The NoSleep Podcast - S20 Ep19: NoSleep Podcast S20E19

Episode Date: February 18, 2024

It’s Episode 19 of Season 20. Come join us around the campfire for tales about scary schooling.“Detention” written by Jordan Underhill (Story starts around 00:03:25)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Kyle Akers, Mr. Thompson – Atticus Jackson“Moooooooooom… Something Kinda Bad Happened at My Senior Prom…” written by R.E. Frank (Story starts around 00:16:10)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Jeff Clement“Conkers” written by Mike Lee (Story starts around 00:29:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Ash Millman, Robert – James Cleveland, Grandad – Andy Cresswell, Liam – Jake Benson, Boy – Erika Sanderson, Headmaster – David Ault“Revisionism” written by Saz (Story starts around 00:48:45)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Matthew Bradford, Gerry – Mary Murphy, Everest – Danielle McRae“F is for Fatal” written by Prim Rosewell (Story starts around 01:07:45)Produced & scored by: David CummingsCast: Jessica – Jessica McEvoy, Proctors – Erin Lillis, Teacher – Nikolle Doolin“X” written by Jenna Dietzer (Story starts around 01:40:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Rachel – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Yara – Nichole Goodnight, Becky – Katabelle Ansari, Rush #1 – Marie Westbrook, Rush #2 – Danielle McRae, Rush #3 – Linsay Rousseau, Chi Sister #1 – Mary Murphy, Chi Sister #2 – Erin LillisThis 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 teamClick here to learn more about Saz Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“X” illustration courtesy of Kelly TurnbullAudio 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 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 firelight. 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 david cummings okay let me share a scene from my life many many years ago it was late 1979 Yes, I'm old.

A 13-year-old little Davy boy is lying in bed listening to the radio when a song comes on. For the first time ever, I heard the legendary chorus of this song. And let me tell you, when you're 13, have a dad who's a high school science teacher, and, like most kids that age, you're struggling with schoolwork and all the social aspects of school as your body becomes a miasma of hormones and sweat. Well, I can assure you. The anthem of We Don't Need No Education struck a chord and resonated within me. But time went on, I grew up a bit, realized the value of education, and kind of became an adult.

But deep down, don't all of us have a bit of a sore spot when it comes to school? Whether during the early years, high school, or into college, the discipline of becoming educated isn't an easy one. and I'll bet most of you carry some scars with you on the inside about, well, shit that happened to you in school. Dare I say, school can be horrifying. On this episode, we delve into the horrors of pedagogy. Oh, that's the word educated people use for teaching, schooling, good old book learning. Yes, if ordinary school days and the fears and stresses and tension isn't enough, we have tales which, show that school could have been much, much worse for you.

So sharpen your pencils, toss your trapper keeper into your book bag, and get to class. The bell is about to ring on horror. 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 young man in high school who performs in the school jazz band. Hey, just like me. And when you stay late after school, you might be surprised what you can get up to and into.

And in this tale, shared with us by author Jordan Underhill, we learn that this lad's school has a basement, a place he simply had to explore. Performing this tale are Kyle Acres and Atticus Jackson. So do your best to avoid that most dreaded of school punishments, detention. This happened many years ago when I was a senior in high school, but I still remember it with acute precision. It's unfortunate. I was hoping, at the very least, that time would tarnish the memory beyond recollection. My hometown houses exactly two high schools, the Catholic school and the

public school. I attended the public school, which was a massive withered brick structure in desperate need of funding. The school was designed for a much larger student body than my class. This was the result of the slow outpouring of residence from this small dying outpost along the rust belt. Due to the excessive size of the building, there were several portions that were simply forgotten in the cobwebs of time. Halls that no one would ever venture down.

Staircases that led to locked steel doors. And most of all, a basement that was dark, dank and used for storage. Despite being relegated to storage, mostly for old computers, once the administration finally secured funding for an upgrade that only put us a decade behind everyone else. The basement was a labyrinth of former classrooms.

In my four years at Jonesboro High, those classrooms were never utilized. As far as I could tell, they hadn't been occupied by anything more than dusty cardboard boxes and decaying desks since the 70s. During my high school career, I took part in our jazz band as a guitarist. There was an assortment of old scenery and stage props littering the basement halls, so I would occasionally take a trek down there to help the theater kids with errands.

One brisk autumn night, definitely a weekday, maybe a Wednesday or a Thursday, I had just wrapped up practice with the band in the school's theater. We were preparing for an upcoming take on Chicago, where our band would be supporting the varsity choir. The practice was a bit rough because I had trouble hearing myself. The band director, Mr. Tremant, told me that I should pull a wedge monitor up from the basement. I thought to do so before leaving for the night, so I wouldn't have to deal with it the next day. So I ventured into the basement alone for the first and only time. Unfortunately, I was stepping onto the large staircase leading into the basement's double doors

when I remembered that the basement lighting was spotty. There was only a thin wire of bare light bulbs that ran through the cellar's wide, square-tiled hallway. It ran the entire length of the high school, and was flanked on either side by rows of thick wooden classroom doors. On every other occasion, it had still been light outside when I'd been down to the basement, so the sunlight filtered in through the thin rectangular windows that sat at the tops of most of the abandoned classrooms. Treading through the dank space in the dark was an endeavor I wished I hadn't bothered with. Since this was after hours, a high school already had a spooky, quiet ambiance that sent a shiver up my spine. Still, with a sigh, I persevered.

Determined not to let my silly little fears get to me. Once through the heavy double doors, I flipped the yellowing switch to the right. The row of bare light bulbs flickered above my head. They swayed back and forth on their wires, casting ever-moving shadows that did little to calm my nerves. Luckily, the room with audio equipment was close to the staircase, so I knew I didn't have to trek far. To my tremendous disappointment, when I reached the door, I heard a sound echoing from the far end of the hall. It was like a person yawning, the crackling of their voice stretching through the ill-lit corridor. Hello?

No response. I still didn't know what possessed me to do it, but I walked towards the sound, moving further down the hallway than I had ever traveled before. I knew that sometimes couples would sneak into the basement when they could no longer control their hormones, so I expected to encounter a pair of students enveloped in a blood-curdling makeout session. I would have much rather endured that second-hand embarrassment than have to grapple with the horrific sight I was about to stumble upon.

As I walked slowly down the corridor, the lighting became more sparse. It was as though they ran out of wire or light bulbs or synops. simply interest in illuminating parts of the basement that were unused. I kept a small flashlight on my key ring, which I pulled out as I drew further and further from the double doors. Hello? Again, no answer. Well, no direct answer.

Began to hear a light whistling, as though someone was roaming about, perhaps sweeping or dusting and singing to themselves. A janitor? But why would a janitor bother with cleaning down here? But there it was, a joyous, lilting little tune. Soft, but still detectable. It sent a shiver up my spine. I turned a corner.

I didn't even realize that basement hallway was anything more than a straight line. And saw a small light emanating from a classroom door's narrow, rectangular window. Of course, I should have turned back there, but sometimes we get ourselves on a track, and there's simply nothing that can stop us from reaching our destination. I sidled up to the door and slowly peeked to the door, and slowly peeked to the door. through the window. At first I almost didn't comprehend what I was seeing. It seemed so normal. The classroom was set up like any other, with several rows of uncomfortable metal desks, and a large wooden one for the teacher in front of the chalkboard. The desks were set up parallel

to the door, so I had a sidelong view of the space. Sitting in one of the middle desks was a person. They were just simply in a raggedy red shirt and flared denim jeans. Their hair was a long, dirty blonde that obscured their face. They sat straight and still, as if they were paying close attention to a lecture. Given the narrow window, I couldn't see the front of the classroom, so it was unclear to me whether someone else was in the room. Of course, this wasn't normal. Why was someone down here? Were they the one whistling? They appeared quite still. Both hands planted firmly on the rickety desk, grasping the sides. I pressed my face against the glass. I pressed my face against the glass out of curiosity, squinting my eyes to get a better look. The light appeared to

be coming from a lamp on the teacher's desk, of which I could only see the corner. But as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, it became clear to me that something was very wrong with this person. They looked emaciated. Their clothes hung against them like they were a mere bag of bones. Their skin had the color of yellow to parchment. It was pale and sickly in the dim light, and they weren't moving. not their hands or their arms or their legs. As I was reaching for the door handle, I felt a heavy hand to grasp my shoulder. I nearly left out of my skin. I yelped, and then the hand, dirty with oil, was pushed over my mouth.

A large man in coverall's bent forward. It was Mr. Thompson, one of the janitors. Shh. He held his index finger to his lips. Ease and detention. My brain couldn't even process what was going on. What are you doing down here anyway? Shouldn't be wandering.

Come on. I stared at him dumbly. He wrapped his burly arm around my shoulder and directed me away from the room. But before leaving, I glanced back and saw that the face was looking directly at me. The eyes were hollow, the mouth wide open and empty of teeth. Then there was a smack like a ruler on a desktop, and the face snapped to attention. Fixated on something I couldn't see at the front of the room. room. Mr. Thompson pushed me roughly along. I felt my heart pounding against my rib cage.

He was whistling. When we returned to the double doors, I didn't bother to grab the wedge monitor. Mr. Thompson looked me hard in the eyes. Then he gazed down the dark basement corridor. Detention. He said it, matter-of-factly, as if it was an adequate explanation. Don't want to end up down there. He grinned and pushed the door. door open, ushering me through. I never told anyone what I saw. Every time I saw Mr. Thompson mopping the bathroom or changing the trash in the cafeteria, he'd give me a knowing grin and hold his finger to his lips. That was all I needed to keep quiet. After that experience, I never went down to the basement again, but on late nights, after practice, if I had the

misfortune of passing by, I could occasionally hear a soft whistling slipping through the double doors. Years later, I still remember exactly what that person in the room looked like. I wondered who he was. I never saw him before that night and never saw him after. There was another gnawing question, too. What did he do to end up in detention? And despite how ridiculous it sounds, I still wonder if he's still down there, staring at someone or something that I couldn't see. of high school. For many socially awkward teens, their blood ran cold at the sound of those dreaded words, senior prom. But in this tale, shared with us by author R.E. Frank, we'll hear about

an event that will probably make your senior prom seem like the most wondrous dance ever. Performing this tale is Jeff Clement. So get your fancy duds on and ask someone to be your date. But you'd better hope you don't end up saying this afterwards, mom, something kind of bad happened at my senior prom. What happened at prom was fucked up. I was only involved in so far that I was there, but so was basically everybody. I missed the boat on getting a date, so I went with some of my boys from the team. I wasn't thinking about parsley Martin and her wire hair and buck teeth. If nothing had happened that night, I would have finished up spring at Tramont Creek High School, swung a killer senior batting average, and then gone on to college without ever sparing Parsley Martin, another passing thought.

She went to prom in this gorgeous lime green dress. But who cares? Tons of girls went to prom in pretty dresses. I wasn't paying attention until she asked someone to dance. Everyone assumes he went to the dance floor with her because he felt bad or because he couldn't think of an excuse fast enough. I have no way of knowing for sure, but some nights I wonder if he said yes because of the way she asked him. Maybe her voice was really soft, almost guilty.

Maybe she said it like she already knew he'd say no. Or maybe he just couldn't think of anything else to say. besides, sure, okay. I remember they were dancing, kind of on the edge of the mass. His eyes kept darting to the cafeteria tables rolled into the gymnasium, where his friends were scratching block letters

into the cheap plastic tablecloth, you know, the ones thinner than a condom. He kept inching away from the dance crowd and toward the end of the checkerboard mad. Parsley kept her hands on the shoulders of his Macy's suit jacket and let him lead one inch at a time towards his friends. I mean, really, can you blame him?

A guy only has one senior prom. If you're not one of the lucky ones for the date, you just want to dance the night away with your boys, right on the bathroom stalls, maybe break into classrooms and leave surprises for teachers you hate. It's what I would have been doing that night, elsewhere on the basketball courts, competing to see you could grab the basketball rim

and which losers could only reach the net. I think about parsley a lot. When you hear a scream like that, even if it comes to you through a vaulted gymnasium ceiling, even when it comes over today's hits radio, over the exhausted motor of the light-up disco ball, it doesn't leave you quickly. I think about parsley and that scream most nights when I'm making dinner,

biking to and from work, trying to pay attention to some video my aunt sent me on Facebook. Her scream sits in my head as a constant current of sound. Here are the types of things I ask myself, and I'm listening to that scream. Could I have done anything? By then, was there anything I could have done? What could I have done?

And I mean from the beginning. I mean, five years old. We went to school together since kindergarten, you know. Field trips to the dinosaur museum and library reading time and trading snacks under the cafeteria tables when the teachers weren't looking. Peach fruit cups and mini chocolate chip granola bars and Oreo two packs. I didn't run. Not everybody ran, you know. Tons of people just stood and watched.

People other than me. Standing there, feet frozen to the sticky court floor like the janitor had mopped with a big bucket of elmers. I felt bad for parsley. I felt bad for the guy, too, because it really didn't seem like he did anything wrong. He danced with a girl who asked him to dance. The dude didn't scream. I thought it was brave of him not to scream. Since then, I've overheard people say he went into a state of catatonic shock.

I mean, it's not like he went to prom that night expecting to see his arm hanging off by a flap of skin and a few exposed rubber band muscles in his forearm. The next part, I remember very clearly. Afterwards, everybody told me I was crazy, but I was closer than anybody else. I was standing right there. I know what I saw. She looked down at me, and her face was gray-white, like, Polluted snow. Either side of her mouth was stretched out.

Electric blue spiderweb veins pushed the skin, pulsing like they were trying to break through. She saw me, and she smiled at me. Almost like she was sorry. And here's where no one believes me. Not the school, not the police, not my parents. she didn't have any teeth. In the pictures her parents took before prom Parsley had teeth. The photographer didn't happen to catch any photos of parsley at prom,

but her dance partner saw she had teeth when she asked him to dance. So that's what I want to know. Where'd her teeth go? I'll tell you where her teeth went, even though I was the only one close enough to see, and now everyone thinks I'm being a freak for attention. I swore it in court and then got laughed off. He was standing too close to her,

so he didn't see it until it was too late for his arm. He heard it, though. I bet he heard the sound of fabric tearing and just had time to wonder what the sound was before it bit into him. When he fell, I saw it. A rip in the glossy fabric of the dresser, across parsley's rib cage.

The whole front of her gown was smeared with the blood. Some parts pulpish and black. The consistency of ripped up jellyfish and the color of octopus ink. Her skin was peeled back, and the bones inside were broken and slanted. Ribs twisted into a jagged, snapping jaw. Her teeth were left. lined up between shards of bone, sharp and damaging, and with the bite force of a crocodile.

You spend your whole life thinking you live in one type of world. And then in an instant, in the amount of time it takes for a mouth to bite, you find out you were all wrong. And then in two days, that's how long they kept them in the hospital, you know, just two days. I mean, he was ripped into by a girl's ribcage, and they didn't even keep him to see if he was poisoned. If the teeth were contaminated or possibly contagious. Did the doctors know more than he did?

At the time, everyone seemed to know more than he did. The hospital released him. His mom was silent through the whole ride home, like he was the one who did something wrong. He had to go back to school the next Monday. even though he couldn't play his senior season because he couldn't swing a bat. And what did he do after he graduated, huh? Someone should call the guy and ask him because I sure as hell don't know.

Parsley got into MIT and Johns Hopkins plus about 100 safeties. She didn't go, of course. She never walked out of our high school gym. She bled out in there looking right at me. I was staring at those teeth while her blood and mine mixed on the checkerboard mat. People still discuss the Parsley Martin case on internet threads and referencing conventions

and write about it and books by independent publishers. And this guy? The nobody she asked to dance? No one even knows his name. Under 18. Parents kept it out of the press. It wouldn't be too hard if someone wanted to find out. Somebody who is at prom window.

Someone would remember. Maybe. Can't say for sure, though. People don't seem to remember much around here. I can't help but wonder why she chose him that night. In the week before prom, he gave her a ride home after practice. I don't know how any of the other guys could have driven past her. with her sneakers in the gutter and her arms hugged around her backpack.

I wouldn't have been able to leave her there. If I'd been him, I would have offered her a ride. If I could do it again, I would offer her that ride. I stay up at night trying to imagine the conversation. What, if anything, had they talked about? Mean to her? Exceptionally rude? I told you about her buck teeth, right?

and her plastic backpack. Could she have wanted to dance with him because he'd been nice to her, that car ride? Maybe even unknowingly? Who knows? He doesn't remember, no matter how much he tries. Like I said, people forget things. People especially forget important things.

I found out after that night that, she was in four of my classes. I only thought she was in one. Could he have interacted with her and not even known it? Unsure. He can't ask her anymore. Whoever that dumb guy was, I bet he regrets it all now.

I bet he sits on the floor of his bedroom and replays every bad thing he's ever done in his life. I bet he thinks about parsley, Martin and those snapping teeth all of the time. He leans out the bathroom window, smoking cigarettes, tries to ignore a fresh pain in his arm. He watches red-headed woodpeckers consume fallen trees in the corner of the yard. I bet he wishes he could be consumed too. There's a traditional schoolyard game that will be familiar to our listeners in Great Britain,

but might not be as well known in other parts of the world. It involves a large chestnut tied to the end of a long string. Each player takes their string and swings it at the other chestnut, hoping to conk it and knock it off the string. Fun, no? But in this tale, shared with us by Manchester's own Mike Lee, we learn about how this game led to a rather nasty bullying incident, and the aftermath wasn't all fun in games.

Performing this tale. are Ash Millman, James Cleveland, Andy Cresswell, Jake Benson, Erica Sanderson, and David Alt. So have fun if you're going to play. Don't get upset over a game of Conkers. Robert didn't know what time of day it was. His watch, useless and broken, the arms of Mickey Mouse stuttering back and forth between the hours of 10 and 11, was a painful reminder of the beating and subsequent humiliation dished out by the fists of Liam Carey, that same morning in the schoolyard. But even if Mickey could tell the time, or if Robert could guess what part of the day it was by the position of the sun in the sky, it would have done him no good.

The trees this deep in the woods were thick and gnarled, angry with their isolation. They strangled what little light came through. Despite the darkness, Robert was excited. The murky and bleak surroundings seemed the perfect place to find something special and hidden. To him, the lack of light was small peasant. for the absence of sunshine also meant there was little chance he would bump into other wanderers, other seekers of the prize his granddad had told him about. Aye, that's where it is. Deep in that neck of the woods.

Neck of the woods. That phrase had always tickled him, especially if his granddad or another local said it. For Robert was not a local. And the thought that the woods had a neck also meant the woods had ankles, knees and toes. City people never said things as cryptic or colourful as that. They were too busy flicking through their papers on the underground to get to the sports page to eager to finish their crosswords or jumbles before the next stop at Paddington Ridge or Bailey Moss. But as Robert trudged through the forest and its deepening gloom,

waving away another bramble before it caught his cheek or slapping at another abnormally large fruit fly, he wondered if the locals were right to stay away from this neck of the woods. Everywhere he turned, the surroundings seemed stifled, oppressive, as if unseen forces were crippling the trees overhead, bending them into malformed and garish shapes. He shuddered at the thought of what might be hiding in the undergrowth or dangling from the branches above, waiting to snatch him up. Robert took a moment to quell his imagination and steady as quickening pulse,

who reminded himself what he was doing in the wood and why he had journeyed so far off the beaten path and trusted trails. His resolve hardened, but only slightly. It had to be around here somewhere. Robert had followed his granddad's instructions to the letter. Go past the gully, then further along until the water runs foul. You'll know you're in the right place, lad. If the flies don't get you, the smell will.

And Robert's granddad had been right. The smell was the first thing he noticed. A stale sweetness hung in the air, the aroma ripe in a way that only spoilt fruit feasted on by creatures with more than four legs could make. Aye, lad, follow the water till it runs like mud. There is a tree that gifts the best conquers, my boy. A horse tree that never sees the light of day feeds on all manner of creepies and crawlies. Drops conquerors that weren't meant to be played with. Unnatural things like that should be left well alone.

Unnatural. Leave well alone. These were words that sung to Robert's ears. Unnatural and forbidden meant dangerous. Dangerous meant he could use it. Use the conquer against someone like Liam Carey. No one would suspect something as innocent as a conquer. The plan was perfect. Robert smiled and swatted at another fruit fly, the insect splatting rudely against his cheek.

The overripe smell he'd gotten accustomed to returning with a rancid vigor as he came across a gully. Across the gully, follow the water till it runs like mud. That's what his granddad had said. Robert quickened his pace. He needed to find that tree. A few foul loaders and persistent insects weren't going to stop him. Payback is what he wanted. Payback from losing his parents in the...

crash, payback from having to leave his home, his friends, payback from having to move in with his crazy granddad who smelled like beetroot and silk-cut cigarettes. And more importantly, payback from the mid-morning beating the youngest of the caries had handed out after Robert had bested the boy at an innocent game of concurs. Robert followed the pungent smell that ran along the dwindling vein of muddy water until the stream ran dry at the base of a most peculiar-looking tree. There was no doubt in Robert's mind that this tree was the one his granddad had told him about. The horse trees stood crooked as if exhausted. It appeared malnourished and dwarfed by the other trees surrounding it,

the branches of its siblings smothering it, keeping it away from the precious sunlight. Robert looked on at the tree. The leaves were not a luscious green or rich brown, but an off-yellow and purple, the colours of corruption. With no sunlight to feed it, the horse tree sapling had survived on nothing more than the foul water that ran to its base. Water filled with the bodies of dead insects and whatever else perished in the slow stream that crept through the heart of the wood. Robert felt pity for the horse tree and placed his hand tenderly on the trunk as if consoling it.

As soon as he did, he regretted the gesture almost immediately. The bark was greasy and gave off a rank, noisome odour. He sniffed at his hand and pulled away and disgust at the sharp tang that coated his fingers. Robert wiped his hands on his school trousers, relieving some of the stink. Patting himself down, he reminded himself why he was there. It was not the bark of the tree sought, but the fruit that the tree bore. Robert craned his neck and looked up at several spiked orbs that dangled from the branches of the tree, just out of reach. The conga shells were larger than any he'd seen before.

His heart pounded with the possibilities. Payback. He looked around for a stick or fallen branch, anything to knock or strike at the spiked shells suspended from the tree. Failing to find anything, Robert tried climbing, but the slippery substance coating the trunk would not let him get a grip or foot hold. Robert cursed and kicked at the horse tree. After four or five hefty kicks, he stopped,

his big toe beginning to throb and swell inside his school shoes. All tree trunks are hard, stupid. He shook his foot, trying to shoo away the pain. Robert cursed the tree as the feeling returned to his foot. He then slumped and sat at its base, defeated, the mocking face of Liam Carey invading his thoughts. Liam was the boy who had beaten and humiliated Robert in front of his classmates. The boy who had mocked his crazy granddad.

The boy who had joked about his parents' fear crashing into an oncoming truck. Shit car anyway. Maybe if your mother was driving instead of sucking your dad off, they'd both be alive, eh? Robert clenched his fists until nails broke skin. He needed that conquer. A rush of rancid air blew through the wood, its direction flowing towards Robert sitting underneath the horse tree. Then, as if answering his prayer, a conquer fell from the bow of the tree, startling him to his feet. Robert took a moment and studied the fallen fruit, fascinated, the horns adorning the shell bent and razor sharp. You could have killed me.

Robert looked upwards from where the conquer had fallen. But you didn't. He smiled. Elated with his look and impending victory over Liam Carey, Robert bent over to claim his prize, only to draw away quickly as if the spiked husk on the floor had bitten him. Shit! He winced, looking at his hand.

The soft flesh between thumb and index displayed puncture wounds that did not resemble a stab or prod, but a bite, possibly from a spider or mite. Robert sucked at the wound and was surprised to find the taste of his own flesh quite bitter. He prodded the offending shell with his foot, this time being more careful. Surely an insect of some sort had been caught slumbering attached to the underside of the conquer, and it was that insect that had bitten him, tasting his blood before scuttling off into the undergrowth. Robert scratched at the bite, an angry two-headed lump rising from his flesh.

Ouch. He interrogated the conker with a curious stare. The conker seemed to sense his suspicions. It pulsed and shifted to one side. Robert, stunned by the movement, rubbed his eyes and sure. Did the conquer appear a fraction larger than it had been when it first hit the ground? Was the conker also a shade darker, as if a shadow had been cast on it?

What had first appeared to Robert as a spiked shell the size of a tangerine, its surface pocked with orange and green blotches, now held a pulsating purple hue, the colour akin to an overripe plum or greedy leech. Robert watched as the conker continued to undulate, sucking on the twin punctures on his hand. Did conkers have venom? he wondered. hesitant but unable to turn off his curiosity

Robert prodded at the conker a second time, hoping to witness another change or metamorphosis. But this time, the conker did something else, something that surprised him even more. It hatched. The conker shells split in two, revealing a milky white eye without scent or colour. Whoa.

Robert took a step back. The albino conca throbbed on the floor, the smell of rotten apples and copper coming from the hatchling. Robert, without hesitation or better judgment, snatched up the newborn and cradled it in his hands. The conker crept up his palm to the two red and raised puncture wounds. Robert, besotted with the creature, let the thing suckle.

What are you? The conker gave no reply except a greedy, slurping sound. It doesn't matter. He petted the thing with his other hand. You'll do. The conker stopped feeding, satiated by the meal its owner had provided. You'll do nicely. Robert snatched a handkerchief from his pocket,

the slip of cloth still covered in blood from that morning's beating. He wrapped the conker carefully and pocketed it, patting the nest in his jeans. Liam Carey had no idea what was coming. Hey, what's he said, eh? Back for more, are we? Liam Carey grinned as Robert entered the schoolyard, 15 minutes before the morning bell. Carrie noticed there was something different about the Chamber's boy today, something the bully couldn't put his finger on. Liam.

Robert marched up to Carrie, his voice cold and even. The bully shouldered. He didn't like it. The Chambers boy normally spoke as if on the verge of tears, and that's if the boy spoke at all. Was this the same boy he'd beaten to a pulp yesterday? I? The same boy you'd curled up into a ball and called out for his dead mother as Liam kicked and stamped on his skinny body. Liam looked at Robert quizzically. There was dried blood smattered on Robert's face and an ugly cut on his mouth from where Liam's knuckles had chipped away at the boy's face. And if that wasn't enough, the clothes Robert wore were covered head to toe in muck and mud.

Seems I made a right mess of you, didn't there? I've come for a rematch. Best two hours three. Robert grinned, the dry blood on his lips splitting, opening a fresh cut. You've come for another kicking. Robert remained silent, watching intently as Liam produced a wrapped package from his pocket. Half a dozen boys gathered round the two as Robert pulled from his muddy trousers, something that resembled a diseased egg tied with a piece of twine. What the fuck is that?

Liam unwrapped a pristine, battle-hardened conquer, buffed. and varnish to a shine, the nut suspended on a leather shoestring. Robert smiled at Liam's conquer, letting the blood drip down his chin onto the conker, christening his new pet. He could hear its suckle on the drops, feel the conker grow hot in his hands. Loser goes first. Holding open his hand, Robert let Liam get one last good look at his prize from the woods. Liam shouldered. Were there blue veins he could see pulsing impatiently underneath the exterior of Robert's Conker. The sight of the thing, throbbing in the boy's hand,

made his own skin itch and crawl. The Conca reminded Liam of a red-eyed rat the biology teacher had brought to class. At first, the kids had been excited with the new addition. But that excitement dwindled, as they all realised the rat was sickly and ill-tempered. The sick creature couldn't be petted or played with. It scrambled around its cage,

watching them every day with its red eyes, chattering its yellowing teeth, gnawing on the bars of its cage every so often, threatening them with its escape. When the rat had finally succumbed to whatever pox or illness it possessed, none of the boys would say it out loud, but they were relieved the red-eyed rodent had died. That is what Liam thought of as he looked at the thing dangling from the rotted twine. Are you ready? Liam nodded and swallowed hard. I'll go first then.

Robert stepped up, wrapping the cord of the conquer around his hand, readying his swing. The boys surrounding the two held their breath in anticipation, the collective hush of the crowd, not making Liam feel any less afraid. The skin on his body not only itched and crawled, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end as well, every inch of him a warning,

crying out that something was not right. Robert swung the conquer, missing the target of Liam's own completely. The conker lanker lanker lanker, clashed against the older boy's knuckles, cracking skin and drawing blood. Oh shit! Liam dropped his conquer and snatched his hand away. The crowd of boys surrounding them, smelling the wound, drew nearer,

the tightening circle bringing both Robert and Liam closer together. You did that on purpose! Liam glared at Robert, then at the conker, the nut growing larger as it swung back and forth like gallows hanging from the twine in Robert's hand. Confused, Liam looked on as the blood from his knuckles, staining the conker, disappeared. The blood seeped into the albino nut, accompanied with a sucking sound like water disappearing down a drain. Robert smiled as his pet drank, the cut on his lower lip splitting further till blood began to flow from it, untapped. Tasting fresh blood, the conker growled, pulling at the string in Robert's hand, demanding to be let loose.

What kind of conker is that? Liam raised his fists in defence. Robert's conker whipped through the air. Liam's head flew back as the conker connected with his cheek, the bone underneath splitting. The conker connected a second time, this time between the boy's eyes. Liam felt teeth between his brow,

small and sharp but excruciating all the same. The world began to blur as pain muddled with the blood in his eyes. Huddled on the floor, he didn't feel the third or force blow. His thoughts becoming too sick and coddled as Robert mercilessly struck him again and again. Liam tried in vain to protect himself, throwing up his hands,

but somehow the conquer kept finding vulnerable, exposed parts of neck and face. He's going to bloody kill him! Liam, through the haze, couldn't tell if the voice of the onlooker was scared or excited by the prospect. The final blow. Robert finally dropped the gun.

conquer to the floor beside Liam. Robert looked down at the heap and smiled, the split in his lips so wide it would need stitches. Go get the nurse. Another boy ran off in search of help as others continued to gorp at the barely breathing body. Liam lay on the floor struggling for breath. The need to vomit overwhelming, the taste of overripe fruit filling his mouse. But mostly Liam wished to sleep. With his eyes slowly swelling shut, he could just about make out the shape of something retunned and leech-like crawling towards him. The white slug so careful not to be detected, it moved at a snail's pace.

Liam tried turning away from the wretched thing, but the most he could manage was to shift from his side onto his back. Maybe he could stop the thing getting to his injured face or crawling into his mouth. At the very least, he wouldn't have to watch it slither towards him. Liam wretched, feeling tiny wisps of hair prod and poke the side of his face. He shuddered, once again thinking of the rat in biology.

The tiny hairs tickled his hot and bloodied skin until it stopped searching, finding what it was looking for, the opening of his ear. Liam tried screaming as the thing burrowed, but the pain he felt stole the last of his breath until he finally got his wish and fell asleep. What is the meaning of this? The welcome authority of an adult split the gathered crowd. Chambers? The headmaster looked down at Robert and the piece of empty twine in his hand.

A deranged yet euphoric smile split across the boy's face. What happened here? The headmaster lunged, grabbing Robert by the shoulders. He shook the boy till half a hint of recognition came back to his face. Robert, with a bleeding and Richter's grin, remained silent when questioned, instead drawing up his hand. He pointed to a trail of gore that smelt like rancid cherries, that started at his feet and ran up to the lifeless body of Liam Carey.

A smear of scarlet ran up the dead boy's cheek, disappearing into the side of his head. If your memories from your school days include a horribly traumatic incident, you'll likely have worked hard at dealing with that trauma, if not trying to forget it altogether. But in this tale, shared with us by author Saz, we learn of not only one horrific event, but the multiple other events it inspired.

Oddly enough, not as traumatic as you might think. Performing this tale are Matthew Bradford, Mary Murphy, and Danielle McCray. So if you have to recall a terrible event, try to remember it accurately. Otherwise, you're just dealing in revisionism. November 19th, Mrs. Hopkins walked into class today and set herself on fire. Something was wrong from the moment she stepped into the history room, past the list of U.S. presidents in the map of World War I era Europe. She smelled funny. Mrs. Hopkins smelling funny actually isn't all that strange, on Mondays, at least.

Usually I kind of get excited when she walks in with her typically neat hair all messed up, smelling like one of my family's holiday get-togethers. That meant we'd get to watch videos for most of the class, or she'd pair us off into groups and have us play a history quiz game among ourselves. It's Thursday today, though. I never noticed a strong smell from her on Thursdays before. This smell was different. It had everyone's nose right after she walked through the door. We all form faces like we'd just eaten something sour. Today's grief in a day, too. Mrs. Hopkins loved grief in a day. None of us knew about it before starting her class last year as fourth graders. I guess they only celebrated around where she's originally from in Belize. She said she would

teach us the history behind the holiday in fifth grade this year, even though the schools in the U.S. never teach stories about Central America or the Caribbean. I mean, we learned all about Europe and Asia, Rome, and Mongolia, and the Vikings and Mrs. Hopkins class, but never much about the countries closest to ours. She looked so content. She didn't say how goes it to all of us like she usually did, which was another sign that something was wrong, but she had a pleasant smile stuck in place around her chin, and pleasant, even happy, but strange at the same time, a smile that didn't look like her own, like someone removed their mouth and let Mrs. Hopkins borrow it. She stepped over to her desk without letting her grin down even an inch, pulled a matchbook out of her purse,

and struck one before any of us had the chance to say good morning. We got sent home early, of course. Everyone except Tristan Chamber, who had to go to the hospital because of some bad Burns he got on both of his arms trying to put her out. He always asked her the most questions out of any of the other kids. He is not that good at many other classes. I think he either really likes history or has a crush on Mrs. Hopkins. Most of the other kids ran to the back of the classroom and piled together in the corner or flew out of the door screaming while Tristan ran right up to her without much of a plan. She went up quickly and the flames puffed out, kind of like they were breathing when she first struck the match. My dad told my

mom that Tristan's burns were third degree. I'm not totally sure what that means, but I know his skin was coming off of his arm in big clumps that probably should have made me sick. I've always been squeamish. I can't help it. It keeps me from getting along with a lot of the other guys in class very well. They like to stick gross things in my face or show me disturbing videos and try to make me throw up. I didn't lose my breakfast in class, though. Thinking back to it, I probably should have. Other kids were screaming and crying, even some of the sports guys who always try to play too tough for tears. But I didn't respond much at all. I just sat at my desk and watched Mrs. Hopkins go from human to bonfire, and then down

to not much of anything. The fire wouldn't go out until Ms. Hopkins was pretty much gone. Not for Tristan, not for the water, some tried throwing at her, and not for the fire extinguisher Mr. Johnson from the French class across the hall ran and sprang all around. almost like the flames had a job and refused to leave until it was done. I was quiet the whole car ride home while my parents wouldn't stop talking in the front. Quiet like the countryside, my grandpa likes to say. He's from rural North Carolina, so he has a lot of sayings like that.

I think nervous like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs is the funniest. That's the way my dad looked when he tried to talk to me about what happened. He doesn't like talking about feelings, but what happened to date? was serious enough that I guess he thought he should give it a shot. He's bad at it. He kept mumbling and didn't make much sense a lot of the time. Seems like the message at the end of it all was you'll be okay eventually. I hope that's true. I never cried for Mrs. Hopkins, and in a weird way, the thought of me not crying for her brings me closer to tears than thinking about her burning up with that weird smile. It's the guilt, I think. She was a kind lady.

She never spoke to me directly very often. I'm quiet like the countryside, after all. But when she did, she always felt warm. Like, I could trust what she was saying was genuine. I don't feel that way about a lot of adults. My dad said I'll be okay eventually, but I don't actually know if that's true. He didn't look at me in the eyes when he said it, and then he barely touched me on the arm and went to bed.

Kids in my school passed around videos of people dying on the internet like once a month, but my mom and dad still won't use the word death around me. They'd rather act like bad things don't exist. Mrs. Hopkins never acted like that. I mean, she said we have to know history like it really happened or else we can't really learn from it. She made us feel like the 10-year-olds we are and not like we're five. How come I can't cry for her?

I'm not sure my heartache is real if I don't even cry a single tear. November 24th. My best friend's name was Jerry Leifson. We met in grade one when my parents moved us to Winston-Salem, North Carolina, from my grandparents' house, way out somewhere in the middle of the state that I doubt anyone who never lived there before has heard of. Jerry and I had history class together this year. She was in class when Mrs. Hopkins burned up five days ago now, but she almost wasn't. She lives only with her mom, who's supposed to drive her to school every day, but she has some kind of condition where she

has to take really strong medication, keeps her asleep until really late into the day. Sometimes Sometimes Jerry shows up at lunchtime. Sometimes she doesn't show up at all. My grandpa has a funny Southern saying for people like Jerry's mom, too, but my parents were really unhappy the last time they heard me say it. Jerry's been showing up for classes mostly on time the last couple of weeks. Maybe her mom's been trying to take less medication? I wish she wasn't.

I wish she kept sleeping in every day for the rest of forever. She couldn't have picked a worse time to get better. I mean, really, she just made everything worse. It was warm and full of colors, a harmony of colors. What's there to hate about that? Jerry ran into class less than a minute before Mrs. Hopkins and sat right next to me. We didn't have time to share anything but glances before The Burn. A lot of kids have been calling what happened with Mrs. Hopkins the burn,

because it's catchy, I guess. Our friendship came from the things that other kids like to use again. against us. You know, like me with my fragile stomach and Jerry with her junky mom, as a lot of kids like to say. Someone printed out a picture of Kenny's trailer park mom from South Park once and taped it to Jerry's locker with say hi to Miss Leafs and written in marker across the bottom. Jerry usually pretends to laugh because it's easier than letting anyone know it bothers her. And when they know it bothers you is when it really gets worse. Most other kids like to joke about the things we hate about ourselves, Jerry and I never did that to each other, and that's why

we were friends. My best friend Jerry didn't come to school yesterday. Somebody else came in who looked like her, but wore a big, unnatural smile that seemed taped on somehow. She looked like Jerry, but she wasn't Jerry, and now both of them are gone, and all I want is to find my friend. It was warm and full of colors, a harmony of colors. What's there to hate about that. That's what Jerry said to me yesterday when I asked how she's been doing since the burn. They canceled school on Friday because of the burn, and then we had the weekend before finally coming out on Monday. There was a strange but dark excitement and coming back after not seeing each other for that long. The last time we were all in the same room, there were firefighters

and news vans outside, and as many screaming teachers and parents as there were students. Not to mention the smell I'll never forget. Not the way. Mrs. Hopkins smelled when she walked into class, the way she smelled when they pulled her out. Now, we all had to come back in with a history substitute and pray the scent that Mrs. Hopkins left behind wasn't still there past the weekend. I couldn't smell it from the hallway, but they wound up putting us in a different room for history class, so I'm guessing it's probably still floating around in there. I thought Jerry would be the one person I could have a real conversation with about what happen. Some of the other kids, like Austin Beringer, was already making jokes about it.

And he was telling third graders if they said Hopkins Hopkins, Hopkins three times in the mirror that should appear behind them and set the room on fire. He always makes dark jokes that never sound much like jokes to me. I think he has to because he doesn't have any other personality traits people care about, and he really likes the attention. All press is good press isn't a Southern saying, I don't think, but still something my grandpa said. A bunch of adults wanted to talk to me about how I've been feeling. My parents and the principal and some grief counselor they assigned to talk us through our shared trauma.

I don't like opening up to any of them, though. They smile and nod, but I don't think they hear me. I'm not sure how to describe it. They listen, but they don't care. And I know I shouldn't say that about my parents because I'm sure they care. But sometimes there are just things that only friends my own age will understand, and not my parents. Jerry hears me, or at least I thought she would. She didn't, though.

She couldn't stop focusing on what happened, but entirely in the wrong way. She smiled like the burn was a memory of a happy birthday party. It made me want to smack her like they do in the movies when someone is distracted and needs to come back to reality. I don't understand. What are you thinking about? I said, thinking Jerry and I must be talking about different events. What do you think she was thinking about? Jerry looked out our substitute history room toward the door of our former history room. I didn't say anything back. It was settling in with me that we were somehow talking about the same thing, the burn.

I started to see the reflection of Mrs. Hopkins' smile on Jerry's face. They both borrowed new mouths for smiling from the same person, or the same thing. She was so happy, wasn't she? She looked comfortable. There must be something beautiful about that feeling. Right there. This was the moment I finally started to cry. Not because of Miss Hopkins or even because of Jerry.

I think my brain just didn't know how else to respond. I don't think other 10-year-olds have to deal with things like this. My dad says I'm not supposed to have much responsibility until I'm a lot older. Everything feels like it changed overnight. I wouldn't have told you I lived in a perfect place last Wednesday, but now I feel like I did. I feel like Winston-Salem's been replaced with one of those blown-up cities I see on the news before my mom changes the channel when she sees that I'm paying attention. I don't understand the way everyone's acting.

I don't understand what Jerry was saying. There's nothing else for me to do but cry in this foreign place I've come to, so I ran out of the history room and I cried and I cried. I didn't get in any trouble for missing history. We're allowed to get away with those types of things at the moment, I guess. Someone less inclined towards rule following might take advantage of that, but I just needed to hide away from Jerry and the grief counselor they sent looking for me when someone told the substitute I ran out bawling.

Jerry didn't come to our next class. Someone said they saw her appearing through the small rectangular window at the old history class with a wide grin on her face like a parasite, and that's the last time she was seen alive. We were sent home early again, but this time with no warning and no explanation. Then they held an assembly this morning to tell us that Jerry went to live in heaven with Mrs. Hopkins.

They didn't say why, but the word got around fast. She snuck into the school cafeteria, turned on the industrial oven, and climbed inside. I thought it might be a dumb rumor or something that Austin came up with at first, but it was mandatory to have lunch outside today, and instead of school lunches, we had Chick-fil-A. I've never done something like that before.

Most kids were thrilled, but I didn't eat anything because I could tell I'd only throw it up. Some days it comes out of nowhere, and some days I just know. Tristan Chamber got released from the hospital and came into school today with big cast around both of his arms. Everyone thought he'd still be miserable from the... the pain with burns that bad. He didn't seem miserable, though. He had a big smile on his face

all day. November 30th. The government came to my school today, a bunch of people in nice suits and cars. None of the suits were black and none of them were wearing sunglasses. A little disappointing since my favorite movie to watch with my dad made me think they'd come in looking more mysterious and erase all of my memories with a bright light. Everybody left from my history class got asked a bunch of questions. I mean, there aren't very many of us now. Tristan Chamber jumped in his family's Thanksgiving bonfire pit last Thursday. They said it wasn't even that big of a fire, but no matter how much they ran the hose or stacked blankets on top of them, that the burning just wouldn't quit until there wasn't any difference between Tristan and the rest of the ashes in the pit.

Austin Beringer, he covered his bedroom in gasoline and lit himself up on Instagram live. He said Hopkins Hopkins Hopkins three times into the mirror on his wardrobe before flicking the lighter. He smiled until his phone melted and the stream went dead. And that's why the government came into my school today. Apparently that video's been making the rounds on the internet. And now there's people all around the country going down in flames while borrowing that same smile from whoever is doing this to all of us. And the news even said someone in Brazil let themselves on fire yesterday, although they're not sure it wasn't some kind of political protest.

The self-immolation epidemic is what they're calling it. But we still call it the burn. It just has sequels now. There were only nine kids, including me, left from my class to interview. There should have been ten, but Dana Carterson didn't show up today. Any other time we'd as assume she just had a fever or something, but that's not what we're assuming anymore. Now there are only five of us. They took four kids away for further questioning. I mean, if Austin was still here, he'd probably say they're going to put probes up their butts or something. Is it strange to start missing someone I always thought was kind of a jerk? Things would just feel more normal if Austin was here saying mean things. It would feel a little more like it did 12 days ago. Three of the

kids they took away had big smiles on their faces from the moment they showed up at school. The fourth one, Everest Jane. I mean, his real name is Sam, but he's half Nepalese, so we've been calling him Everest since we learned about it in world geography. He wasn't smiling, but he was probably going to start soon. He told me he was cold while we sat in the hallway waiting to get questioned by the kind of scary government people. Austin isn't cold, I bet.

Gary isn't cold, I bet. I wanted to hit him for even bringing up Jerry like that. Don't let the bad memories turn to good memories, I said, trying to reason with Everest. That's the way I've started to see all this. Somehow, the burn works its way into people's minds and convinces them it's a friend, not an enemy. It turns fear into happy thoughts and shared trauma into nostalgia. It's like one of those worm parasites I saw in a nature show. It wants to kill you so it can spread its own.

into others. In the documentary, the worms spread themselves through poop, but the burn spreads itself through memories. I'd like to think I'm immune somehow, since all of my memories of the burn are still really negative. But I still haven't cried for any of them. I cried out of confusion, but I haven't cried for my friends or my classmates or my teacher. I haven't cried thinking about any of them in the burn. I mean, I miss my friend. more than anything, but I can't shed a tear. It hurts me inside. Do you think Mrs. Hopkins felt pain? She didn't even scream or make any kind of noise. Everest looked in the direction of the history room, even though it was on the other side of the

building. It was almost the exact question Jerry asked me the last time we talked. The government people must have picked up on it too since Severus got taken away along with three smiling kids. They're canceling school for the foreseeable future. That's okay with me. Not because I don't like school, but because it got to the point where we were all spending the first part of each day waiting to see which faces didn't show up.

I mean, that takes a toll. It's not something we want to do, but we can't help going to that place when it's kids and teachers we've seen every day for most of our lives suddenly disappearing forever. A lot of kids from other classes are starting to smile. a lot of the teachers too, including the French teacher, Mr. Johnson. An hour ago, I caught my mom watching the video of Austin's burn under the table at dinner. She watched it three times around me today, but she thinks I don't notice because she's trying to be discreet.

She's not smiling, though. Not yet. I'm not crying for what's probably about to happen to my mom, or to what's going to happen to who knows how many other people around the world until someone finds a way to stop all of this or or until we all burn up sharing the same smile like there's a funny inside joke you only get once you're on fire. I'm still not crying at all, thinking about Miss Hopkins walking in a class and spreading her curse to all of us. I'm almost happy thinking about the last time my class was whole and normal, even if I didn't like a lot of them at the time. I'm almost happy, but my memory of the burn is still negative. The idea of

of being on fire still scares me. So it hasn't got to me, and I'm going to fight it with everything I have. I need to stop writing now. My hands are shaking. It's gotten so cold in my room, and I can see my dad from the window. He has the fireplace blazing in the pack yard.

I like the smell of winter smoke, and now it's hitting my nose in just the right spot. I think I'll go out there and warm up. And 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 Mike Halski. 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 for our 20th season. This audio program is copyright 2023 and 2024 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media.