin lips. Maybe there was still hope for them both. He paused at the threshold of the door.

Then, without turning back, plunged into the cold darkness of the moonlight. The wind lashed at him, ripping at his clothes as he squinted into the darkness looking for movement. Behind him, he heard the heavy bolts slide into place, and satisfied she would be safe, He gripped his axe and began to walk toward his trap. Grunwald swept the strands of his long gray hair from his face as the wind buffeted him. As he closed in, he could hear the cries of the lamb straining at its tether and see its eyes rolling in terror. The old man froze in place. His sense is straining in the darkness as he realized the surface of his pit trap remained intact.

No animal had yet attacked the lamb. Even with the wind, he could feel his own labored breathing as he crept cautiously forward. Grunwald felt a cold fear run through him, making his legs weak. This big wolf somewhere out in the dark with him was a hunter. It was born to be a predator, at home in the darkness that would not hinder it. He was just an old man riddled with doubt. He was not a good father. Perhaps he was not even a good man.

But tonight he would do something. something worthwhile. His grip tightened upon the shaft of his axe as he lumbered stiffly into the darkness. Something drew his gaze to the shadows by the sheep pen, and he saw the predatory amber eyes watching him with an intensity from the dark. The old man shifted his weight slowly to his good leg and readied his axe with his cold grip. With a mix of fear and hatred, he spat in the dirt and readied himself. The beast sunk into the shadows, circling him somewhere out there in the darkness. He risked a glimpse back toward the cottage. The faint firelight was visible beyond the shutters and the cracks in the old door, but no sign of Rudy. He prayed she would be safe. A flurry of

movement in the darkness made him turn and swing the axe in a vicious arc, but his weak leg buckled and he stumbled. The weight of the wolf barreled into him as its jaws scrabbled for his throat. Groombell dropped his axe and grappled with the creature, struggling to keep his forearm on its neck, forcing its snapping teeth away from his neck.

This free hand punched weakly at its heavy skull and flound as he felt its rancid breath on his face. The sound of his struggles mingled with the panicked cries of the sheep behind him. Suddenly, he heard a great crack and felt a ground to go away beneath him. He locked together, they plummeted into the pit. The moonwald slammed hard onto his side, as terrible, sharp pain lands through him.

He lay still, gathering the strength to move. Turning his head to the left, he saw his lower leg had been impaled upon a stake. And that agony of the injury made him grit his teeth to stifle his mouth. bones. He knew he had broken some ribs and had hurt to breathe. Beside him, the wolf had fared worse. Two stakes had cleanly impaled it through its haunch and neck. Its chest rose and fell with its ragged, labored breaths. He watched as the light slowly left its amber eyes. It was a gray wolf, a big one, perhaps a hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, flesh and fur, lying dead beside him. It seemed less than he had always imagined. He let his head rest

back and took deep aching breaths as he readied himself, and with a strangled scream, he tore his leg from the wooden stake, clamping his hands upon the wound. On his knees in the dark, Runwald groped for the knotted rope that allowed him to clamber into and out of the pit. In the corner of the pit he saw the young lamb, terrified but unscathed. The sight made him think of Rudy, who would be alone and afraid, locked in their home. Gathering the last of his strength, he began to slowly haul himself from the pit, his injured leg dangling, useless in the air. He had lost a lot of blood, but he could bind the wound back at the cottage before he lost too much.

He hauled himself above the pit onto the firm ground, a racking, cough swept through him and he felt blood and spittle in his beard. The old man stumbled to his feet and dragging his useless leg through the mud, he shambled back toward the warm light of the cottage. Covered in mud and blood and racked with pain, each faltering step was an effort in the pale moonlight. Grunwald's injured leg gave way and with a cry of pain he fell to his knees, sobbing with pain and frustration. The old man gritted his bloody teeth and crawled the last yards to the door. He raised his fist and banged it upon the door.

There was no reply, and he banged his fist harder against the old scarred wood. Rudy, Rudy let me in. He tried to keep the pain from his voice, not wanting to frighten her further. Silhouetted by the firelight, he saw a movement through a crack in the door. He struggled to keep his tone. calm as he spoke, trying to reassure her with his words. Rudy, it is over. You can let me in now.

His pleas were met with silence. In pain, he desperately put his eye to a crack gouged into the wood to see Rudy's good eye staring back at him. Her voice was heavy with sorrow. Grunwald's bushy eyebrows drew together in confusion as he slumped against the door. His bloody fist banged again weakly against the worn wood. Rudy's tone was consoling as she placed her hand against the wood, knowing her grandfather was separated only by the two inches of thick maple wood.

She listened as his attempts to enter grew weaker, and soon fell into a still silence. Suddenly she felt the thick wood shudder forcefully in its frame. Then shake again, the powerful blows jolting the heavy timber, bolt that held it firmly in place. The scraping sound of claws scrambled powerfully at the wood, scarring and gouging its surface.

She knew it would hold. It always held. Her final tale. We present part three of Tales of the Mooncrawler. We find ourselves in medieval England. It's a time when the village turns to the church for solace and protection against the dark things harming the parishioners. and when a woman claims the devil himself is stalking the village, the local priest must decide what to do about it.

Performing this tale are Ash Millman, Jake Benson, Andy Cresswell, and Penny Scott Andrews. So take heed of this tale and say your prayers if you must, for this tale has been penned in ink. The cathedral doors screeched open, pouring moonlight down the center aisle and drawing Father Edward. 's attention. A woman, a villager from the looks of her ragged clothing, was ushered in by one of the town guards. It looked like Neville, but so grime-coated was he that Father Edward couldn't be sure it was really him until he spoke. Father Edward. The good father rose from the pew and turned to fully face his visitors, but did not attempt to bridge the gap. He arched a brow, and Neville gently placed a hand on the small of the woman's back, urging her forward like a parent-guide.

a child. The woman stepped forward timidly, wringing her skirt as she took the short steps of a shy bride. She was no bride, however. The wrinkles on her face and the calluses on her fingers painted a picture of a woman in her twilight years. Indeed, she must have been pushing 40. Neville guided her patiently, and once they were within earshot, Father Edward heard him speak to her in a low tone. Go and tell Father Edward what you told me. Her hand shook as she squeezed her skirt tighter as though afraid to utter so much a sound and Father Edward sought to put her at ease.

Go on, madam. You were in the house of God. You may speak openly. She turned once more to Neville in search of approval she'd already gotten twice over. He didn't hesitate to grant it once more, gesturing forward with his hand. The peasant woman shifted from foot to foot. Father, I think I saw the devil in me fields to none.

Father Edward watched her trembling in excitement and fear after a confession. He brought a hand to his chin, stroking it thoughtfully. His ruby ring shimmered, reflecting candlelight like sun through the stained glass windows. Sightings of the devil were not uncommon, particularly among the lower classes. Being less educated, they often struggled to make sense of things that a man of higher refinement, such as Father Edward, would find entirely normal. The thing to do, when confronted with the devil's sighting, was to promptly sort the person out and send them on their way, having assuaged their fears. I understand. Tell me, what exactly did you see? The woman looked back at Neville once again. This game of unspoken questions and answers.

of silent requests, was beginning to wear on Father Edward, particularly because it was he who should be the reassuring party, not a lowly guard. He thumbed his ring, reminding himself that patience was a virtue, and he would surely be repaid with a handsome tiding, should he help her with her problem. And if she did not provide one, well, that was one more mark against her. Perhaps, Father, we could sit down but a moment.

Of course, of course. Please, by all means. He stepped to the side and gestured to the nearest pew. The woman sat, her hands in her lap, staring down at the pristine church floor. Neville stood next to her and Father Edward a few metres away. That suited Father Edward just fine. She stank like only poor labourers can, and he didn't have his rose cloth handy to suppress the stench.

Mary, why don't you explain from the start? It started about a fortnight ago, Father. My livestock went missing. Overnight, seven hens and the fiercest cock you'll ever meet, gone, with nary a sound. I thought it was a fox or a pack of wolves, but they're not usually so quiet.

And the cock, it would have put up a fight. We'd have heard it, Father. A few days later, it was my ass that disappeared. Tell me, father, how does an entire ass go missing without a sound? Father Edward thought back on the animals he had seen slaughtered in his youth, the terrible sounds of their death throes. I suppose if the killing was swift enough... We thought that is me a husband and I,

that it was bandits. He thought, he said, Mary, if one more thing goes missing, I tell you we're going to the town's guard. Meantime, we brought the rest of the animals into their pens and set up watch for the night. Father Edward looked at Neville. Is that where you come in?

Neville shook his head. We stayed up for five nights, father. Five nights And nothing happened And on the sixth She tightened her grip on her skirt On the sixth night We heard something

In the woods Something We lost a boy Years ago to fever It was only seven A sweet child father Full of life kind, strong. There was a day once, a few months before he died. He'd gone playing in the woods,

even though we'd warned him off of it, told him it was dangerous. There's a stream that runs through the woods near our home and a sharp drop to reach it. My precious boy had fallen and landed on a tree branch. He couldn't get up. It wasn't until hours later when we searched the woods, we heard his weak little voice calling us. Mommy, Daddy, help me. Oh, I'd never felt more relieved to hear his crying. I fail to see how this is relevant.

On the sixth night, that's what I heard, father. What you heard? whatever do you mean? I heard my little boy crying for help just like all those years ago. Mommy, daddy, help me only

it wasn't quite right but it was close enough to his voice. I nearly went out to find him all the same. What stopped you? My husband he pulled me back inside the our home and locked the door, said it had to have been the devil playing a trick on us. He said not to go. He did well. You've got a smart man, Mary. The following few nights, I heard it again.

My husband didn't want us keeping watch anymore, said it was too dangerous that the devil had keep tempting us until we went looking for our baby boy. But whenever my husband slept, I slid out of bed and watch the field. The Lord says, wives, submit yourselves unto your husbands as unto the Lord, for the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church. Do you often disobey your husband? Neville shot Father Edward a cold look as Mary shrank in her seat. Father reigned in his temper.

Of course, this was not the time to chastise. He could correct Mary's behalf. after her fears had been eased. Oh, never mind that now. Please, go on. You said you were hearing your son's voice. Mary kept her jaw clamped shut until Neville joined her on the pew,

setting a hand on her shoulder encouragingly. A breach in propriety, but Father Edward graciously allowed it. A few nights ago is when I finally saw him. Your son? No, father. The devil.

I heard his voice, my son's voice, and slipped out of my husband's arms to go to the door. I opened it just a crack to see if he really was out there. And that's when I saw a man standing in my field. And what was it about? this man that made you think he was the devil? There was some evil about him, father.

Just looking at him sent a coldness into my soul. He stood in the moonlight, wearing it like a halo, looking like a false god. And where Jesus had a crown of thorns, he wore horns in its place. He was so tall, would have had to crouch to get in the door, if I'd let him in.

His face was so pale, I almost mistook him as death. But then I saw he had the body of a peace. What a terrible thing. It could only have been him. And did he tempt you? Did you listen to him? No, father. I watched him for a moment.

And then I heard my boy again. I heard his voice. clear as day. And that voice was coming from the devil. Father, I need to know, is me son in hell? Is that why the devil speaks in his voice? Father Edward and Neville exchanged glances. The priest felt a cold sweat trickling down his spine, though he kept his composure through the exchange. He thumbed the ring again and forced himself to give her a reassuring smile. If your boy was baptized, then I'm sure he has gone to heaven, madam. Jesus said, suffer the little children and forbid them not to come unto me,

for to such belongeth the kingdom of heaven. What you saw, what you heard, was just the devil's way of tricking you to come to him. You did very well to ignore him. Should he come back, do the same? Lock your doors. Do not let him seduce you, and you will be safe. It was right and good to report this incident to me. I shall make a full investigation. But now let it trouble you no more.

Go home and put it out of your mind and tell the guard outside to escort you back. Neville, stay a moment with me, please. Oh, thank you for your blessing. you. Indeed, go with God. The peasant woman rose to her feet and scurried out of the church. Even after unburdening herself, she still looked nervous and frazzled, like a little mouse. Hopefully, with time, the incident would leave her and she would be at peace. Father Edward took a seat and cut a hand to his chin, stroking it methodically. He didn't speak until the woman was fully out of sight, accompanied He'd out of the courtyard with a guard at her sight. Neville also clung to the silence for as long as it was offered. Finally, Father Edward spoke.

Well, what do you make of this? I'm not sure, father. Thing is, this isn't the only report of strange incidents have heard in recent weeks. Oh? Livestock has been going missing at an alarming rate. I sent Frederick to survey the farmlands, looking for tracks, whether they be human or predator. I won't. rule out wolves just yet. And this has been going on for weeks, and you didn't think to tell me... I... I'm sorry, father. We thought it was bandits. We didn't wish to trouble you with anything so ordinary. But after hearing what Mary said...

Yes, well, perhaps you will think of me first next time. And what of Frederick? What has he found? He's not returned yet. He was supposed to check in hours ago, but no one's seen him. Have you checked the brothels? He's probably simply... skirting his duties once again.

I did. It wasn't there, sir. You seem worried. Aren't you, father? Well, what Mary saw, something evil surely in our midst. Let me tell you something about peasants. They are gifted storytellers. They tell stories to explain any inconvenient or strange thing away,

whether it be their own neglect in securing their property, as I suspect in Mary's case, or an indebted husband selling livestock under his wife's nose. Do you really believe the devil has nothing better to do than terrorize a peasant and steal his livestock? Do you really think that's all there is to it? I'm certain of it. But if it puts your mind at ease,

when Frederick returns, if he has found any tracks, you may call for a huntsman. Very well. I shall find him and report back to you when I do. Neville rose to his feet and adjusted his meager armour. It wasn't any sort that would protect him in war, but for the simple duties of their quiet town, it was enough.

Oh, and Neville? Yes, father? See that this devil business doesn't get around to the other peasants. Understood. I thought you didn't believe in it. I don't. If I believed every hysterical woman telling me his same, Satan walked the earth, and there would be no men anymore.

For every husband would have been accused and condemned of being the devil himself ten times over. Women are fickle creatures, Neville. Accusations roll from their tongues as quick as lies from Satan's lips. But a peasant may not see her story for what it is, and there may arise a panic which we would undoubtedly struggle to contain. No, no, no, no. This entire thing must be kept quiet. Understood.

The two parted ways to attend their respective duties for the night. Father Edward heard nothing more over the next few days and eventually put it from his mind until a week later when he found Neville sitting on the church steps, his face grim and pale. She's dead. For a moment, Father Edward was worried that Neville was speaking about his daughter. Neville had much pride in his child.

He took her hunting with him and had taught her to be almost as good an archer as he was. Really, Father Edward ought to chastise him on it one day, both on the sin of pride and on bringing up a daughter as though she had the same value as a son. But never mind all that. Neville was solemn, but not hysterical, so surely he must be referring to someone else. Who? Mary, the peasant you spoke with the other day.

I speak to a lot of peasants named Mary. Over half the female congregation is named Mary. You'll need to be more specific. The one who saw the devil? Or, well, who thought she did? Father Edward's eyebrows rose. Nathel was much more distraught than the good father thought the situation warranted. The woman was old and the elderly died all the time.

And why did he feel the need to bring the news to Father Edward in the first place? Ah, I see. fret not for God has called her to the kingdom of heaven and now she knows peace to Father Edward's surprise Neville had the audacity to glare at him rather than show gratitude for his comforting words God didn't call her anywhere what took her a fever

the devil took her what nonsense is this I promised to check on her and her husband each night to ensure they were unbothered Last night I couldn't make it. I thought she'd be fine, but it's my fault. No one is to blame for the hands of fate. I could have protected her.

What happened, Neville? Speak clearly. Neville plucked a pebble from the ground and chucked it across the courtyard. There was loathing in his heart, and though much seemed erected inward, Father Edward couldn't help but sense some ire sizzling beneath his feet. I went at first line. Mary's husband was already filling her grave. Told me that she'd heard her boy again in the middle of the night, crying this time. Before he could stop her, she ran to the door, pushing away the furniture they'd used to block it and unfastened the lock.

Crying got louder, almost like the thing was right outside the door waiting for her. Mary only opened the door for a second before her husband caught up behind her and slammed it shut. But it was too late. Damage had been done. Mary was standing there, propped up against the door, refusing to move. using to move and... Well, when he tried to shove her out the way, she... He...

He walked. Out with it! She tumble to the ground. Her head severed from her body. In less than a second, that thing had chopped it clean off. Good Lord above. Her husband said he caught a glimpse of the thing through the crack in the door. It was skittering about outside, waiting for the door to open again. He couldn't see much, but he said it was like some kind of...

Pale-faced owl beast. What he saw was an animal with no regard for human life. You said it was nothing, father. I couldn't possibly have known... We could have sent more guards to watch them. I understand your frustrations, but you must understand. Stories of the devil are as common as dirt. How was I to have known that this one had some merit? You saw how frightened she was.

She could barely bring herself to speak, and you still sent her back. Father Edward hung his head. He was not used to being the subject of chastisement, yet he found it hard to insist upon his innocence. He paced the courtyard as the dejected guard sat in silence. Neville's anger was a palpable thing, threatening to sully the holy ground of the church.

After a moment's consideration, Father Edward plucked off his precious ruby ring and tossed it to Neville, who caught it with confusion. What's this? Give it to the husband. Tell him to use what money he can get from it to rebuild his life, here or elsewhere.

And tell him that we'll give her, that will give Mary a proper Christian burial here at the church at no expense to him. It was all the good father could do, and Neville's gaze softened as he pocketed the ring. This, at least, could provide me. Mary's husband with the means to live a comfortable life, whatever little that meant without his wife. What of Frederick? Did he find any tracks?

Frederick? He never came back. What? We don't know what exactly happened to him. He perhaps wasn't the most diligent sort, but he wouldn't abandon his post for so long. We think he must have been killed either by this, this, this demon or by something. else. Heaven have mercy on his soul. What can we do now? I'll write to the Cardinal at once, and see to it that we get the best reinforcements the church has to offer. In the meantime, double the guard around town if you can. Make sure we've got people patrolling the farmlands as well. Don't tell them why we're doing this. We must ensure that we do not cause a panic.

I'll see what I can do. Godspeed. He helped Neville up and escorted him from the courtyard. There was a heavy feeling poisoning the air, or perhaps it was coming from within him. Father Edward tried to put it out of his mind as he prepared morning mass. But throughout the day, the dread followed him like a shadow. He sensed danger lurking in every corner. And though we'd not seen Mary lose her head,

his mind continued to conjure what it must have looked like, how it must have felt to be standing there in that moment. Even as he put his head to his pillow that night, the unseen image haunted him. The crackle of fire and the awkward smell of smoke roused Father Edward from his tortured slumber. Sunrise was creeping through the window, but as he blinked the sleep from his eyes and looked out at the courtyard, he realised the sea of orange couldn't be the sun at all. Several homes were on fire, and he could hear the townsfolk shouting to one another as they struggled to keep it from spreading. Father Edward hurried into his clothes, running out the door to help.

He hadn't made it far before a pair of guards stopped him, beseeching him to come with them. He followed them until they reached Neville, who was speaking to a group of six heavily armed farmers. What's going on? Neville nodded to the farmers and gestured for them to go. They split up and ran off down several cobblestone streets. All the while, Father Edward stood in confusion. Father, we need to get used somewhere. safe. Have you heard back from the Cardinal yet? Neville ushered Father Edward towards the fortified

guards tower. No, I just sent the messenger today. It could take days or even weeks for an answer. What's going on here? The fire... Let it burn. We need it. Enough of this. Tell me what has happened. The demon took a child. A weight as heavy as a stone fell in Father Edward's chest. It took the child. Devoured. God in heaven. It happened west of town.

A group of travellers set up camp at the edge of the lake by the woods. A child wandered away from the campfire to chase frogs. The travellers saw a large beast leap out of the trees and swallow him all. They said it wouldn't come near him at first, and they didn't know why until one brave soul grabbed a torch and gave chase. That's when they realised the beast was trying to avoid the light of the fire. You mean to tell me? this demon fears fire.

One of them saw it escape the forest and run towards town. Travelers followed with their torches to warn us. So the fires were set on purpose? Not exactly. As the townsfolk were lighting the torches, one fell and... Well, you see what's happened? At the very least, the sight of the fire seems to have frightened the monster away. Permanently, let's hope.

Just then, they heard screaming from the southeast end of town. Father Edward and Neville climbed the guard tower as quickly as they could looking out towards the houses where the fire had not yet spread. He could see the small hunting party of farmers filtering through the narrow streets. He counted five. Hadn't there been six earlier? Lord help us. Father Edward followed Neville's gaze to a fountain.

One of the farmers lay halfway slouched in the water, stained red. It was clear that parts of the body were missing. Father Edward gasped and looked away. Wait, there, I see it. Father Edward couldn't bring himself to look at what Neville saw. As Neville reached blindly toward a rack of bows, Father Edward dislodged one and handed it to him. Can you hit it from this far?

And the best archer in the land, of course I can hit it. Can you climb down and get me a torch? Father Edward didn't protest. He ran back down the stairs, pulling one of the torches off the tower wall, before running back up. He was winded, but that didn't stop him from holding the torch towards Neville, who used it to light a cloth-wrapped arrow. The man pulled the string, positioned himself, and glared with near reverent focus at a point on the south end of town. Now, Father Edward

couldn't stop himself from looking, to catch a glimpse of the creature that had so terrified Mary and her livestock. From a distance, it didn't seem as imposing as he'd imagined. It was a uncanny, unholy, unnatural, but not imposing. It lumbered on two feet, swiping long arms at the farmers who dared approach. It would have looked comical, but for the way the farmers fell to the ground, leaving showers of blood in their wake. Father Edward guessed it likely moved faster whenever it fell onto all fours. As Mary and her husband had said, its head looked vaguely owl-like, though from this distance

its face looked like a mere dot at the end of a long, fur-coated neck that expanded onto a broad, shaggy back. Neville tracked its movements carefully. There were moments where releasing an arrow might have saved a village's life, but he waited instead. He and Father Edward both knew he would have only one shot, and if he missed, the devastation of the beast would be tenfold. A group of men converged on the demon's position.

It reared high on its legs, ready to attack, letting out a horrifying shriek that caused the men on the ground to cringe and cover their ears. Father Edward prayed beneath his breath. Neville closed an eye, inhaled, and released the bowstring. The flaming arrow went through the air like a diving bird, lodging deep into the creature's shoulder. Its matted fur lit up like a stack of hay in a draught. You struck it! Praise be the good lord!

They could hear its agony from the guard tower. Soon, Father Edward thought, the creature would be dead, and they could see once and for all whether it was devil or beast. But then the creature reached an arm to its blazing skin, digging its claws deep into its own flesh. Father Edward and Neville watched in some confusion as the creature began to pull at its flesh. Slowly, it began to peel the fur and flesh from its body.

The squelching sound could be heard even from a distance as sinews tore and disconnected from its main mass. He dropped it like a shroud in a display so abhorrent even the devil himself would have shuddered. The wet mass hit the ground with a sickly, slippery thud, painting the street and oozing black blood. Underneath the discarded layer, there was a thinner membrane of flesh,

ghostly, partially translucent. The two men stood there watching, frozen in shock and horror. The monster turned its head, scanning the sky and searching for the source of the arrow. The men that had converged on its position had fled in terror at its grotesque sacrifice. It set its large, black, hollow eyes on the men in the tower, and in them Father Edward could see a sinister intelligence. The thing shifted its position, as though to charge at them, but Neville acted before it could. He grabbed another arrow, set it alight and aimed it at the creature.

It didn't have a second skin to shed anymore, and so it turned and ran from town, back into the woods where an archer's arrow could not hit it. That thing, it is no mere animal. No. Whatever it is, it's beyond man and beast, perhaps even beyond the devil himself. Father Edward was shaking.

He felt as though the hideous creature had stared, straight into his soul and found him wanting. No creature had the right to the kind of intelligence it displayed. It was the face of a beast that had seen God and chosen to defy him. Father Edward knew it in his heart. He fell to his knees sobbing uncontrollably. Neville, in the meantime, kept his composure and fixed his eyes on the tree line, ready to strike again should it come back.

But it never did. When dawn broke and the fires were finally Quenched, Neville knelt in front of Father Edward and placed his hands on his shoulders. I'll send men out to look for it. We'll burn the old forest down if we need to. No, don't put more men in the path of that cursed beast. Better to just burn the forest now for the sake of us all. Don't let that thing gain a foothold. Father Edward was never the same after that day. He became a recluse, combing through all known texts in search of what he'd seen that night. For years, he found nothing. It was like the creature had clawed its way up from hell

just to torture their poor town and then fled home at the first sign of fire. Then, some years later, as he neared the end of his own life, he found it, not in the Bible or in the church's teachings on God or demons. Instead, it was in a journal from an ancient Roman soldier. The man described a terrible beast that had attacked his men, slain them by cutting off their heads, just as this beast had done. The soldier had sketched the beast, and it ran Father Edward's blood cold to look at it. It looked almost exactly the same, but for a few features. A tail, a visible beating heart, shorter legs.

Whatever the beast was, this wasn't the first time it had walked the earth. But what's more, it wasn't the same as it was, although sensual. centuries ago. Whatever it was, it was changing, adapting. Tales of the Mooncrawler, part three. Written by Manon Lyset. Story editing assisted by Rona Vassilar. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Join us next week for the final two parts of the Tales of the Mooncrawler. The No Sleep podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical composer is Brandon Boone.

Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. Please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com for show notes and more details about the people who bring you this show, along with hundreds of hours of audio horror stories in our archives. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening and for supporting our Dark Tales. This audio production is copyright 2023 by Creative Reason Media, Inc.

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