The NoSleep Podcast - S20 Ep6: NoSleep Podcast S20E06

Episode Date: November 12, 2023

It’s Episode 06 of Season 20. Come join us around the campfire for tales about nasty neighbors.“Through the Window Hayne” written by Luke Pudney (Story starts around 00:02:10)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Andy Cresswell, Jenny – Penny Scott-Andrews, Mr. Haynes – David Ault, Daughter – Ash Millman“Whispering Winds” written by K.G. Lewis (Story starts around 00:15:50)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Brian – Dan Zappulla, Eddie – Jeff Clement, Cashier – Graham Rowat, Detective – Peter Lewis“It’s Getting Better” written by Rae Waller (Story starts around 00:30:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Erika Sanderson, Lucy – Ilana Charnelle, Tommy – David Ault, Coworker – James Cleveland“Inverse” written by William Jorgeson (Story starts around 00:55:55)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Kyle Akers“The Fireplace” written by Andrew Perkins (Story starts around 01:13:45)Produced & scored by: David CummingsCast: Narrator – Mike DelGaudio, Wife – Mary Murphy“The Sea Hag” written by Christian Riley (Story starts around 01:20:05)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: David CummingsCast: Narrator – Kristen DiMercurio, Cory – Atticus Jackson, Property Manager – Jesse Cornett, Floria – Mary Murphy, Skeeter – Graham RowatThis episode is sponsored by:Betterhelp – This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. Give online therapy a try at betterhelp.com/nosleep and get on your way to being your best self.Green Chef – Green Chef makes eating well easy with plans to fit every lifestyle. Whether youíre Keto, Paleo, Vegan, Vegetarian, Gluten-Free, or just looking to eat more balanced meals, Green Chef offers a range of recipes to suit your preferences. For Green Chefís best deal of the year, get $250 off with code nosleep250 at greenchef.com/nosleep250Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Andrew PerkinsClick here to learn more about Christian RileyExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“The Sea Hag” illustration courtesy of MiggeaAudio 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 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 david cummings i hope everyone enjoyed a festive halloween season are there still pumpkins rotting on your front porch Are you still finding stray skittles tucked away in the oddest places?

Then I'd say you had a good one. And if you were shelling out treats on Halloween, you probably met a lot of your neighbors, the people who live near enough to you to be friendly, or perhaps too close to you because they're anything but friendly. Yes, neighbors can become good friends, or they can become part of your nightmares. And on this episode, we have tales which delve into the darker side of living, just a little too close to people. Maybe they'll inspire you to consider moving. But stay close to us because now the sun has set. The fire glows bright. Brace yourself for the darkness of the night.

In our first tale, we delve into one of my horror phobias, the dreaded face in the window. I do not want to see that at any time. And in this tale, shared with us, by author Luke Pudney. We meet a couple who have to deal with this because their elderly neighbor keeps popping by for a quick peek in the night. Performing this tale are

Andy Cresswell, Penny Scott Andrews, David Alt, and Ash Millman. So pull those blinds down and avert your eyes. No one wants to be watched through the window haine. Think someone is outside? Jenny shook me awake.

And it took a second to comprehend what was happening. What? I heard footsteps near the window. Someone is out there. You sure, darling. I'm certain. There is someone right outside. I moved in order to get up out of bed.

And as I did, my wife grabbed my arm. Don't get up and look. I can't hear anything, Jenny. If someone was trying to get in, we would hear it. I'll go have a look. It might have been a possum or something you heard. I got out of bed and cautiously approached the window, which was covered by thick, black curtains.

I reached out, grasping the edge of the fabric, and pulled it to one side, moonlight spilling into the room as I did. The first thing I saw were two eyes staring straight up me through the glass. I jumped backwards, alarmed at what I saw. What is it? My mind immediately went to the idea that someone was actually attempting to break into the house, like Jenny said.

But I studied the face for a second. I realized I knew who was staring back at me. It was Mr. Haynes, the old man that lived next door. It's the neighbour, Mr. Haynes. What's he doing in our carton? Hello, Mr. Haynes. I called out through the window. Are you all right?

Mr. Haynes didn't respond, but instead continued to stare directly at me. He was of an average height and had a very slim bill. Rinkles were starting to take over most of his face, but under his eyes were where he was most affected by them. He had long, scraggly hair that was thinning on top, but flowed out the sides of his head. His facial expression was blank, no discernible emotion present. His eyes looked almost glazed over as they looked straight towards me. Hello!

Yet again, he didn't reply. I turned to Jenny. What do we do? Maybe he needs help. I turned back to the window, and to my surprise, he was no longer anywhere to be seen. Mr. Haynes had never done anything like this before, and was usually a pretty good neighbour. We never really heard from him, and would often go long.

long periods of time without seeing him outside the house. If we were ever to see him, it was for one of two reasons. He was either tending to his large garden bed that was filled with beautiful red roses, or he was saying goodbye to his daughter on the rare occasion she would pay him a visit. It was definitely a strange occurrence to see him in our yard and staring at us through our bedroom window. I turned back around to face my wife. What should we do? I look at him. I look towards the alarm clock. It's 11.30 at night. What is he doing in our garden, looking into our window? Is he gone? I scanned outside for any sign of him. I think so. I can't see him anymore. Do you think he knows what he's doing? What do you mean? Well, he is getting old. He might not be

all there. I moulded over in my mind. Maybe. Maybe. There's a little. He's not. He might not be all there. I moulded. I moulded over in my mind. Maybe. His eyes didn't show any recognition when he saw me. After a while of debate, we chalked it up to old age as to why Mr. Haynes was peering through our bedroom window. We decided that we would keep the curtain open for the rest of the night and stay awake in case he came back. Then we could give him the assistance needed to get back home. I must have dozed off at some point, though, because the next thing I remember is being awoken by Jenny asking me a question. Is that him?

She pointed out into the garden. Hmm? Where? Garden! I sat up in bed and craned my neck forward to see better. I looked out across the backyard, and it all looked normal, except for the two faint pinpricks of light back near the fence. I quickly realized that they were a pair of eyes,

with the moonlight reflecting off of them. Everything else was encased in. shadow. It became apparent that this was Mr. Haynes when he took a step forward and the rest of him was illuminated. He then took more steps and very slowly approached the bedroom window. Go ahead, honey. I felt her grab my hand. It's okay, darling, it's just Mr. Haynes again. Mr. Haynes had now reached the window. He raised both his arms and pressed two hands up against the glass. Then he lent forward and peered through the window, using his hands to block out any light reflecting off of it so that he could see in more clearly.

Excuse me? He didn't answer. But for a moment, I saw his eyes dart up and make direct eye contact with mine. It was at this moment that I noticed he looked slightly different than before. His face was covered in dirt and soil. God knows what else he'd been up to. Mr. Haynes then removed his hand from the glass and took a slight step backwards. His head came forward and he breathed directly onto the glass, fogging it up.

Jenny and I looked at each other in confusion and no small amount of fear. We turned back to face the window again and saw Mr. Haynes starting to draw something in the fogged up glass. He used his finger which made a strange squeaky sound on the glass. He drew a straight line upwards, and then a few more bending lines at the top of it. Once he was finished, he dropped his hands to his side, and Jenny and I looked at what he had drawn. In the glass was a roughly drawn picture of a single rose. Mr. Haynes raised his armaged, pointed at us, and then pointed at the ground. Then, before either of us could respond, he turned around and scammed.

off through the garden. We should call the police. I didn't disagree. I phoned the police and explained to them what had been happening. They told me that they would send a patrol car around to his house to check up on him, but it could still be a few hours before he got there. The glass-drawing incident had occurred at 2.30 a.m., and so it could be morning before the police paid him a visit.

They did tell me to call them back if he did return, though. Jenny and I, slightly relieved that the police had been called, tried our best to go to sleep. We were still shaken up by what had happened, but in the following hour, we both managed to get some shut-eye. I was awoken for the third time by a loud scream emanating from beside me. It was Jenny. I jumped up in bed and turned to face her. In the dimly lit room, I could still see how pale she looked, and that she was. was shaking. I followed her gaze and slowly turned around to see what she was looking at.

At the end of the bed, Mr. Haynes was standing and looking directly at the both of us. His long, scraggly hair and gaunt body were instantly recognizable. He was also still covered in dirt. I bolted upright in bed, both terrified and angry that he was in our room watching us sleep. What the hell are you doing in our house? He stood perfectly still and perfectly silent for a moment. Slowly, his mouth started to open, but no sound came from it. Mr. Haynes' eyes darted towards Jenny, and he started to speak. I had only spoken to the old man a couple of times, but the voice that came out of him now

was not the same as the one I knew. Mr. Haynes isn't here anymore. and you will lay next to him. Jenny and I sat frozen in terror of what he was saying, and also because of the voice he was saying it in. Then, before we could do anything, Mr. Haynes retreated into a dark shadow in the corner of the room. He walked backwards into the darkness.

Then he was gone. Of course, we called the police back straight away and were told they would send a squad car out to our house immediately. Once they arrived, we explained everything that Mr. Haynes had done to us that night. They wrote it all down and left to go over to his house. For the next couple of hours, more and more police arrived at Mr. Haynes' property. It was in the middle of the morning when we found out why. There was a knock at the door, which I answered.

It was a lady in her mid-forties, who I recognised as the daughter. It was clear she had been crying. Thank you for calling the police. Otherwise, it might have been a while before we found him. Oh, that's okay. Where did he find him? A few tears dripped out her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. In the garden, under the flower bed.

We still don't know how we got there, but police are estimating his time of death between midnight and two o'clock. There was also something else strange. He was buried in a shallow grave just below the roses, but next to him, another two graves had been dug. Have you ever done that thing where you speak close to a spinning fan to hear how it makes your voice sound all weird and robotic? Me neither. But in this tale, shared with us by author K.G. Lewis, we meet a man who buys an old table fan. Shame his neighbor had to try the talk into the fan gag.

Performing this tale, our day. Anzapula, Jeff Clement, Graham Rowett, and Peter Lewis. So remember, it's a fan, not a microphone. You don't want to hear its whispering winds. How much? I held up the table fan so the old guy behind the thrift store counter could see it. The summer had just begun, and we'd already had several record-breaking days of heat. To better disperse the limited cool air put out by my window-mounted AC unit,

I'd gone to the thrift store to look for a cheap fan. There should be a sticker on it somewhere. He was busy sorting through a box of costume jewelry and couldn't be bothered to look up at me. I turned the fan over in my hands looking for a price sticker, but I couldn't find one anywhere. It doesn't have one. He finally stopped what he was doing and looked over at the fan in my hands. Two bucks. That was cheaper than I thought he was going to say.

The fan was clearly. vintage and made out of metal. It was heavy and felt sturdy. I would have had no problem paying two or three times that price. I walked over to the counter and set it down. Do you mind if I give it a try? There's an outlet on the wall over there. Knock yourself out. Thanks. I carried the fan over to the outlet and set it on the floor before plugging it in and flipping the switch to turn it on. Please work. I'd been to every thrift store in town, and that was the old. only fan I'd been able to find. If it didn't work, I'd have to buy a new one, which was something I was trying to avoid, given the limited funds at my disposal. I was relieved when the fan word to life.

Not wanting to give the man enough time to change his mind about the price, I quickly turned the fan off and wrapped the cord around the base after unplugging it. After carrying it over to the counter, I took two dollar bills and a quarter out of my wallet and set them next to the fan. The man took the money without a word, rang me up, and then handed me my change along with a receipt. Do you want a box to put it in? No, I'm good. I picked up the fan and carried it out of the thrift store. When I returned home to my trailer, I set about finding the right spot to place the fan.

The AC unit was on the wall in the living room, closer to the front end of the trailer. It did a great job of keeping that area of the house cool, but it didn't help much with the master bedroom. which was on the opposite end of the trailer. This looks like a good spot. I placed the fan on the counter in the kitchen. The counter was near the AC unit, meaning if I angled the fan towards the hall that led to the master bedroom, it should help direct the cold air that way,

thereby cooling the back half of the trailer more efficiently. I was in the process of adjusting the fan when the front part of the metal guard came loose and fell off. I tried to catch it, but only succeeded in not. it onto the floor, cutting my finger on one of the blades in the process. Blood welled out of the cut immediately, dripping down the fan blade and onto the counter. I rushed over to the sink and rinsed my finger off, realizing how deep the cut was. That doesn't look good.

Most people would have gone to the hospital and gotten stitches for a cut like that, but I couldn't afford an ER visit, so I had to take care of it myself. Instead of a bandage, I folded up a paper towel and wrapped it tightly around my finger. Then, I used a piece of duct tape to hold it in place. I was in the process of making sure the makeshift bandage was going to hold when there was a knock on the trailer door. Knock knock. Eddie opened the door and stepped inside. Eddie was my neighbor.

He lived in the trailer next door and was one of those people who had no problem inviting himself in someone's home. He was the main reason I kept my door locked when I was home, something I never did until he moved in. I must have forgotten to lock it when I carried the fan inside. Hey Eddie. If he picked up on the lack of enthusiasm in my voice, he didn't show it. What happened? He pointed at my injured finger. I cut it on the fan. I picked up the guard and put it back in place. Eddie walked over to my fridge, opened it and grabbed it. soda. You mind?

He knew I wouldn't say anything now that he already had it in his hands. If I did, he'd just promise to pay me back for it later, which, of course, he never did. Accepting my silence as permission, he popped the top and took a drink. Our folks had one like that. Eddie gestured at the fan with his can of soda as he walked around the counter to stand opposite me. By then, I'd put the guard back on and turn the fan on. My brother and I used to stand behind it and pretend we were Darth Vader.

When he finished talking, he leaned forward and spoke into the fan, repeating a popular misquote. Duke, I am your father. I turned the fan so it was blowing toward him and spoke into it, chiding him for his misuse of the famous movie line. The fan thrummed as it projected my warbling voice in an unexpectedly deeper and sinister tone. Hearing it gave me chills. Eddie didn't seem to notice. He just stood there with a slack-jawed look on his face.

Eddie? He kept staring off into space, which was starting to concern me. Eddie? He swiveled his head to look at me. Who's Eddie? I pointed at him. You are. He shook his head.

No, I'm not. I'm Edward. You're joking, right? No. Why would I joke about my name? We stared at each other for a moment as I tried to determine if he was pulling my leg or not, but the glazed look in his eyes made me think he wasn't. joking. There was something seriously off about him. My bad. What the hell is going on here?

Eddie lifted his can of soda to take a drink, but he didn't have the hole lined up properly with his lips and ended up dribbling some down his chin and onto the counter. Oh, sorry. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before using the end of his shirt to wipe up the mess on the counter. Are you okay? Yeah. He looked down at his wet shirt. It'll dry. I didn't spill that much.

I wasn't asking about his accident with the soda. I was asking about how he was feeling in general because he was acting really weird. It was like he had suddenly been struck dumb. He's become a real idiot. The thought brought me back to what I'd said into the fan, and the weird way my voice was. had sounded. I did that to him. I had declared that he was an idiot, and then he was. Somehow the fan had transformed my words into reality. It was an insane idea, but I couldn't come up with

any other explanation for why Eddie was acting the way he was. Maybe I can undo it. I leaned down and said, Eddie, you are not an idiot into the fan. Unlike the last time, though, my voice didn't have weird intonation. What did I do differently the first time? You're not an idiot either. You're the smartest person I know. Thanks. I lifted my hand to brush a stray lock of hair out of my eyes. The movement brought my bandaged finger into view. The cut! That's what was different! The first time I had spoken into the fan, I had just caught my finger on one of the blades. The injury must have somehow triggered the fan's effects? Was it the blood or the cut or both? Only one way to find out. I quickly popped the guard

off of the fan and ran my thumb along the edge of one of the blades. It was very sharp and didn't require much pressure to slice through my skin. Eddie leaned close to the fan to watch me. What are you doing? Fixing you. I held my thumb over the blades so a few drops fell upon it. I put the guard back into place and turned on the fan, but before I could speak into it, Eddie ruined everything. Ryan, you're so crazy. The fan distorted Eddie's voice the same way it did mine. What have you done, Eddie? Those were the last words I remember speaking before I started having strange thoughts,

and ultimately blacked out. Are you having those strange thoughts right now? I was handcuffed to a table in one of the precinct's interrogation rooms, a detective sitting across from me. I wasn't quite sure why I was there, but I assumed it had something to do with all of the horrible images flashing through my brain, images that felt like shards of a memory. Yeah, I nodded.

But they're not as bad as they were at first. first. This, uh, this is your friend, Eddie, right? He pulled out a photo from one of the many times Eddie had been arrested. He's not really my friend. He's my neighbor, but yeah, that's him. And you claim this fan you bought at the thrift store turned him into an idiot and made you crazy. I know how stupid it sounds, but it's true. If you go back to my trailer and get the fan, I can show you. That just so happens that we already have the fan here. He turned towards the large mirror and motioned at someone that couldn't be seen. A minute later, the door to the interrogation room opened, and another detective walked in carrying a covered box.

He set the box on the table, and then left. The detective sitting across from me stood up, opened the box, and then pulled out a large evidence bag, inside of which was the fan. but it was in pieces and all of them were covered with blood. What happened to it? You did, Mr. Arnold. Don't you remember? As I stared at the broken fan,

the fragmented images in my mind started to coalesce into a coherent memory. In the memory, after Eddie had said I was crazy, I picked up the fan and beat him to death with it. I was still beating his head to a pulp with the remnants of it when the police arrived. If you live in an apartment, or as our British friends say, a flat right-o-governor, isn't it? Then you know all the ups and downs of living so close to others. You often end up involved in the lives of others, whether you want to or not.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Ray Waller, We meet a woman who is noticing strange things going on in her building. Deadly things. Performing this tale are Erica Sanderson, Ilana Charnel, David Alt, and James Cleveland. So if there's something causing problems around you, the last thing you want to discover is that it's getting better. I didn't wake up until the siren sounded, around half-past six in the morning. The commotion had, it turned out later, woke and... several of my neighbours long before the emergency services arrived, but I live on the ground floor,

and the screaming came from ten floors up. I might have slept through it even if it was right above me. The area I live in isn't horrible, but a few of my neighbours get rowdy when they drink. I've got used to tuning it out. This time, though, it sounded like real trouble. I grabbed my coat and slippers and emerged into the hallway, blinking, hoping that whatever had summoned the sirens wasn't a fire. I couldn't see or smell any smoke, and the vehicles outside were police in an ambulance, so I and my cats were presumably safe. Pity I couldn't say the same for whoever it had to call them, I thought, with a pang of sympathy. My other ground floor neighbours were emerging too. The Browns next door rubbing their eyes, and Mr. Adebio from across the hall, yawning, and none of

them seemed to know what was going on. Must be upstairs. I was the first one to the staircase, keen to find out what I could. I passed the first floor without incident, joined by another couple of rubber-neckers on the way. I was relieved when my friend Lucy Hawley met me outside her flat on the second floor, as curious and confused as I was. She'd been among the first to welcome me to the building. At 60-ish, she was like an aunt to me, and she didn't have a lot of local relatives, so I'd take into dropping in to visit her once or twice each week. We exchanged pet-sitting services for my cats and her terriers, and she tried and failed to teach me to knit. I was glad whatever it was hadn't happened to her.

Loose? What's going on? No idea, love. She tugged her dressing gown tighter and pushed her glasses up. I noted she was too distracted to tell me not to call her loose. It's upstairs. I was just going to see if anyone needed help. We both knew we were really going to see if there was anything worth gossiping about. If the ambulance was involved, there wasn't likely to.

to be anything we could do to help. Still, plausible deniability makes the world go round. Uh, me too. Let's both go. The police and paramedics had already charged up the stairs ahead of us, and a slow trickle of residence followed them. We passed several floors without stopping, more people joining the flock as we went, and around the eighth floor we could more clearly hear the screaming. Well, not so much screaming anymore. It sounded like the screaming had already happened, and now the suffering person had run out of breath. Now the sound was reduced to keening, a throaty wail of misery and fear.

I shivered. This must be serious, I thought. Major accident? Fatal accident? Surely not murder? The tenth floor is the top floor of my building, and the trickle of people formed a pool there, a crowd around the door of No.105.

That was also when I noticed the smell. Metallic, warm, You all know what blood smells like. This wasn't just blood, though. It was a fresh, meaty smell overlaying something foul. Something or someone had been outright gutted. I'm quite short, but quite strong, so I was able to push through the scrum and peer into the flat.

I couldn't see anything much from the front door, but I could hear that the wailing sound was coming from inside, presumably from one of the residents, accompanied by another voice, female, probably an officer or a paramedic, trying to soothe them. I tried to remember who lived here. An old couple I could guess from the decor and the photos on the wall, but I couldn't for the life of me remember their names.

I only knew people on the lower floors well. Next to the photos on one wall was a splatter of something dark. The hallway wasn't well lit, but I knew it was blood. It looked like it had sprayed out from the open doorway across the hall. must have been from a high-pressure artery to reach that far if it had come from inside the room. The screaming was, so I presumed the blood had. The wailing voice was, I was able to tell now, that of an older woman. I peered around the doorway, knowing it was wrong to snoop, but unable to stop myself.

I mean, would you be able to? I'm not unfamiliar with gory visuals, but it's different in real life. I had to swallow back vomit. The closest I'd ever seen to the inside of that room was a photo of a stable in which a horse had had a high-pressure nosebleed. More blood than a human could even hold, sprayed up the walls and pulled on the floor. And even that didn't come anywhere near. Nosebleeds aren't, shall I say, chunky.

When I was able to focus on more than just the red mess, I registered the people in the room. One was a paramedic in a dark green uniform, soaking and turning black around the trouser cuffs where they brushed the floor, and her legs where she sat on the soggy mattress smeared with red where the inhabitant of the flat had hugged her. The inhabitant in question, a twiggy old lady, was covered head to toe in gore all up her front and her right side. Most of the mattress and the thrown back blankets were soggy with it, but there was a big patch on the sheet and pillow with minimal splash damage.

Whatever had happened, it had happened while she was still lying in the bed. The other side of the bed was scattered with meat and shredded fabric, the sheets and blankets torn by a great force. A glass had been knocked right off the bedside table and shattered. As far as I could tell, the other person in the bed, probably the husband, the wispy-moustached man in the photo in the hallway, had simply exploded. The paramedic noticed me and stood up to shoe me out,

yelling something about contaminating the scene, but I was already gone, running downstairs. Even after less than a minute in the flat, it took half an hour to get the smell of death out of my hair. The old lady upstairs, whose name I later found out was Mrs. Mabel Langley, wife of the extremely late Gerald Langley, was taken away as soon as the paramedic calmed her down. The whole building watched in silent as she was half carried out.

I felt like a vulture, but there wasn't much I could say or do. Over cross-stitching, Lucy, and coffee, me, that evening, Lucy explained a little more about what was going on. She knew everyone in the building much better than I did, and had called the hospital to ask after Mrs Langley in check if she was up to receiving visitors. Poor dear was questioned by the police. Can you believe it?

The doctors had to sedate her, and no sooner was she awake again, the officers grilled her as if she did it. Really? I frowned. I was sitting on a big cushion on the floor so Lucy's two Scotty's could rest their heads on my lap, as they often did. I scratched their ears and they huffed at the smell of my cats.

How do they think she even managed that? I don't even know what happened. I don't think any human could have pulled that off. Quite right, love. And at least they worked that out quick. She'll be in the hospital for a while though. Lucy's sewing hand stopped moving and she gazed into space. Might not ever come out. She's 83 and had a nasty shock. That's understating it. Do they know what did cause, whatever that was. Gas explosion, I think the officer said. I just looked at her. This building doesn't even have gas.

It's all electric. I did tell him that, love, but once he got the idea in his head, he didn't want to let go. Like a dog with a bone. She nudged one of her dogs with her slippered foot. I'm sure there'll be a proper investigation. Something will turn up. Ever the optimist, I thought. I was still curious, but she didn't want to.

want to discuss it further. It clearly upset her so I didn't push, and the conversation moved on to her plan to get everyone in the building to sign a card for Mrs Langley. Mrs. Langley did indeed die in hospital within the week, but by then we had other problems. Murder! Murder! It was three days after the explosion incident, about half-past six again, and I was already awake this time. I'd had trouble sleeping since I walked in on the remains of Mr. Langley. Vision. of burst bodies dancing in my head, and I was cuddling the friendly one of my cats while sipping chamomile tea,

hoping that would let me get a little sleep before I had to get up for my shift at noon. No such luck, I thought, as I heard the cries from the hallway. I was much more hesitant to investigate this time, not wanting additional nightmares. Mr. Adabio's door across the hall opened, and I heard his accented voice soothing,

whoever was shouting. Within ten minutes, sirens were sounding again. Once the sirens were off and the shouting had quieted, I peered outside through the peephole, not planning to go snooping again, but too curious to leave it alone entirely. A police officer was interviewing a resident I did recognise this time.

Tommy Greenwood, from nine floors up. He worked at the same cinema I did. He was my supervisor. Decent guy. He and his partner Hardeepe lived with three foster kids in one of the larger flats. Or there were three. As I watched, paramedics wheeled a covered gurney down the stairs. Our lift isn't big enough to fit one for the second time this week.

There was blood soaking through the sheet, but whatever lay under it at least still looked kind of body-shaped this time, shaped like a small body and somewhat misshapen. I kept on watching until more police officers came downstairs, leading Har Deep. He was cuffed, and he looked shell-shocked, eyes wide with tears building up but not falling yet, mouth hanging open. Behind him, trying to cling to the officer's legs,

went the ten-year-old boy and five-year-old girl. The thirteen-year-old boy then. Graham, his name was. Damn, I wish there was an equivalent for agnostics of crossing oneself, or that I was wearing a hat to remove. I stopped watching when the officers led Tommy outside too. The white guy remained uncuffed, I noticed. "'H, cops really can be bastards.

"'Ah, maybe I'm making too much of it. "'Maybe it was just that he was more visibly hysterical "'and was the one to greet them. "'Doesn't really matter now. "'According to Lucy and Mai and Tommy's other co-workers, "'he and Hardeepe both went through questioning "'but were released due to lack of evidence. "'There was no obvious murder weapon,

"'and no sign of a break-in, "'so the men were suspected. "'But the boys had been foster kids from troubled homes, "'and the dads had installed a lot, on the boy's door to make them feel safer. The room had been locked from the inside when Tommy had found the body. They'd had to break in. The other boy, who shared the room, reported sleeping uninterrupted

until Hardee took a drill to the door handle plate and woke him up, at which point he saw the remains. I don't know if the poor kid will ever recover. A person at least could have done this one, I hear. Lucy told me later. One of my co-workers agreed. An axe, I heard it was. were gardening tool.

Chopped his whole little body right up. Arms and legs and head act right off. Then all records identification. And they had to find all the teeth first. Whisper campaigns continued to blame Tommy and Hardeepe even after the investigation turned up nothing. And they moved out within three days. Tommy never showed up for work again.

And according to my manager, he'd requested a transfer to somewhere at the other end of the country. I couldn't blame them at all. You might have grasped by now that I'm incredibly nosy. I prefer to think of myself as an investigator. You can also tell that I'm into weird occurrences. This was certainly weird, and I couldn't resist at least trying to spot a pattern.

I settled down after work with a pile of post-it notes and set to work writing known facts on them and arranging them on the coffee table. First off, Mr. and Mrs. Langley. I couldn't see any possible way she could have done it. A bike pump wasn't exactly going to work that well. and anything which could have caused poor Gerald to detonate so violently ought to have injured his wife as well. Plus the blood spatter pattern I'd seen suggested she'd still been lying down when he blew.

I didn't want to intrude on their closer neighbours by asking directly, but from what I picked up via Lucy and her friends, she'd had no reason to want to kill him anyway. Tommy and Hardeepe technically could have killed Graham, but again, I don't see why they would want to. Neither of the households involved had any obvious reasons to have harmed the other, other either. Maybe even guessing at that was a stretch, but I was really flailing for theories. If there was a supernatural or otherwise weirder explanation, I couldn't imagine what it was.

I'd heard of spontaneous human combustion, that the victims hadn't burned, and I'd never heard of it being contagious. Graham didn't even live in the flat directly below the prior victim. I did make a note to ask Lucy if they knew each other, but it felt flimsy. I went to bed, the cats piling up around me. I guess they sensed I was frustrated, and I have to admit, worried, possibly not worried enough. My last thoughts before I fell asleep were

two people aren't enough to form a pattern. And the very next morning, there was a third. The third case was another brutally violent killing. But according to the news and the gossip, the body was more or less in one piece this time. The papers and news sites were able to go into more detail, than about Graham since the victim wasn't a minor, and I read those instead of bothering Lucy, who was getting understandably upset by now. Unlike my introvert itself, she knew these people.

College student Jesse Takahashi was found in her bed around noon after she failed to turn up for class with what the autopsy described as crushing injuries. Most of her bones were broken, and her chest cavity had burst. Like the others, she died sometime in the early morning, and there was no sign of a break in. She lived eight floors up. People were starting to get seriously frightened. Some of the building's inhabitants packed their cars that very day. The Browns took their baby and fled to her mother's place,

and Jessie's flatmates found temporary digs elsewhere. My dad called and asked me to come home for at least a while, but I refused. I wanted to at least try to figure out what was happening. And if the pattern held, I had at least another week or two before I had to worry. Lucy didn't leave either. She didn't talk about it,

but I got the impression she had no local family to move in with. I suspected that was why she was so fond of me. She didn't have local family and I didn't have local friends. We fit together pretty well. Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence. You know that one, I said, scrolling more post-it notes as she sat in my arn chair, cats sniffing at her feet.

So I think we can say this thing is definitely moving down. the building. Here, I'm not sure you should be messing around with things like this. The police will... The police still think it was hard deep, racist, fucks! I snapped and stopped. Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to sound angry at you. It's just... Yeah, we're all on edge. You more than me. I'm sorry. But the police aren't helping, and I don't think they can. This is kind of beyond their pay grade. The most the cops deal with in our area is usually a drunk driver or a domestic disturbance. No one's been murdered here in decades, and I'm not even sure this is murder. Well, if it isn't murder...

Lucy gulped, struggled to speak and sipped her coffee to clear her vocal cords. If it isn't murder, and you're implying it's something... Stranger, perhaps you still shouldn't be messing around. What if whatever it is... It is doesn't want the attention. Well, in that case, it shouldn't be attracting so much attention, should it? Sweetheart, you know what I mean. I did.

I sighed too, then covered up my notes and changed the subject. She was a little cool with me when she left. And while we chatted when we ran into each other, I didn't go over to her place again for the duration. Nor did she come to mine. I regret that deeply now. I was right about the pattern. The next time took much longer.

Five days with no incident, until another sudden dawn hour's death, seven floors up. I stopped trying to watch the emergency services do their thing when I noticed the crowds had significantly thinned. By now, everyone still in the building stayed locked in their flats when the disasters occurred, as if by avoiding any sight of the danger they would avoid it striking them. Or perhaps they were just bored, especially by the fifth time. Even the ambulance didn't turn on their sirens anymore. and they took longer to arrive after each call. No sense in rushing in and disturbing the neighbours

when they knew the victim was beyond helping. I kept up with my notes, combing news articles and eavesdropping every chance I got. It was harder now I wasn't talking to Lucy about the topic, but while I wasn't as friendly with everyone as she was, I can at least be a good listener. The attacks, if that's what they were, each occurred within a week of the last,

though the specific length of time varied. No pattern in terms of age, gender, race, or other similarities between the victims seem to emerge. The victims were not necessarily in the flat directly under the last one, but were always on the next floor down. No sign of outside interference was found, nor any direct evidence that other humans did it. The fourth victim seemed to have been bludgeoned about the head and ribs and gouged open as if they'd been attacked by a bear. The cops put out notices asking locals to watch out for any rogue bears and quizzed all the count. Auntie zoos, as if bears could have got in and out of the building. Apparently they were getting as desperate for answers as the rest of us.

The fifth victim upset everyone afresh. That one was a new baby. Her regrettably stubborn parents waking up for the early morning feed and finding her face bruised and her throat and arms cut, or possibly clawed. The hypothetical bear, after all, was still at large. I tried to bring a sympathy bouquet and found the death had been their cue to move out at last. though I felt it was too late by now. Their floor was, if the pattern held, done with.

The sixth victim was bruised but not broken-boned and marked with small, shallow cuts that didn't even hit any major blood vessels. The reports claimed it looked more like crush injuries again than a beating, as if something heavy had pressed down hard on top of her, but had not been dropped hard enough to break anything. The cause of death was determined to be suffocation. The seventh, though, died as strange,

as strangely as poor Mr Langley had. There were some bruises and scratches, but no serious wounds. The cause of death was listed as suffocation again, but it was described in the paper as if the air had simply disappeared from his lungs. By this point, they weren't even hiding the sensationalist details. The cops, by this point, turned up to the building every day to request that everyone leave, but they made no move to forcibly extract us. And that was strange too.

Don't they force people to evacuate during earthquakes and such? I could think of two possibilities, both of which I diligently noted down in my post-it map. Possibility one, something supernatural was going on to block the authorities from reacting appropriately. If you've read Hitchhiker's Guide, you might remember the somebody else's problem field. I mean, if I was a freaky supernatural killer, I'd make sure I had something equivalent in place, wouldn't you? possibility two. The authorities knew exactly what was going on and didn't want to prevent it. That was even more frightening, and it split into two possibilities of its own. Either they simply didn't care, the theory most of the political types I knew on both ends of the spectrum would probably jump to,

or they saw it as a necessary sacrifice to prevent something worse. For the first time in my life, I was starting to think, maybe I didn't want to know something. It's only any use to know about a problem if there's something you can do about it, and petition signing to solve my conscience wasn't going to cut it here. I'd refrained from discussing the matter with Lucy ever since Jessie's death. I didn't want to upset her further than the deaths already had. It was clear she was frightened, but still she hadn't gone to a hotel or anything, and that added to my suspicion something might have been pushing people away from caring as much.

Then again, people will often assume it couldn't happen to them, until it does. And who was I to judge? I was still in the building too. Maybe she just wanted to provide support to her remaining neighbours. Or a buffer. The more people remained, the less chance any one person had of being the next to die. Still, I didn't want to discuss my theories online, though by now various Facebook and Reddit communities have brought the topic up. As well as curious, I'm painfully introverted and rather old school about internet safety. No revealing my name or location. Mentioning that I lived in the death building would be a great way to get mobbed and to effectively docks myself. I settled back and read the discussions without contributing. No one had any solid

theories anyway. It was ghosts, aliens or bioweapons. None of the ideas had much backing them up. I talked them through on the phone with my parents and they agreed with me. Then they begged me to to come home over and over, and every time I'd beg them for just one more night. Eventually, I promised I'd leave after the next death, hopefully leaving a safety gap. The next one would be on the second floor, leaving time for a first floor death too, before anyone on the ground floor was in danger. Hopefully. I kept my fingers crossed that the pattern wouldn't break. But time passed, and no one else passed with it. No emergency services arrived to take bodies away, and people from the upper floors started to move back in, assuming

the danger was over. A full week passed from the third floor death, then another. I started to think the deaths were over too. Even my parents relaxed a little. I lost interest in my post-its, with no new evidence I couldn't possibly solve the puzzle. I admit I was peeved by that. You ever tried to do a crossword with some of the clues torn out or smudged? I still hold some resentment towards my sister over that April Fool's Day. The news stopped mentioning the building at all and the online discussion died down. I regretted how I'd upset Lucy. From what seemed like the end of the story, it was easy to reflect and think that I'd been over-enthusiastic about the tragedy. I'm not an actual detective, and I could see it was legitimately hurtful to her to hear me talk

about the events like they were a game, with an easy solution she wasn't trying hard enough to help me find. I know I do sometimes get that. like that. I suppose it's easy not to take deaths personally when you're young, and it's hard to register that you will ever die. I bought a small bunch of carnations as a peace offering, and in the late morning, before I had to start getting ready for work, I climbed the stairs to her flat. The halls were quiet, no more shouting kids or arguing drunks. It was exactly how I'd wished it would be before. Damn, did that sting. Lucy? I knocked on her door. Lucy are you in there?

Loose? Once again, no reprimand came. I tried again, eventually resorting to Lucinda! Like I was her mother. Full names. Always a bad sign. I giggled madly to myself

when I realised I didn't know if she had any middle names. It seemed funny at the time. I wanted to get in and check on her, but the locks in our building aren't the kind you can pick, even if I knew how. She didn't answer her phone for me either. I called the landlord's office and they called her. Then when she didn't reply to them either,

they called the maintenance man to take the handle plate off. I looked in the hallway until he arrived, feeling unpleasantly like a spy again. There was no crowd around me, no stink of gore, but also no soothing paramedic or massive crisis. No attention paid. Just me and the maintenance guy with the drill.

I can't help but think Lucy deserved more drama than that for her send-off. Yes, you prong. probably guessed she was already dead. But let me describe how it happened. I entered the flat. No blood. No one crying or arrested. No one lived here but her. Her dogs were okay and they fussed around my feet, yipping and demanding to be fed. Her bedroom door was closed so they didn't know what had happened to her. I entered and burst into tears when I saw her. I knew she was dead, though she looked like she was simply sleeping. At least she had that. No mess, no damage at all.

When I talked to the hospital later, after the police checked out the scene perfunctory in the body was examined, they reported that there wasn't a single mark on her anywhere. It's now the week after that, and I'm writing this from my parents' house, sitting on my childhood bed with my cats beside me. I attended Lucy's funeral, along with a couple of her relatives who came over from Australia or somewhere. The Scotty's are okay if you're worried. I couldn't take them, but the kennel club has special pedigree rehoming services, and they have their doggy birth certificates,

so hopefully they're being fast-tracked to a new pet parent. As for my neighbours, I think everyone's moved out of the building now. The ones who came back after the first exodus have gone again, and no one else is moving in. I suspect it'll end up being demolished. No one wants to risk it again. Lucy wasn't the last draw on that either. She'd be mad about that, I think.

not getting to be the last warning. Anyway, a couple of people stayed on the lowest two floors. I moved out the very next day. Curiosity isn't worth my life. Some people are dumber or more stubborn or more curious than I was. I know because yesterday I checked the news, and there was a little footnote article mentioning that the last man still living on the first floor didn't die.

He disappeared entirely. He'd been awake too, unlike the other victims. When the police investigated, they found he'd dropped a coffee cup, and the contents on the floor was still warm. I have no idea what caused all this. I don't think I even want to anymore. I just want it to not get me. I don't know what its goal is, but its method involves eliminating people. And it's getting better at it.

My advice is, if two strange deaths happen in your building or on your street, be safe and leave immediately before the third. I'm not sure if we'd even ever know about what happened to whomever it took on the ground floor, if anyone was still there, or if anyone goes back, if it could make the last victim disappear entirely, and it's honed its skills so rapidly, what are the odds that it could make it look like its next victim never existed? The light of dawn approaches. Our tales must come to an end until the next time we gather.

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