The NoSleep Podcast - S20 Ep17: NoSleep Podcast S20E17

Episode Date: February 4, 2024

It’s Episode 17 of Season 20. Come join us around the campfire for tales about devilish deception.“Hollow” written by K.A. Wiggins (Story starts around 00:03:10)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Sarah Ruth Thomas“Capsul Home” written by Monique Asher (Story starts around 00:17:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Jessica McEvoy, You – Erin Lillis, Dispatcher – Kyle Akers, Voice – Erin Lillis“Radio Silence” written by Ryan Olson (Story starts around 00:28:15)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator – Mike DelGaudio, Alan – Dan Zappulla, David – Matthew Bradford, Diane – Wafiyyah White, Drew Andrews – Peter Lewis, James – Jeff Clement, John Evans – Kyle Akers, Radio Host – David Cummings“Ashes to Ashes” written by Juniper West (Story starts around 01:16:00)Produced & scored by: David CummingsCast: Narrator – Erika Sanderson“The Find of the Century” written by Gerry Sloan (Story starts around 01:29:00)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – David Ault, Ciara – Penny Scott-Andrews, Harris – Andy Cresswell, Policewoman – Ash MillmanThis episode is sponsored by:Rocket Money – Rocket Money is the app that helps you identify and stop paying for subscriptions you donít need, want, or simply forgot about. Stop wasting money on things you donít use. Cancel your unwanted subscriptions by going to RocketMoney.com/nosleepClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Click here to learn more about K.A. Wiggins Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“The Find of the Century” illustration courtesy of Thea ArnmanAudio program ©2024 – 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 our earliest days, we've gathered around the fire for warmth and comfort. But beyond the light of the dying embers, there is the darkness. And it's in the darkness of the night where we find ourselves waiting, yearning for the dawn to banish our fears. But our campfire holds more than fireless. for with us you will hear the tales that make the nightmares engulf you and you dare not close your eyes brace yourself for the no sleep podcast welcome to the no sleep podcast i'm your host danny cummings you know in this day and age there's something all of us are likely doing and doing very often

without ever thinking about it. I'm talking about the constant mental exercise of determining what and what not to believe. Let's face it, we're on our phones or online constantly, scrolling through feeds and posts and articles, most of them trying to share information with us that could be true. But we're also savvy enough to know that there is a lot of information out there that is intended to deceive us, to mislead us, to sway us away from the truth. And that fact has swung things in the other direction. There is some information out there that is real.

It is the truth. It's undeniable empirical fact. But if that truth doesn't serve our agenda, we just have to yell, fake news, and the water gets muddied even further. On this episode, we have stories which delve into the nightmares of things being rather deceptive, scenarios and people who aren't quite what they seem. And when we stop and realize how much our minds rely on things in our life being real, authentic, and believable, you can start to see how quickly the horror can grow when reality becomes untrustworthy.

What do you do when a person isn't quite who they seem to be? When a familiar setting starts feeling unfamiliar, or when a beloved podcast host introduces himself with a different name? Hmm, see what I mean? So if, in fact, you are listening to the No Sleep Podcast, then you should brace yourself for tales which you might find unbelievable. And now, the sun has set, the fire glows bright. Brace yourself for the darkness of the night. In our first tale, we meet a woman caught up in the magical world of showbiz.

She's appearing in a movie. Well, sort of. As we'll learn in this tale, shared with us by author K.A. Wiggins, the woman is a screen double, a stand-in for the real movie star. Just one of the many ways movies aren't always what they seem. Performing this tale is Sarah Thomas.

So remember, Hollywood isn't real. And if you forget that fact, you might end up feeling kind of hollow. This is what it means to be in the studio. You're sealed inside an enormous warehouse with very little light. The door clang shut behind you, and structures loom ahead and to every side, like Neolithic monuments in the shadows of some moonless pagan night.

In the darkness, and more often, in the bright but narrow pools of light, there are actors, talent. There are people running around with cables and props, and cameras and lights, crew. And then there are the others, the ones who wait in the darkness because of one thing, how they look. And not just how they look, but how much they look like another. They're there to sit and to watch and to wait for the moment when they exist on the glowing screens,

but not as themselves, as shells, as stand-ins or as doubles for the true. talent. And of course, none of that is as eerie and as alarming as it has been made to seem, because this is a production studio, and Hollywood Magic is being made. And really, all that happens is too much waiting around, and endless snacks and a check that comes in the mail two weeks later. They call us background performers instead of extras now. It's more polite. But for us, this isn't a performance. It's extra cash, extra work, extra hours of unskilled labor crammed into two busy weeks. We're under no illusion. We are just extra bodies, human props, and very rarely specialized props for the people who matter. Like today. It's my first day in the studio, second day as a

screen double, and 10th day as an unagented, non-union background performer. I shift my tote and wish I'd left the hardcover inside in the little half-trailer I was assigned. Screen doubles aren't movie star important, but they do warrant a step up from the regular background performer holding pins. It's a pleasant surprise. I just wasn't expecting the dark. There's not much time for reading anyway. My job is to sit in front of two screens and watch the same scene being filmed from different angles, over and over again. At the end of the day, the real actors will be sent home,

and the doubles sent in for all the no-face shots. If I had talent, I'd be memorizing the lines and movements of my original. But no one hires you for these gigs on talent. It's all down to how you look. Six stand-ins and four doubles sit in three rows on hard, folding chairs and stare at the screen. We don't talk. Not really.

There's no soundstage, no noise isolation, so we can't risk much more than a whisper during filming. A blinking red light warns us to stay silent. After the first few minutes, it fades into the background. But we're not there to visit. We're there to wait until we're needed. To wait for the moment when we step out of the darkness and onto the set. The light of the screens picks up the edges of things,

the ridge of a nose and profile, the angle of a cheekbone, the arc of curls springing from a too tight wig. We all look like an unfinished version of someone on the screen in front of us, rows of shells watching themselves come to life. I'm making it sound alarming again, but it's not. It's a little magical and a little creepy and mostly just enormously dull.

Except for the sets. Walking through a studio is like exploring a village after it's been bombed by a very particular artillery. Maybe laser cannons. There are perfect, full-sized rooms missing a single wall, or two, or three. Fasades with nothing behind them. Or maybe it's more like walking around a disjointed doll's house,

Dolls Town. I'm fascinated by the... artifice, secret underground rooms with styrofoam stone walls, and faux rustic cabins exposed to the elements through an open roof, and Victorian parlors, and a window that opens onto a suburban child's bedroom. There's what looks like a giant Christmas tree looming in one corner. The sets look different on the screen than up close, but not in the way you'd think. At first, it seems strange that they should seem more real, more intricate. and textured and beautiful in person.

But that's the thing about movie making. It's all real. It's just not really the way it seems. The doubles only get sent onto set in the evening. We're well into overtime, dazed and yawning. But I perk up a bit in the light, craning my neck to see all the fine detail of the set for the first time. When they start rolling,

I'll have to sit still to keep my not quite right face from showing up on camera. Until then, I can fiddle with the props and peek around the corners to see the raw pipes and unfinished edges merge seamlessly into an artifice of gritty realism. But after, when the cameras roll, that's the part that scares me. I'm not an actor. I just play one on TV. And no one asks if we can act when they hire us. So this is the part I live in dread of, the part where it can all go sideways, where that voice calls up from the back and I get exposed as a fraud, a waste,

a failure even at something so basic as faking being a person. Are you sweating yet? Feeling that anxiety deep in the pit of your stomach? Sitting on the edge of your seat waiting for disaster to strike? But if your eyes are on the back of the room, you've missed it. And if you're at the front of that fake shell of a room, like me, you won't see the danger either, not until it's too late. Not during the first take, nor perhaps even the second. You can't see it until they've finished with you, and you're sent back to wait and to watch.

And even then, it's too dark to see unless you look very closely. And you'll have been sitting with the same people in the dark all day, so you don't look. Not really. It's rude to stare. It's only a trick of the light, after all. It's only exhaustion, the hours of overtime piling up, and the eye strain of staring at a lit screen in a dark room. They're not really hollow, the other doubles.

It's just a trick of the shadows that makes them look like a thin veneer of a person stretched over a void. But now I'm not making it sound alarming enough. because it's the end of the night, and I'm sitting in a stiff chair waiting to be called back in front of the camera and trying not to get caught sneaking glances at my neighbors. And it's easy to make it sound like it's some other person, some imaginary you experiencing this absurd warping of reality, than to accept what I'm seeing.

I peer at the one double they're still shooting, who looks as solid as anything on the screen. But when they call me up on standby, I can see right through her. She's a crisp, moving cardboard cutout of a person from one angle, but nearly transparent from the other. And she fades a little more with every moment the cameras are rolling. I back away slowly, stumbling over cords and the sills of half-framed doors.

I'm out of position, but no one calls me back. I tug at my wig, pluck the costume at my shoulders, relief to feel solid flesh beneath. I sneak back to the viewing screens, praying for filming to wrap before I have to sit in front of those cameras again. The screens show no sign of fading, no trace of the false-fronted creature I've just encountered.

Their flickering light highlights only the edges of tired faces, slumped bodies, a cast of lookalikes waiting for a long day to end. And just because I can't see into the shadows, doesn't mean there aren't more there. And then, shooting wraps for the day. And it's time to go back to being our own people instead of stand-ins for the real talent.

The shock of fresh air and the imminent promise of freedom wakes me up as we straddle back to the trailers. I shake off the unease in the mad rush for hair and makeup. I'm in the brightly lit trailer and the pins are coming out before I realize I'm not going home. and I don't think I'm the only one. Because when the wig comes off, there's nothing left but a costume hanging off of a shell

and a line-up out the door of human props waiting to be put away for the night. Turns out, we might not have had any talent, but the camera was hungry all the same. So watch the screen carefully. Watch for the moment a stranger slides into that well-known actor's place, or that familiar street slips into a shatter-sighted set. Because that's the thing about movie-making.

It's all real. It's just not really the way it seems. We'd all like to think there's nothing to mistrust about your family and a family home. We'd love to think that, even though it's often not true. And in this tale, shared with us by author Monique Asher, we meet a woman whose sister has ventured into a home never lived in once owned by their father. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy, Aaron Lillis, and Kyle Akers. So home may be where the heart is, but there can be other things there as well if you enter a capsule home.

Your sister went into the house and didn't come out. You saw her, watched it. know with every ounce of your being she did you remember her hands cracked purple paint growing to the ends of them fumbling with the keys as she pushed the key in and opened the door she turned towards you and did that wave you two always do the wave that says i'm fine i'm going inside to my home that is safe that has windows and doors that lock the it's okay to leave because i'm in and a serial killer and waiting in the bushes or anything, wave. Your sister went in the house and didn't come back out?

The dispatcher's voice rings in your ear. High pitched and full of doubt. Doubt that you're not completely crazy, completely bat shit. Doubt because maybe he notices the twang in your voice you get when you've been drinking. That's right, she went in. I was about to pull away, but I needed to tell her something. That you were sorry for what you said. That she didn't mean to blow up on her when she wouldn't stop talking about dad and how horrible he was.

When she asked about your drinking. And then I went into the house and she wasn't there. Something had to have happened. Your heart races, blood coursing through you like a bullet train, high speed and dangerous. He's not going to believe you. Listen, your sister, she's an adult. That means we need her missing for at least 24 hours before we can do anything. Why don't you sleep it off?

You press the red end button and a visceral groan pulses up, shaking your voice box. Your throat is raw. You smoked too many cigarettes, had too much to drink. But that doesn't change the fact that your sister walked inside the house an hour ago and disappeared and that the police aren't going to help you. You take a gulp of stale water from the bottle and the cup holder. The clock blinks 312 as you turn off the ignition and the car goes quiet. The only sounds left are the crickets, the thump of your heart in your chest and the words that keep repeating in your mind.

Your sister went inside the house and didn't come back out. When you leave the car to approach the house, the stagnant moisture makes your hair all sticky on the back of your neck. the house that never really belonged to your sister, or anyone really. Beyond the breeze blocks is a wooden door with a starburst handle and a perfectly rectangular window. Though time had aged the place, there were no fingerprints, no dirty hands, no energetic swatches of eager children bursting through the door. Your father had owned the place but hadn't even lived in it, which is why you thought your sister would be okay. living in the home of a dead father who abandoned the two of you to a lifetime of neglect, to a first row seat to the decay of your mother's body from addiction, would be out of the question.

Except this place, this house, was never home. Only a shell, a capsule house, untouched and unlived in. Even the toilet paper that hung on the rolls in the bathrooms was original. yellow faded rose patterned mid-century madness. That's what made it okay. Until now. The silver doorknob is cold and slippery inside your sweaty palm. You open the door and you're not sure if it was there before,

but it's definitely there now. The scent of your sister's shampoo, the coconut stuff she uses. So strong it's like she's right there in front of you. There in the empty entryway. The globular lighting against your shadow casts a long, dark form across the floor. They sway, as does the light. Goose flesh spreads like fire up your arms.

Scared of your own shadow, that's right. Mom used to poke fun at you for it. Laugh when her friends were over. Late at night when darkness played in your room, making impossible stretching forms across the walls. If it wasn't the monstrous forms that, that set your skin prickling, it was her laugh, because after her laugh, you knew her face would sour and her hand would be next. The lamp across the living room clicks and illuminates the

red wool couch. This can't be happening. But then, why not? You remember to breathe and notice the frame above the fireplace, a picture surrounded by wood and brick. A picture that shouldn't exist, has no business existing, where had your sister gotten it? And why, why would she make such a thing? A picture of father holding Sissy on his knee and your smiling face beside him. You couldn't be more than six, and she looks about four with a bowl haircut and spiraling bangs. No mom. Your father's face, his grin with the crooked front tooth and the mustache, awakened the thing you want to forget the most. The feeling of him. His hugs, his hair, how he wore his cologne and made you smile until he was gone. A giggle comes from down the hall and suddenly you hear

a switch flick in there. You stare, intent that your sister will come out of one of the dark rooms just around the corner. But she never comes. Susie. Your mouth feels reluctant to cooperate in this old shell. You wait. The silence fills up the room. Your feet carry you, hands tingling, shoes heavy against the shag carpet, to the hallway with four-screened wallpaper and covered like pox with picture frames. These were not here earlier. You see yourself at seven, that t-shirt you love to holes with red and blue stripes, dripping with ice cream, and a man next to you, you mid-laugh. You see your sister riding a bike and the man, your father, behind her, arms outstretched in joy. The breeze blocks. She's learned to ride the bike right out front. What kind of sick

joke is she playing? Why would she do this? Maybe she's having a breakdown. Maybe you're having a breakdown, imagining all of this. You've been drinking a lot lately, looking like mom more every day. You need to leave. You turn, but then another giggle echoes down the hall. It's coming from down there, behind the wooden door at the end of the hall. You gasp and clench up and bite your tongue. Iron seeps into your mouth. The light in the room turns on. It's rays flooding the space beneath the door. There's no one here. There can't be. Your heart pounds.

Your legs tremble as you step one foot after the other towards the room that's all lit up inside until you're right there in front of it, staring at the wood grain. You hesitate for a moment. Think maybe it'd be better to ignore the sounds, but the door handle moves on its own. Someone is turning it from the other side. You hear the giggle. You need to worry. Run, get out, but your feet are stuck.

Cemented, woven into the shag carpet. The door opens. A small face looks up at you. It's the face from the pictures in the hole, from the mantle. It's you looking up at you. Her mouth doesn't move. Her red and blue striped shirt is stained with ice cream. Her cheeks sticky with chocolate.

Are you tired? You hear her little voice, your voice, but her lips don't move. She points toward the bed. You take her hand, warm and chubby. She walks you over to the man, your father, who you've missed every day since he left. This is impossible. He left, but then maybe he's been here the whole time. Tears stream down your face, and little you closes the door.

door. You sit down next to him, your father on the bed. He begins to smile at you. You've missed him for so long, so many days. He said he'd come back and somehow he did. He came back and you're mad at him, angry with him, but so relieved to be here, so tired of fighting, so sick of drinking every night. The child locks the door. Your father's mouth begins to open, and that's when you notice it. Feel the hot blood that's dampened the quilt you're sitting on. That's when you see the purple chipped polish still on the fingernail next to your hand that definitely belongs on your sister's finger. You turn to your father and his mouth is agape. His teeth are straight, straight and sharp. dripping with saliva.

Your sister went into the house and didn't come out. If there's one thing we want to believe in, it's our own memories. Surely we can trust how things were in the past if we experienced them. But in this tale, shared with us by author Ryan Olson, we meet a family clearing out an old cabin to sell. But they soon discover something which makes the memories of the past decidedly unreliable. Performing this tale are Mike Delgadoo, Dan Zapula, Matthew Bradford, Wafia White, Peter Lewis, Jeff Clement, and Kyle Akers. So if you tune in to the past, you might

find yourself hoping for Radio Silence. David, scurried past his father up the old wooden steps that led to the loft in their cabin garage. Be careful, David. Alan almost dropped the folded up moving boxes he was carrying. There were bound to be loose boards and open nails up here. Alan continued up the steps, hesitating slightly with every creek and groan the stairs gave. He hadn't been here in years. Only the death of his father could have brought him back here to sort through all of their belongings before the cabin was put on the market.

The sounds of a loud tumble ahead of him and a slight cry caused Alan to pick up his speed, now disregarding the steps almost giving out under the slight weight of an adult. David, are you okay? He ran up to David, wrapping his arms around his son and looking him over to make sure he hadn't broken a bone. Yeah, Dad, I just tripped. You're bleeding. Alan noticed a small cut across David's leg. Sit still for a second. Let me see if I can find a Band-Aid.

I'm sure there's something in one of these old tackle. boxes. Sure enough, after a bit of searching, Alan walked back over to David with a bit of clean cloth and a band-aid. I told you to watch it up here. Alan helped David to his feet. Now stay in my sight while we look through what we've got here. He set up two of the moving boxes in the center of the room, pulled out a large black marker, and wrote keep on one of the boxes, and throw on the other. All right. Now you remember the rules, David. Alan watched David's eyes gloss over everything with childlike excitement. We don't need all of this junk coming back home with us,

so you can take one thing with you as long as you can hold it. Alan was particularly proud of this compromise. This way he could assure that David didn't grab onto something that they had no way of fitting into the car. David immediately began to look around the loft. His eyes lit up and he saw so many things he might be able to take for himself. The loft was filled with shelves, each lined with books, pots, boxes, swimming trophies, and photos of Allen that David's grandfather had collected during his lifetime.

David pulled down a box and began to rifle through its contents. Magazines, tons of them, the 10-cent review, they all said, each with a cascading issue number in the bottom left corner. issues 1 through 68 were in this box. David pulled down the box next to it, and the one after, each containing more and more issues of the same magazine. Alan walked over to see what David had been looking at. Oh, grandpa used to love these magazines. I'm pretty sure the only reason he lived so long was to get to the next issue.

He picked up one of the issues and scanned over it, remembering seeing the, the cover from some time in his childhood. He thought for a moment on whether or not to keep these before picking up the boxes and placing them next to the box marked throw. David continued on his search, wowed by small trinkets and boxes of records that his dad said they had to keep, until something sparkled in his peripheral vision. There, David saw, on the second shelf from the bottom, a glistening silver radio that look like it had never been touched before.

Dad, check this out. I wonder if it works. David started scouting the exterior of the radio until he found a small slider with the two ends labeled on and off. He slid up the slider to the on section. And almost instantly, the radio began to blare out high-pitched static,

causing David to fumble the radio between his hands before firmly catching it and pressing it to his body. David, turn that racket off. Alan walked over to where David was standing as the boy shuffled his hands, turned off the radio, and located the volume button to turn it down. When Alan looked and saw what David had found, he stopped.

Losing his breath, he looked around the room. Then back to David. Then to that radio. He hadn't seen it in years. So why now? Give me that! He ripped the radio from David's hands. This isn't a toy.

Alan looked at the radio and back to David, who now had the slight gleam of tears beginning to well up in his eyes. David had never seen his father act so aggressively out of nowhere. David, I'm... I'm sorry, here. I don't know what came up. over me there. Alan handed the radio back to David and patted him on the back. Must be this humid June air. The nights up at their family cabin had certainly been less than comfortable. The temperature consistently sat within the 90s and the humidity in the nights was so

unbearable one could hardly sleep. It's fine, Dad. I should have asked before playing with it. David stood still for a moment, looking at the radio. mind if I tried again, add a lower volume? Alan nodded, and David flipped the switch on. I don't think it works. David leaned his head down in defeat. Here, let me see. Alan reached his handout and looked at the radio. And sure enough, it just hadn't been flipped to AM or FM settings. He flipped the radio to the AM setting. Alan flipped the radio off. You just need to make sure it's set to a station, or all you'll get is a bunch of static.

The rest of the afternoon went by without any event. By suppertime, most of the shelves had been cleared, and they had left the garage with a large pile of boxes to throw away behind them. They walked outside of the garage and went up the trail leading to the main cabin. Welcome back, boys. Dinner can be ready in under an hour if I can get a hand from one of you. Diane winked from inside the cabin. Alan patted David on the back as they walked in. How was clearing out the garage? As both of them took off their shoes and made their way into the kitchen to help with dinner,

she noticed the radio that David had in his hand. What do you have there, David? She looked at Alan. That's just an old radio that Bill used to have stored up there. I said he could pick out something to keep as, long as he could hold it. Alan grabbed a beer out of the fridge and twisted off the top. He sat at the head of the kitchen table and took a sip.

All right. David, go set the radio in your room and then wash up to help with dinner. When David left, Diane turned to Alan and rested her hand on his shoulder. How are you feeling, hon? She slowly rubbed his arm. I'm not quite sure, Diane. He took another sip of his beer and looked down at the table. I never really thought I would be back here after what happened, let alone for this reason.

Diane sat down at the seat next to him and laid her hand on his lap. I know, hon. Regardless of how your relationship was, it's never easy to lose a parent. You remember how I was after my mother passed away? Yeah. Alan sighed as Diane leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before David came running back into the room. All ready? Ready.

Diane led David into the kitchen to start preparing dinner. After a few minutes, Alan stood up and excused himself outside. He walked down the trail, past the garage, and down to the lakefront, where he stood, beer in hand, looking off into the sunset. He thought about the last time he had lost. looked at this sunset. The last time he had been here. He felt an urge to sit on the docks, just like he had used to, like they had used to. His legs dropped off the side of the dot, and his feet hovered only six inches from the water.

The warm summer breeze rustled his gray hair and shook his loose shirt. Alan took a deep breath, and all was at peace, until the memories came flooding back. James, check this out. Alan jumped off the dock, his long brown hair breezing through the summer air. He did a flip in the air before landing in the lake, sending water cascading through the air to splash on the docks and all over James, who was watching gleefully as he sat, legs hanging off the side. Good one, Al. But you got a lot to learn, my friend. James stood up and took a running start off the dock.

He leapt off with greater height than Alan had and formed the shape of a pencil in the air, shooting himself down deep into the water. The water was murky on this particular day, and Alan saw no sign of James. James? You okay? Suddenly, Alan felt something grab his feet

and tip him over in the water. As his head fell under, he saw James' head coming back up, smiling devilishly. Alan laughed as he rose back out of the water, pushing James. Dick move! James smiled. You got me wet, asshole.

The two pushed and shoved each other in the chest deep water for a few minutes, until they both looked overhead and saw the clouds darkened further as the already raging storm began to grow closer. Then, they heard something that made them stand straight, still in the water. Alan turned his head to see Diane and David standing at the top of the steps. Confused, he shook his head and came back to reality. I'll be up in just a second. He slowly got up and stared at the small waves crashing into the lakebed. He sighed deeply and started back up the path to the cabin.

Diane lifted the lid off the crock pot, revealing the most wonderful smelling pot roast Alan ever had the pleasure of smelling. He smiled, and, after saying Grace, began to eat. Can we go swimming tonight when it gets dark? David stabbed his fork into the entirety of the small pile of meat on his plate. No, it's supposed to storm tonight. I could see the clouds forming over the lake when we grab Dad. But it's boring here.

Read a book then. Or listen to your new radio. I'm sure you can find something interesting to listen to there. Diane continued on, telling David tales of her listening to Radio Mystery Theater when she was a teenager. Oh, I just loved listening to those stories after dinner. Didn't you, Al? Alan sat still in his chair, his fork unknowingly dancing across his plate as he stared off into a window that overlooked the lake. Diane reached over the table and put her hand on Alan's arm.

His eyes, like a bullet, shot straight into hers. Um, what? I'm sorry, I must have spaced out. We were talking about things that David could do if he was bored. I suggest listening to his new radio. Ah, yes. Alan's eyes drifted back to the window. Do what your mother says.

Diane's face scrunched with worry as she watched his attention fall elsewhere. She could only guess that the loss of his father had touched him more than he was willing to let on. Letting it go, they all finished dinner quietly. The only sounds to be heard were the scraping of metallic utensils against their porcelain plates until Alan excused himself from the table. Great dinner, Dai. Thank you. I'm going to go wash up and try to relax. Hours passed, and each member of the family went on to do their own thing.

Diane cleaned up the table with David, and, after washing up, she pulled out her current guilty pleasure. A thief runs in the night. A mystery novel she had picked up at a small bookstore on the way to the cabin. She sat on the couch in the living room and began flipping through the pages, until she heard Alan walk out to the deck and saw him cross the windows in front of her. Her face scrunched in her usual worried way, and she put her book down to go sit with him. Are you thinking of him? Yeah.

He paused. Yeah, I am. Alan shifted around in his seat and continued looking out to the lake. I'm sorry. She put her hand on his, resting her head on his shoulder as she spoke softly. It's never easy to lose a parent. And she was right. But that night, while her head lay rested on his shoulder,

and David turned on his new radio all alone in his room, Alan was not missing his father. When David had finished helping his mother with the dishes, he ran back to his room and tried every way to amuse himself. He played with his game boy until he became bored. He read comics until he had finished them and tossed a ball on the air until he let out a groan of boredom.

He tossed the ball one more time, just a bit harder than before, and as it came down, it struck his new radio that had set on his desk. Remembering what his mother had said, he began to fiddle around with it. He made sure that the volume was low and flipped the switch into AM radio.

David immediately, began to swap channels looking for something he was interested in. After a while of searching, he happened upon a radio station playing, as his mother had told him, vintage radio mysteries. He turned up the volume, shut his lights off, and as he crawled into his bed, it began to storm. Diane and Allen started back inside as the first droplets of rain came down. Oh, there it is.

Diane pointed to the sky. I told you. Alan looked off into the distance one last time and glared at the lightning beginning to streak across the sky as they walked back into the cabin. Diane turned the television on, and before she sat on the couch, she opened up a few windows to let in the ambiance of the storm.

The sound of rain swiftly drowned out the noise of the television, and before she knew it, she turned the television off and opened up her book, read instead. I think I'm going to get some sleep. They issued their good nights, and Alan walked into the bathroom to begin his nightly ritual of brushing his teeth, flossing, gargling with mouthwash, using the toilet, and heading to bed.

Toothbrush in hand, he stared blankly into the mirror in front of him. His mind still focused on the lake, on the docks. Alan finished up in the bathroom, went to his bedroom, laid down, and stared at the ceiling. Slowly, he fell asleep. The force of devilish winds and sounds of thunder in the skies caused Alan to jolt awake. His tired eyes peered out in front of him, watching the sky light up as lightning danced across. What the hell? Immediately Alan noticed that the bright blue walls of his cabin bedroom,

had been replaced with a vast open lake. Trees walling the distant view. He frantically looked around. He was on the docks. He could feel his feet in the water's tender embrace. Alan spun his head around, and there stood, as young, as wet, and as pale as ever. Alan gagged as his eyes focused on the thing in front of him,

stepping into the moonlight. James's eyes were as black as night. No pupil. No iris. His skin was ghastly, as white as a ghost, but with long, dark, lightning-shaped patterns running across his arms and back. The body of James stepped closer to Alan, whose wind was knocked out of him with every step taken.

Why have you been waiting? Alan scooted backwards on the docks in an attempt to put more and more distance between them. Because... Alan reached the edge of the dock. A large bolt of lightning began to streak across the sky and down to the lake, as the body of James took Alan by the neck. Raspy, gurgling voice emerged from its mouth, leaned down, and shoved him into the lake.

As the bolt of lightning collided with Alan's head, rippling down his body, the creature stood watch as Alan, breathless and breathless. scared, sank down into the lake. As Alan reached the bottom, all things descended into silence, except the familiar ring of radiostatic. One back and forth. He shot out of bed, almost hitting Diane in the process. Are you okay? Jesus, give me a heart attack, why don't you? Still visibly shaken, took a couple of deep breaths before looking at Diane. Just had a bad dream, I guess. The hours of the morning dragged on for Alan.

He couldn't shake the hellish experience of the previous night. After the family had finished eating breakfast, they played a round of cards. David talked on and on about the mystery program he listened to, as Diane smiled in that, I told you so, way that only she could. then as they did yesterday Alan took David down to the garage to begin packing and throwing David in his youthful spirit yet again tripped up the stairs luckily this time with no injury

and the two soon got back to work David set up his new radio on one of the shelves and tuned it to a music station the afternoon passed in relative normalcy until David sat on the ground and began staring at his father. Dad? Helen looked over at his son, who was sitting in the middle of the floor with the radio in his hands. Yeah, David?

Are you? David paused and began to inch his way away from Alan, who was now walking slowly towards him. Are you a murderer? Glenn froze. All of the color drained from his son. face. What? Alan couldn't help but chuckle.

Don't be ridiculous. He began walking over to David faster. Why would you think that I am a murderer? I saw you when I was sleeping last night. You were on the docks, laughing. David uncomfortably looked up into Alan's eyes, which were open as wide as possible at that moment. David, what are you talking about?

You pushed him in during the storm. Alan's eyes became glossy with tears, but he managed to shake them away before they could incriminate him in the eyes of his son. No, son. I am not a murderer. He put a hand on David's shoulder. I think you may have just had a bad dream.

Maybe you shouldn't listen to another one of those mysteries before you go to bed. David and Alan sat still like this for a while, until Alan started back up to finish cleaning out the shelves in the garage. David soon followed. But Alan watched as his son kept a careful eye on him the entire time, making sure to keep at a short distance. He figured that David would get over it eventually.

Or at least, he hoped he would. Dinner that night was quiet. Alan stared yet again off into the lake. Diane and David both stared at him worryingly, but with severely different reasons. So, how was finishing up the garage? David's eyes bolted straight into the whites of his father's. It went fine.

Alan turned his gaze to Diane. Tomorrow, David and I can pack up the fishing storage, and then we can get the hell out of here. This made Diane smile, the happiest she'd been the whole trip. She thought to herself that getting out of there would make Alan feel much better. Can we go swimming tonight, Mom? No, sweetie, I'm sorry. It's supposed to storm again. David looked down at his plate and frustration.

Why do you want to go swimming during the storm so bad? We could take a break and go anytime tomorrow afternoon when it's nice out. David looked into his father's eyes and uttered a soft sentence. I want to go see Uncle Jimmy. Alan's eyes widened. His face flushed red and his body filled with fear. What did you just say? You don't have an Uncle Jimmy.

Diane looked curiously over it, Alan. Uncle Jimmy went swimming during the storm with Dad. That's what he said on the radio. What do you mean on the radio? Diane noticed the aggression rise in Alan's voice and immediately stepped in. Alan, what's wrong with you? Nothing is wrong with me, Diane. No more radio, David.

Alan removed himself from the table and stormed into David's room, grabbing the radio off the shelf and throwing it into his and Diane's room. David had started to cry at this point, confused and upset at his father's sudden turn on him. Alan, what the hell is the matter with you? When Diane cursed, that meant that you were in the heat, either give up or double down. Alan stood still for a second, taking particular time to look at his wife, whose face was flustered and red, mad, but with the same worried eyes she had been giving him since they first arrived here.

And his child, David, whom he had clearly hurt. Maybe for good reason. Look, I think that David is too young to be listening to these radio shows. What? Earlier today, David asked me if I was a murderer. That's not normal. Alan shut their door and walked back to the table, putting a hand on David's shoulder, who shuddered at his touch.

Oh. You might be right. I guess I hadn't thought about that when I told him about those radio shows. Things wound down for them after they scolded David, telling him that he should know better than to listen to those shows when they were clearly much too mature for him. They finished dinner, cleaned up, and just as the night before, they all split up to do their separate things.

David, bored now more than ever, fell asleep much earlier than usual, with a book draped gently over his chest. Diane sat down in the living room and continued reading her mystery novel. and Alan laid in bed, staring intently at the silver polished radio, until he fell asleep. Alan's eyes shot open, and, unaware of his current surroundings, his head began to twist

and turn in every direction. He was in his room, Diane, asleep next to him. Alan's ears tuned in towards the sound of the radio static, and he noticed the lit-up radio sitting on an end table next to him. next to the door. He pulled off his blanket and bed sheet and walked over to the radio. I just want to finish our game. Helen took the radio in hand and began to march out of the bedroom and downstairs into the workshop where he kept his tools. He pulled out a hammer from his toolbox and smashed it against the radio, leaving plastic shards all over his workbench.

Me alone! He drove the hammer into the radio. He drove the hammer into the radio. harder and harder. I'm gonna get you, Alan. It began to sizzle in crack, slowly losing power. Little David, just like you got me. When Alan had had enough,

he threw the radio in the trash can and walked back upstairs and into his bedroom, where Diane sat up, staring at him as he entered. Is everything okay? I heard aloud banging. Yeah, don't worry. I just heard a raccoon rummaging around outside, so I got it out.

He turned over to his side and shut his eyes. Diane continued staring at him, then looked at the end table where the radio had been. She set one hand on Alan's side and gently soothed him to sleep, before laying back down and closing her eyes. Alan woke up the next morning to the smell of bacon on a tray beside his bed with the most delicious looking fried eggs he had ever seen. He sat up and shook off his morning groginess and saw a letter attached to the tray. Took David into town with me to get groceries.

Be back soon. Love, Diane. Alan grabbed the tray of food and went out into the living room. He felt better than he had in years. almost as if the crushing weight he had been bearing over the last decade and a half had suddenly vanished. He gleefully ate the breakfast that his lovely wife had prepared for him as he watched the news on the small television he had watched when he was young. It wasn't long before the hours passed.

Alan got back to work in the garage and the skies darkened. Where the hell are they? He had returned to the cabin to grab a glass of water. Upon stepping through the doorway, Alan's heart sank. His eyes froze on the silver sparkle of the radio, sitting idly on the kitchen table. The two lights on each side of the radio lit up as he entered, staring him down like someone who had been awaiting his arrival. Its dials shifted hastily between radio stations, finding all of the correct words to say, like an amalgamation of souls talking all at once. The volume dial on its right side crept up, causing the voice to become louder and louder.

Dead. Alan rushed over to the table and threw the radio at the wall, shattering the screen and causing shards of plastic to cascade over the kitchen. He closed you to leave me. He closed his eyes, furiously stomping on the radio. Then, he heard the familiar faint cries of his son, David. As Alan opened his eyes, he screamed. David's young, mangled body spread out over the floor, under Alan's foot.

Tears welled up in Alan's eyes as blood from David's squished face began to pool around him, while David's lifeless body in his arms, bellowing sobs out louder than ever. Alan didn't mean to. It was an accident. Allen's head was filled with memories of that day. The storm raged, and he found himself sitting out on the docks, water slowly cascading over his feet as they dangled in the lake. James sat next to him, watching the lightning crawl across the sky, occasionally one bolt finding its way down.

They were not only watching the sky, but listening to music. The sounds of rock and roll filled the area surrounding them, only to be dampened by the crack of thunder when the lightning was strike close. Alan looked over at the polished radio that sat next to both of them. James's radio. He reached over and clicked it off. Why'd you turn the music off, man? James, check this out.

Alan jumped off the dock, his long brown hair breezing through the summer air. He did a flip in the air before landing in the air. the lake, sending water cascading through the air to splash on the docks and all over James, who was watching gleefully as he sat, legs hanging off the side. Good one, Al. But you got a lot to learn, my friend. James stood up and took a running start off the dock. He leapt off with greater height than Allen had and formed the shape of a pencil in the air, shooting himself down deep into the water. The water was murky on this particular day,

and Alan saw no sign of James. James? You okay? Suddenly, Alan felt something grab his feet and tip him over in the water. As his head fell under, he saw James' head coming back up, smiling devilishly. Alan laughed as he rose back out of the water. pushing James.

Dick move. James smiled. You got to be wet, asshole. The two pushed and shoved each other in the chest deep water for a few minutes until they both looked overhead and saw the clouds dark and furled as the already raging storm began to grow closer. Then they heard something that made them stand straight still in the water. The loud crash of thunder boomed instantaneously as a bolt of lightning crashed to the ground a short distance away across the lake.

Their eyes widened as they knew that, sitting in the middle of the lake, they were now in danger. Shit, shit, shit! Allen knew if lightning struck anywhere near them in the water, they are both done for it. The two swam back to the docks as fast as possible. Alan, a much better swimmer, made it first. He climbed up the side of the dock and onto the wood slats that laid atop. The storm raged on, lightning striking trees around the lake. As Alan caught his breath on top of the docks, he saw James, still struggling to get back on land.

The wind howled as the storm grew fierce. The snaps and cracks of branches being ripped off trees, swirling through Alan's ears. Alan whipped around to see James swimming as fast as he could. The wind caused the waves to crash against the lakefront and grow in size, slowing James down. Two separate bolts of lightning struck the ground and caused loud crashes to ring in Alan's ears. As James neared the docks, he reached out his hand,

lake water obscuring the tears that have been streaming down his face. James placed his right hand on the metal bearings of the dock and reached up with his left. Alan reached down and grasped James' hand and began to pull. Then, he saw it, the unmistakable heavenly glow that could only signal certain death for both of them. Alan turned his head as he began to pull and looked at the shining silver radio with its antenna pointed straight to the sky. He saw the cloak of divine blue cascade over the edges of the radio. St. Elmo's fire. That's when he let go.

Alan released his grasp on James's hand and sprinted as if his life depended on. And it did. Not even two seconds later, he heard a slight crackle come from the radio. As James slowly attempted to hoist himself up on the dots, A flash of light obscured the area as a bolt of lightning struck down zigzagging its way towards the docks. Towards James.

Diane and David hurried back to the cabin as fast as possible, but the storm was too much. The flood of rain on the streets turned the back roads into a muddy war zone, a war zone that Diane could only navigate slowly. They passed accident after accident. Car after car hydroplane. off the road and into nearby trees, or worse, into other cars.

They tried turning on the car radio to see if they could hear anything about the storm. But there was nothing. Dead air. Radio silence. Diane swerved for control on the road. She looked over at David who could tell she was very concerned. We'll be okay, David. I'm worried about dead. And finally looked up, hoping he would see him.

his friend on the docks. But he didn't. He was out there now, looking back out at the lake as the storm raged overhead, with no recollection of the last few moments. Nothing after David. He glanced down and saw the radio in his hands. Still silver. Still shining as bright as ever. He watched as the lightning danced across the darkened sky, not even jumping back.

as some of the swirling bolts crashed down around him. He looked back down to the radio. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. He repeated the words over and over again. But he knew it made no difference. The shining lights of the sky and the thunderous booms coupled with the dampening rain obscured every part of Alan's senses. He couldn't hear it then.

But at that moment, David and Diane were slow, rolling down the driveway. Alan sat for the next moment. His last moment. Looking down at the silver radio, his son had found only a couple days back. He saw the heavenly blue coat begin to shimmer

across its glossy exterior, St. Elmo's fire. And, as Diane and David parked the car and got out, all three of them looked up, all three of them watched. As the lightning dance, menacingly across the sky, then made its way down.

The light of dawn approaches. Our tales must come to an end until the next time we gather. We'll keep the fire burning until you return. That is, if you dare to remain sleepless. 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 editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us, just visit sleepless.com to learn about the sleepless sanctuary. Add free extended episodes each week and lots of bonus content. for the dark hours, all for only one low monthly price. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for joining us around the campfire

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