The NoSleep Podcast - S20 Ep7: NoSleep Podcast S20E07

Episode Date: November 19, 2023

It’s Episode 07 of Season 20. Come join us around the campfire with tales about the living and the undead.“Owen’s Diary” written by Lilian Bodley (Story starts around 00:02:35)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Owen – James Cleveland“Two Hundred Years” written by Fredrik Jalker (Story starts around 00:14:45)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced & scored by: David CummingsCast: Narrator – David Ault“Barely a Corpse” written by Christopher OíHalloran (Story starts around 00:41:35)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Mike DelGaudio, Gino – Dan Zappulla, Shaun – Atticus Jackson, Dean – Graham Rowat, Ginoís Dad – David Cummings“Monsters in the Shadows” written by H. Alt (Story starts around 01:07:25)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Sarah Thomas, Darren – Reagen Tacker, Roce – Nikolle Doolin, David – Kyle Akers, Adeline – Jessica McEvoy, Greg – Jeff Clement, Lance – Peter Lewis, Fatima – Linsay Rousseau, Sean – Elie Hirshman, Quentin – David Cummings, and featuring – Ella Boone as Rosey“Crone Lake” written by K.G. Lewis (Story starts around 01:30:20)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Cole – Matthew Bradford, Dad – Jesse Cornett, Sheriff Tate – Graham Rowat, Doris – Mary Murphy, Gabrielle – Erin LillisThis episode is sponsored by:ShipStation – ShipStation makes it super easy to manage and ship all your online orders faster, cheaper and more efficiently. Keep growing your business all year long with ShipStation. Use promo code NOSLEEP today at shipstation.com to sign up for your FREE 60-day trial.ZocDoc – Zocdoc is a free app that shows you doctors who are patient-reviewed, take your insurance, and are available when you need them. Go to Zocdoc.com/nosleep and download the Zocdoc app for free. Then start your search for a top-rated doctor today.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Lilian BodleyClick here to learn more about Fredrik JalkerExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Barely a Corpse” illustration courtesy of Krys HookuhAudio 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 as we head into the week where most of our listeners will be celebrating thanksgiving we're

thankful for everyone who invites us into their ears to hear our disturbing tales. And as I understand it, Thanksgiving usually involves eating a lot of food and collapsing into a food coma shortly thereafter. As you doze on the couch, and I'll forgive you this time for ignoring our no-sleep policy, you might awaken to find yourself feeling so groggy and disoriented that you might feel like the undead, a zombie, a reanimated corpse, a non-human entity not quite alive yet still able to roam about in search of human flesh, or at least a turkey stuffing and cranberry sandwich. So to honor those of you who will be experiencing this phenomenon

or witnessing others go through it, we're presenting you this week with tales of those who have died and returned to life. For not unlike us, the undead have their own secrets and nightmares to endure. Be thankful that you only have. to experience them in stories. Now, the sun has set, the fire glows bright. Brace yourself for the darkness of the night. In our first tale, we meet a man who has just lost his best friend. Most of us would want to commemorate the departed, honor their last wishes and all that. But in this tale, shared with us by author Lillian Bodley, the man does exactly what his friend told him not to

do, take his body to a necromancer to bring him back to life. Performing this tale is James Cleveland. So perhaps it's best to simply listen to what people want. We'll learn that by delving into Owens' diary. The city of Anthemore is renowned for two things. The quality of its pastries and its necromancers. Necromancers was an old-fashioned word. they preferred the term

vomiturgists or if they were needing to sound more scientific than wondrous thanatologists but regardless of what they were called they were good at what they did no matter the manner of death your loved ones brought back to you

always at an affordable price that's why when Ezra died I brought him to Anthemore he'd kick my ass for it Listen, Owen, he'd always say to me over drinks late at night, When I die, you'd better not bring me to Anthemore. Kick your ass if you do. I'd always agreed with him.

I didn't think I'd ever have to worry. You'd never think your best friend's going to die on you, right? You always think, we're going to grow old together, no matter what. We're going to die together, 50 or 60 years from now when we're old and gray and lived good long lives. but then when he died all of a sudden I just kind of lost it and I definitely did not think about keeping our promise I put his body on ice like he told me not to I shipped him to Anthemore like he told me not to

and then I paid 300 medallions and a garnet for him to be brought back exactly like he told me to never ever do or else he'd kick my ass Well, I figured I could take an ass-kicking If it just meant I had my best friend back I didn't think he was going to die I sure as hell wasn't ready for it Who's ready for that kind of thing

All I could think was why the hell He'd have to go and leave me alone So, when the necromancer brought him back That's what I said That's what I apologized with Hey Ezra Sorry for bringing you back But I missed you

I missed you so much. He just stared at me. I'd heard that resurrection drained all the color out of people, made them all cold to the touch and messed with their senses. It made sense, but it was still weird to see the mole next to his nose gray and his left eye all cloudy. He didn't punch me. That stung more than the blow would have hurt. He didn't move when I touched his hand.

His skin was so cold. Hold. I apologized again. What else could I do? Knowing Ezra, he'd be pissed for a while, but, hey, better than him being dead, right? Right? His nightmares started three days after the necromancers did their thing. They'd said there might be some residual effects, especially if we stayed in the city. That was normal after bringing someone back from the dead. That kind of thing tends to mess people up, no matter how skilled the necromancers are. They said, take him out of the city and away from where he'd been brought back. And I was going to, really.

But he just had panic attack after panic attack, unable to walk or move. So I checked us into an inn, made him tea and got him lots of blankets and pillows. I stayed by his side and talked to him. about all the good times we'd had. His memory was fine, but I figured he'd liked the company. He seemed so different now. He wasn't the same Ezra anymore. He didn't hear me sometimes,

and that wasn't just because of his dulled senses, more like my voice was getting drowned out. He'd talk now to thin air, to lots of different people when it was just him and me in the room. I'd say, hey man, want a pastry? And he'd say, I'm so sorry that happened to you, Claire. That must have been awful. We've never known a Claire.

But then I heard later that day that the daughter of the guy who ran the flower shop down the street was named Claire. And then that night I heard she died because some monster wouldn't take her no for an answer and then he wouldn't stop hitting her. her family didn't have the 300 medallions to bring her back, even though they had the garnet and their neighbors were two necromancers. Ezra apologized to her a lot.

He apologized to a lot of people now. After six days, he stopped apologizing, and he just started crying. You ever try to get someone to stop crying when they're covering their ears and squeezing their eyes shut and sobbing so loud that they can't even hear you? All I could do was sit next to him and hold on to him as he cried, and then I'd have to try and get him to drink or eat anything. I'd just got him back. I couldn't lose him again to dehydration or starvation.

I asked him one day after getting him to calm down, only after tying a cloth around his eyes and putting a loud and fast-paced tune on the gramophone, if he wanted to go home and recover in his own house, far away from Anthemore, He just shook his head. I don't want them following me, he'd say. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

After seven days, I went away for just a few minutes. Really, I only left the room to fill a glass of water. If I'd known what he was planning, I wouldn't have left him alone. I shouldn't have left him alone anyways, or at least I should have taken my pen with me. Do you know how easy it is to put a pen through your eye? I didn't. I don't think Ezra did either. Do you know how much blood there can be?

I didn't realize there could ever be so much. There wasn't that much when he died, but no, it was just gushing blood all over his face and his hand, and he was just screaming through all the blood. staring out with one milky blind eye and the pen protruding through his other eyelid. I couldn't bear to see them anymore. He kept screaming. He just wouldn't stop screaming. I couldn't bear to see them anymore. He wouldn't tell me what he meant. He wouldn't say anything anymore. He just covered his ears and screamed and cried and kept apologizing. He just wouldn't stop. apologizing. I didn't think that he'd be the one apologizing so much. I'd thought, since I was the one

bringing him back from the dead after he'd told me specifically not, that I'd be the only one apologizing so much. I'd thought that with enough pastries and apologies, he'd forgive me, and everything would go back to normal. That's how it was supposed to be. But now, there was just so much blood. There was a stain in the carpet now. and I had to scrub the blood from his skin. Careful not to press on his eye when I did so. I'm sorry, he kept saying to me while I wiped the blood away. I couldn't take it anymore.

I'm sorry, I didn't want to come back. When Ezra died, it was because of a bullet to the chest. He'd gotten shot in some dumb fight by some dumb asshole who didn't care about ripping away my best friend. I have no idea what it feels like to be shot, but when I heard him say, I didn't want to come back in such a broken voice and the blood still everywhere and the mold by his nose still an ashen grey

and his skin so cold to the touch, I think I came close. He ripped out my heart, hollowed out my chest in one scoop with those words. Ezra couldn't hear me. He had his hands over his ears, screaming and crying, and blood starting to leak from the gregers. gauze, but I couldn't stop apologizing. And then, the next time I fed him, forced some broth down his throat, he didn't complain about the taste. Of course he didn't. The necromancer

had said his sense of taste would be dulled, even for something as strong as bitter almond. Owning property deep in the woods can be challenging, difficult to get to, always fighting back Nature trying to reclaim the land, not an easy task. And in this tale, shared with us by author Frederick Yelker, we meet a man dealing with his ailing father's cottage, and he soon discovers why the place seems so devoid of life. Performing this tale is David Alt. So remember that a place can have a dark history,

one that stretches back over 200 years. I once read about a man who had been injured while working with deforestation. The contents of the abdomen had fallen out on the moss, but the man calmly collected his own entrails and informed the rescue personnel about what had happened. He completely recovered, but afterwards he remembered nothing of the incident. The brain had erased everything. The only confirmation that the experience had really taken place

were the stitches on his stomach. What happened to me, on the other hand, I remember everything. My story begins late one summer when my father had to move to a nursing home due to a severe stroke. He had been found on a gravel road in the woods a few kilometres from his summer cottage. His ability to speak had almost vanished, and he had become so apathetic that he was later judged to be in need of a guardian. Since I am the only relative, I took a leave of absence, left the big city. and let the train take me far up to the northern part of the country. There lies the small town where I grew up.

I left the planned sale of Dad's apartments in the hands of the real estate agent, but the summer cottage had an affectionate value. The croft is called Mirbaken. This was originally the name of the small farm that existed on the site, but which had been abandoned in the late 18th century. My father, whose great passion had always been hunting, had in his autumn age instead become interested in genealogy and local history. In old archives, he had discovered maps that showed where the farm had stood.

He became so interested in the site's past that he bought the lone plot from the forest owner, who was not even aware that there were remains from a desolate farm on the site. Dad dedicated himself to restoring the house as authentically as possible. I was there a couple of times during the restoration process, but then moved. I moved abroad for a few years. As a guardian, I now had to decide whether we would keep or sell a property. With my dad's now empty apartment as a base, I decided to go there for a few days to better make a decision.

On a sunny afternoon, I packed everything necessary in a large backpack. Since I do not have driver's license, I contacted the only taxi company in town. The road to the cottage goes via crooked gravel roads far into thick coniferous forest. If it weren't for the old milestone that stands by the roadside, one would easily miss the small path that disappears into the spruces. This is where the berry pickers had found Dad early in the morning, scared and confused. After the taxi took me all the way to the stone, the driver looked at me in amazement as he dropped me off in the middle of the wilderness. I shouldered the backpack, turned away from the large spruce branches, and walked the last kilometers towards the cottage. The small tarred facade appeared between the trees at the end of the path.

I had never seen the cottage fully completed before. The reed roof looked slightly collapsed but still in fairly good shape. The garden was neglected but not without rescue. The big ash had, however, lost the battle against the ash dieback and the bark had come loose in great chunks. At the edge of the plot, the remains of the foundation of the drying house were visible. Here the peat that had once been the farm of Mir Backen's livelihood used to be stormed. The peat was mined on a large bog that spread to the east and which had given the place its name.

Everything was embraced by deep spruce forest. The place was desolate, but at the same time peaceful and undisturbed. But when I walked towards the front door, something happened that changed the mood. Suddenly I slipped on something right in front of the entrance. I bent down and saw damp skin in the grass that seemed to be bleeding. There was a fetus, a small, hairless deer fetus. It was fresh. The mother must have pushed it away not long before I came here. I reluctantly picked up the lifeless little body with two sticks and pulled it into the woods.

In the foyer hung a faint smell of mould and tar. The floorboards in the living room were softly worn. They were the same planks that had lain there for hundreds of years since the original dwelling house was built. Dad had restored the facade and ceiling, but the floor was original. A spotting scope balancing on its three legs was aimed at the window facing the bog. The old chest, where I knew my father kept his genealogy material, was standing next to the woodbasket. It will be exciting reading in the evenings, I thought. On the kitchen wall hung motif plates, and on the table,

stood an extinguished oil lamp next to a cup of evaporated coffee. Everything looked homely. The only thing that stood out was the weapon cabinet. I knew this was where Dad kept his old shotgun, but now it was strangely unlocked and gaited empty. After I'd made myself at home, I went out and started cleaning the garden. The work went well during the day, but when it started to get dark and the mosquitoes came, I went back inside the cottage. After lighting the fire and making myself a cup of tea, I sat down on the kitchen's sofa and lifted the lid on the chest.

Inside were copies of church records, land surveys, summonses for military service and documents from old local hometown associations. On the edges were sloppy notes in Dad's handwriting that circled distant relatives, farmers and soldiers lined up. I dug deeper until I noticed particularly hectic notes on a copy of an old interrogation. record dated 18th of January 1797. I tried to decipher the aged language. This is what I managed to piece together. In the middle of the night, workers had been woken up by screams from the privy. The maid, Lisa Hellyer's daughter, had delivered her own child by herself. The pain of childbirth mixed with the fear and shame of having given birth to an illegitimate child had driven her mad. When the door of the privy was pulled open, the workers saw Lisa trying to push her offspring back the same way it came out.

A commotion had arisen, and the maid then took her crying infant and ran away with it out to a bog. When she then returned without the child and with the maid dress blackened from the swamp, the workers had become so angry and shocked that they had beaten her to death. A ground search was performed on the bog, but the child was never found, and could therefore never be baptized or buried in consecrated ground. Nor was the maid's body found, according to the document. The frozen soil would have made burial more difficult, but during the interrogations with the Fyardingsman,

the workers refused to tell where Lisa's body had been hidden. The fire inside the wood stove crackled. The place where the incident had occurred was only described as Axel Tocker's farm, but Dad's hectic notes referred to a page from one of the church books. After reading the church's population register, there was no doubt. It was stated that Lisa, Helfred Helier's daughter worked at the peat farm Mirbachen just before she was pronounced dead. Lisa's newborn child who disappeared in the bog was also included in the register, even though it was never included in the congregation. The older workers on the farm had expressed fear that the unbaptized child risk becoming something they called a mearding.

The term was an old word for, murdered and described a kind of aggressive ghost from ancient folklore. For safety, a hedge with juniper bushes was planted between the yard and the bog to protect against any evil forces. The work of mining peat had continued for a few more months, but the accounts testified that the business had then suddenly ceased. The duration of ownership also ended abruptly. Something had caused Axel, along with all the workers, to leave the farm without selling or donating it. Mirbachen was left desolate and was eventually completely forgotten until Dad found all these old documents in the city archives.

I closed the chest and stared dejectedly out into the darkness through the kitchen window. The next day was overcast and a light wind chilled the surroundings. I did not touch the chest but instead started working with the garden. After yesterday's reading I had decided to sell the cottage. By evening I had completely. cleared the arbor of weeds and even had time to mow most of the lawn. The sun slowly crept down behind the spruce tops and the colours of the surroundings went from orange-red to dim blue and green. As the sky darkened, a narrow streak of northern lights appeared that stretched east. I followed

the glow and my gaze finally landed on a grove that separated the lawn from the bog on the other side. The end of the grove consisted of carefully planted juniper bushes. The bushes stood there like a wall against the bog. I thought of the awful thing that had once taken place on the site and walked away towards the bog to try to imagine what it would have looked like when the ground search went there almost two centuries ago. Despite the twilight, I could glimpse the components of the swamp land between the juniper bushes.

Shiny bottomless puddles lay scattered in the coarse, moss that stretched as far as you could see through the evening mist. Small, meter-high, twisted conifers had tried to penetrate but were suffocated by the bog's low-oxygen peat. Their bare gloomy remains stood there as lonely silhouettes. Dad had told me that bogs are so poor in oxygen that animals and plants are not broken down, but instead accumulated and preserved. In addition, acids in the heat can cause the decomposition process to stop almost completely. I looked out over the barren surface. My eyes got stuck on a long, narrow object lying a bit out on the bog. It was Dad's shotgun. I could only guess why it was out there. Dad had probably hunted grouse when the stroke hit him.

In any case, the weapon was a family heirloom and belonged inside the weapon cabinet. I knew that it was dangerous to go out on the bog by yourself if you were not used to. it since you could get stuck. But now it was only a matter of a few meters. I went out into the swamp. On the other side of the juniper bushes, it was strangely cold in the air, even though it was now completely windless. It darkened unnaturally fast, and a thin layer of mist had begun to spread. The northern lights were no longer visible. The length of my boots was just enough to keep me dry, but the mud created a sucking vacuum for every step. When I finally got to the gun, I bent down and lifted it up.

A used shell sat in each of the barrels. Grouse are hunted with birdshot, but these were shells from slugs, large lead bullets used for wild boar or fallow deer further south in the country. As I stood there and pondered deeply as to what might have caused the situation, I heard a low-pitched sound that at first sounded like an injured animal. When the sound then became clearer, I noticed that it was reminiscent of sobs. The rhythm and fragility were the same as that of an infant, but the voice itself sounded dry and worn, as if coming from an old man.

Everything else was completely silent. My mind flipped through possible explanations. I knew that red foxes could make sounds eerily similar to humans, but the unpleasant thing about this particular sound was that I could not determine from which. direction it came. It seemed to come through the fog from all directions at once, but could only have one source. I looked around. The silhouettes from the small trees became more and more dispersed as the fog seemed to thicken. I felt increasingly disoriented and turned around to take myself back the way I came. The mist was now so compact that I no longer saw either the cottage or even

the grove with the juniper bushes. Just as I was able to take the first, steps back, the faint sobs turned to clear crying, but still with the same macabre mix between child and elder. Then suddenly the sound came from directly behind me. I slowly looked over my shoulder. The figure that appeared through the haze made me drop the gun and my body began to vibrate from the adrenaline. It had a child's body, but elongated enough to resemble one of an adult. It was too dark for me to see its face. I tried to take a confused step, but became aware that I had been in the same spot for too long. My boots had sunk deep into the ground, and I fell straight into the dark, wet peat. My clothes soaked up the cold water. I heard squelching steps.

The figure was on its way towards me. The morbid crying increased in strength and seemed to become more desperate and aggressive. I tried to grab some roots to pull myself out of the mud, but they broke and I instead sunk deeper with my face down. It was like the bog was holding me down. Waves from heavy footsteps propagated through the moisture-saturated surface. It was right behind me. It should be here by now, I thought. But then the crying ended abruptly.

I managed to turn my head to the side. A leg. The thing was standing right next to me. I stopped breathing. A few minutes seemed to pass by. Suddenly I felt the footsteps through the swamp again. They became weaker like they were going away from me. Once they were completely silent, I gently lifted my head and tried to look around. Barren Swampland. Nothing except the small trees.

I managed to pull my feet out of the boots that had sunk so far into the peat that they were unable to be rescued. Slowly I stood up and started walking with tense, careful, steps back towards the cottage. I tried to move as quietly as possible, but every single step seemed louder than if I had run. At the same time, the clouds covering the black night's sky slowly began to thin out, and the moonlight found its way down to the bog. Just when I arrived at the edge of the grove with the juniper bushes, I froze. In the corner of my eye, there it was. I did not discover it, until I was next to it. Without the moonlight, I might not have seen it at all, but now the figure was standing right next to me, completely still. It stared at me. I dared not turn to look at it

directly, afraid to lose my mind that I would go crazy or become traumatized by its appearance. Then I felt a hand in mine, as cold as ice cubes. The fog slowly dissipated and wandered back out onto the flat dead landscape behind us. The silhouette of the cottage could now be seen again on the other side of the juniper bushes. The hand slowly grasped harder as if it wanted me to do something. I took a step. The figure next to me did the same. I took another. It followed. We took more steps towards the cottage and I led us past the densely growing juniper bushes that had formed the barrier between the bog and the peat farm since they were planted there by the workers, so many, years ago. When we had passed the grove and reached the lawn, the thing suddenly released my hand

and walked purposefully on towards the cottage. After a few steps, it collapsed and began to crawl like a newborn, unfinished animal. A disgusting stench filled the air like something had suddenly started to rot. The smell reminded me of when I, as a child, had opened a sealed plastic bucket with forgotten waste from a moose hunt. The carcass had been kept separate from incense and worms and turned into a dark batter with bones. A silent wind slowly began to rock the spruce tops

and let the moonlight dance around on the lawn as it cut through the darkness. The silhouette of the crawling figure seemed to shrink at the same time as it rotted. When it reached the foundation of the house, only a small, decayed body of a human infant remained. Then it pushed itself down,

through an almost non-existent small hole where the foundation met the soil and disappeared down under the croft. I was standing alone on the grass. Everything was suddenly completely still again. No wind in the trees, no noise from the forest, no insects. Complete silence. After managing to gather enough of my senses, I started running away towards the milestone with my clothes covered in mud. When dawn came, I was found by a timber truck that almost hit me where I was standing in the middle of one of the crooked gravel roads. I slept for almost two days and started to feel the hunger ache in my stomach. Dad's apartment was emptied of all furniture except the bed.

A puzzled neighbour saw me when I came stumbling into the stairwell wrapped in a garbage bag given to me by the timber truck driver. The neighbour received an equally messy and improvised explanation for my sorry state, a lie about a stray hunting dog in a tangled swamp. During the days that followed, I made sure to visit my father at the nursing home. I tried to talk about the documents I had found and what had once happened at Mirbach but the stroke's complications seemed to have taken a firm hold over his mind. Now he was just sitting there inside his mental prison with a sad expression while staring at the floor,

as if he was trying to understand something he had been through. With a few incoherent sentences, he still managed to convey that he had sometimes seen something in the bog at night. I sensed that he really had more to tell, but that he was afraid of not being taken seriously. When I mentioned what I myself had encountered out in the wet peat, the old man quickly turned his gaze to me. The furrowed face shrank, and I saw that he understood exactly what I was talking about. The decision to sell the cottage was not very difficult to make. The value of affection was no longer there after what I had experienced. But before I contacted the real estate agent, I first wanted to get back to pick up my things

that I had left inside the cottage. The idea of going back all by myself was not very attractive, but my entire circle of acquaintances was in the big city further south, and Dad was not in a position to leave the nursing home. I thought of the forest worker who had his memory erased and what traumatic experiences could do to the mind. A kind of horror mixed curiosity made me want to find out if everything I had experienced had really taken place. On a mild morning the following week, I took courage.

I called the taxi company and let myself be driven back out into the woods. It was the same driver as last time. He bothered with some small talk, but gave up when he noticed how short the answers were that I gave back. The spruces stood there as usual, trying to hide the small, forest path that led to the cottage. I gave the driver a hefty tip and said he could leave the taxi meter on and that I would be back in a maximum of two hours. The morning dew hung on the uncut lawn. Two fawns played and chased each other on the other side of the plot. Their mother watched me intently. Otherwise everything looked as usual, except that several tree shoots had suddenly

risen through the lawn. When I thought about it, the area around the croft had always been characterized by older vegetation, as if some circumstance made it difficult for the trees and shrubs to rejuvenate on our plot. But now, suddenly, new generations had taken root and come to life for the first time, despite the fact that autumn was soon approaching. I reluctantly went into the cottage and quickly began to gather all the things I had brought with me during the previous visit. When I was done and was about to leave the living room, I stepped one last time on the softly worn floorboards that had been lying there since the original croft was built. I thought again of what I had seen squeezing itself down under the foundation of the house.

Nausea came creeping, but at the same time, also that horror-mixed curiosity. I needed to know if that thing was real. I had to look under the floor. At the stove hung a firefork, which I used to uplift one of the planks. The plank was heavy and full of small holes from wood. worm. I lit the oil lamp and gently stuck my head into the ground of the croft. Some stones and dry roots, but mostly colourless flat dust. I stretched the lamp further to be able to illuminate the edges of the foundation. Then I saw small tracks in the dust. One end disappeared at the wall,

but the other led to something further away that looked like brighter roots. I got up and went to the plank that should be straight above the spot and loosened it with the firefork. I turned my gaze slowly downwards to see what the light of the oil lamp was landing on. The flame gasped. There were two skeletons. One lay in a twisted, uncomfortable position as if it had been thrown there. It was dressed in fragments of an old maid's dress. So it was here that the peat workers had hidden Lisa Helfrid's daughter's body after they had killed her,

right underneath the dwelling house. The other corpse must have been the individual I met in the bog. The fresh tracks revealed its journey from the eastern end of the House Foundation where I'd seen it crawl down. The small body had then continued up into Lisa's eyes. There now lay a curled-up infant skeleton. I sat quietly for a while. There was a calmness over the situation and intimacy.

But what I really saw were the remains of a family tragedy. A child's unconditional trust in its murderer. A newborn who had been seeking love for 200 years. It's a quiet day, a mournful one for Gino. He's at the lake to remember his late father. Sounds peaceful, right? Well, in this tale, shared with us by author Christopher O'Halloran, Gino's day soon devolves into a nightmare brought on by him witnessing something

horrible and the aftermath just keeps getting more bizarre. Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, Dan Zippula, Atticus Jackson, and Graham Rowett. So keep fighting, keep moving. It's all you can do when you're barely a corpse. All Gino wanted to do was take some nice photos on the water. Commemorate the anniversary of his dad's passing at Wend Lake, their summer destination for the last 25. years. Drink a few beers, shed a few tears. He wishes he had shed a few pounds. His legs can't go fast enough. The chafing in his thighs is already unbearable, but slowing down is not an option. The linebacker practically breathes down his sweaty neck. His footfalls are like pneumatic drills, pounding the dirt and fallen needles beneath their feet. A monster, inhuman speed, propelling him

through the underbrush with complete disregard for the reaching branches or fallen trees. Gino whines, his heart pounding worryingly fast. It pumps an icy chill up his throat and turns every breath painful. Get him, maggot! The linebacker's dad shouts from the top of the bluff Gino had been standing on a sneeze ago when he had been taking pictures of the pristine lake, not realizing until he reviewed his photos that he had caught something besides the tranquil water, verdant trees, and dazzling skyline.

He had caught father and son, dumping an object into the lake where Gino had deposited his dad's ashes only a year ago, something about five feet long and wrapped in a rug. They kept the rug, but dumped the woman, her long, blonde hair trailing in the water like seaweed. It was only when they pushed over the cinder blocks, tied to her waist that she finally sank.

Fish food. Well, that couldn't have been the only body in that secluded lake. How many fish had Gino and his dad yanked from it and eaten? Cannibal? He is a cannibal. He ate the fish that ate human flesh. Now he's going to pay for it. It's karma, or his mind overheating and feeding him thoughts that only distract from the threat at his heels.

Gino looks over his shoulder. The linebacker is more than a few yards behind him. Trailing. Trailing. Linebackers are not built for speed. They're built for contact. They're brick shithouses, serving as a wall or a bulldozer. Two objects not known for their ability to pursue.

A strangled laugh plays at Gino's lips. He turns back forward, and the laugh dies in his throat. Before him stands a giant. cedar blocking his entire path. It looms close to the edge of a ravine, half of its root system stretching out into open air. The roots are crooked things probing the void like the antenna of a blind insect. Geno's feet slide against the dirt. He's not fast enough to juke to change direction on a dime. His heart vibrates like the wings of a hummingbird. It spasms in him, pushed past any tests thrown at it in the last 20 years. The taste of copper lingers in his mouth. The ground trembles.

The linebacker growls, an oncoming freight train. Oh no. Gino's bladder lets loose. He spins to face his pursuer, an excuse on his tongue, a plea for mercy. The linebacker slams into him with the force of a hurricane, shoulder down, driving straight through his chest. Gino, flies backward, all the air in his lungs flung out into the world like the seeds of a dandelion. He soars through the air for a brief second before slamming against the thick trunk of the cedar. A bone cracks in his torso, a broken branch in the middle of his back. He bounces off and lands on his stomach, a crippling pain radiating from behind his sternum. My heart. His left arm is numb. There's an enormous weight on his chest, wrapping around.

ground him like a vice. He can't breathe. The linebacker walks over, cool as Wendlake, and rolls Gino onto his back. Nosey fucker. He spits a thin trickle of saliva onto Gino's face as he tries to catch his breath. Everybody always, trying to get in your business. One to peace. Trying to take you down.

The linebacker reaches down, grab. Gino by the collar. Help. An icy chill ravishes Gino's body. His vision narrows. What's his heart doing? It's thudding in such an unusual pattern, calling out for help in Morse code.

Everything within him is pain. The linebacker puts a hand around Gino's throat, lifting him into the air, like he's nothing but a doll. Gino doesn't want to die, but he doesn't want to feel this pain anymore either. His lungs cry out for air while his heart spasms like a landed fish. His back is on fire.

Tears streamed down his face. The warmth of his wet crotch is a distant embrace. His feet scramble for purchase on the ground, but the linebacker is holding him above the ravine. They were already willing to dump one body. What's one more? You're just another leech, buddy. Gino tries to shake his head, but he's all.

already falling, slamming against the dirt and knocking the air out of his lungs, sliding down the edge of the ravine rocks digging furrows in his flesh. His leg slams against an exposed root, and the crack of his breaking bone reverberates against dirt and stone. He tumbles and bounces, ribs breaking, heat blooms and patches around his body. He comes to rest at the bottom of the ravine. There's no breath in his body. Every ounce of his body. Every ounce of his body. of vitality has been replaced by pain. His ribs, his leg, his back, his skin. It's too much to bear. Does his heartbeat? He can't feel it anymore. The world is gray, the blood seeping from the gash in his chest, a dark black. At least his final resting place is near his dad's.

That's fitting. The world won't mourn him, and Gino supposes that's okay. Something tingles a the skin exposed through his torn shirt. Gino's burning eyes roll down. The action more a result of gravity than any conscious movement. Worms climb his body, writhing strings, just like the ones him and his dad used to use for bait. They crawl toward the heat of his heart. Before he dies, Gino witnesses them entering his body. Finning.

They've served as bait for so many years. years. Now it's his turn to provide. Barely a corpse and already warm food. Gino's heart lurches, a rumbling engine at the core of his chest. It stutters, trying to find its footing. The sensation sends a cool anxiety up his throat, frozen static trapped just below his uvula. His brain spins. A faint ringing like an alarm bell pierces his ears. His eyelids flutter open. Numnus drapes over his body, a weighted blanket keeping him in the dirt. Something buzzes around his head, a bee, a swarm of them. And him, without his epipen, doubtless broken in his pocket.

Not that it matters now. He's dead, isn't he? Winged insects descend in a thick swarm. Right in front of his face, yellow jackets with long legs dangling like those of a fairy, angry visages, fat stingers ready for assault. Years of having the fear of bees drilled into him has Gino on his feet before his mind can even question what his body is doing. Adrenaline makes a puppet of him, lifting him like a marionette on strings, carrying him away from the swarm, backpedaling him along the ravine. They don't pursue. The yellow jackets leave him,

as if waking Gino was their sole goal. Now they can clock out and get back to whatever those nasty fuckers do for fun. Gino pants with the effort of his escape, yet his lungs don't suffer the jabbing agony of bruised ribs. His chest is misshapen with the wrong angles of broken bones and swelling, but he doesn't feel the pain. Everything about his existence feels wrong. How is he walking?

Didn't he break his leg? Gino looks at the snapped appendage. A thick web circles the brake, putting severe pressure on it, keeping his legs straight so he walks with a limp. It's as if every spider in the forest joined forces to construct it. Help! His heart jogs along with the occasional lurch and thud. It's forgotten how to beat. It's relearning the process.

He needs help. Gino shambles along the bottom of the ravine. It's long, like the trench in a great war. But he knows that about a mile east, the elevation lifts to an entrance he can easily walk out of. He doesn't expect to reach the entrance, but whatever has taken up residence in his body demands movement. If nothing else, it'll give him something to do before his heart remembers he's supposed to be dead. Sean can't believe he has to do this. His dad has always been a hard ass, but this is bullshit.

The idiot is dead, has to be. Look like the dude was having a heart attack before Sean dropped him in the gulch. There's no way he'd survive long enough for someone to get him help. They could have just left on the lake like they'd planned and forgotten about the photographer. Now, Sean walks back with his dad's gun. The 9mm, easily concealable in a tackle box, something they'd never thought they'd have to use. use.

Fucking leach. He's at the entrance to the ravine, the smell of airborne dirt, making him feel like his lungs are coated with dust. He'd never called his dad a leech to his face, not unless he wanted to get beat within an inch of his life. In honesty, he should be grateful his dad's being so supportive, listening to Sean's story about the girl in the trunk, orchestrating this little fishing trip. Today, he's earned the cut he always takes from Sean's NFL salary.

Of course, Dad gave him a stripping down on the drive out, but what else is new? If he had a chance to dress down his kid, he'd take it 11 times out at 10. Sean will finish the fucker off if he's still alive. Put a bullet in that ugly mug. If he can choke the life out of a woman who claims he's the father of her baby, A woman who would have stolen everything he worked for? Well, he can do that much. Hell.

He didn't do it if the asshole is dead. Target practice. A crow takes off from its perch at the top of the winding ravine, scared away by a man stumbling around a corner of earth, shambling into sight like a zombie. Sean lifts the pistol. He takes careful aim. Help.

Sean's pistol dips. His mouth. is dry and he has to make a conscious effort to close it. There's no way the photographer should be walking around like this. No fucking way. His skin is pale, lifeless. His thinning hair sticks to his skull as if wet. Flies touch down on him, then take off again as if offended by his smell. Must be shock. The dude is too dumb to know he's dead. Sean will remind him. him. He squeezes the trigger on the unfamiliar weapon. It sneezes in his large hands, the blowback like the expulsion of toothpaste from a tube, less than negligible. A small hole opens in the

photographer's guts, dark red like strawberry jam. He stumbles backward, grunting. Don't! He doesn't look good. Gray skin, bloodshot eyes. I won't tell. I promise. Sean doesn't know what to do. Shoot him again, right? He aims the pistol at the photographer, but stops. Something ripples in the holes Sean created. Small movements from which only a trickle of blood seeps.

Tan matter packs the wound, crawling up from inside the guy's body. Self-sealing. What the fuck? Please. The guy steps forward. closing the gap. Six yards. Five. Close enough for a headshot, even with Sean's shitty aim. He lifts the gun, centers the photographer's close-set eyes in between the pistol sight lines, ready for the explosion that'll turn the dude's head into a mess of bone and brain. He figures he's far enough to avoid

the splatter. Sean squeezes the trigger. The hammer falls and clicks. Fuck? He racks the slide. Nothing. He points again. Fires. Jammed. It's not like Dad to give him defective equipment.

If anything went wrong, he'd want all the blame to be on Sean's shoulders, his little maggot. Sean pulls the slide back and peers into the chamber. Inside, a shattered cockroach twitches thin legs. It's somehow crammed itself into the barrier. preventing the bullet from entering the chamber from the magazine. An oily musk slips out of the chamber and clings deep in Sean's nose. He shrieks and drops the gun, stomach turning. Help!

He looks up and the photographer is eye to eye. Right there. Right fucking there. Arms reaching for him, ready to lock him up like they're at the line of scrimmage and he's trying to get through Sean's defense. Sean backs up but slips on the gun. His stomach lurches once more, gravity pulling his muscled form to dusty earth. The photographer falls with him.

His full weight lands on Sean. All the air chuffs out of Sean's lungs. The dude is dense. Way heavier than the guy Sean slammed into the tree. The guy he lifted up and over the edge of the ravine. Sean can't breathe. His mind reels. panic making his heart race.

Is this what that girl felt? The one with the audacity to say he was responsible for making her a mama? Is this what she felt as he put her in her place? I don't care what you did. The photographer's face is only inches from Sean's. There's something wrong with me. His throat sounds full of phlegm, obstructed, watery, sick. His breath stinks of earth and sour decay.

Sean tries to grab the guy, roll him off, but he's so fucking heavy. His lungs are screaming now, pain radiating along his chest. His mouth falls open in an attempt to suck in more air. The photographer coughs, slippery pebbles into Sean's mouth. Sean tries to spit, but the guy is gagging now. He's not done. The photographer's mouth opens, and he vomits squirming, ribbed larvae, the offspring of a million blowflies. Magids!

They pour into Sean's mouth, filling his throat. They slide down his gorge, worming their way deeper inside him. Slimy and expansive, the weight of the ones in the back pushing the ones in front, deeper and deeper. Sean's eyes roll back into his head as his neck bulges, his teeth gnash crushing the larva and spilling them from the corners of his lips. They taste of piss, their ammonia guts coating his chin, his stomach spasms. As his vision begins to be overtaken by bright lights of a dying brain, a single word flashes through his mind. Daddy?

Dean sits at the controls of his motorboat. flipping through the images in that asshole's camera. It's a cheap DSLR, something that a beginning photographer would use. The kind the sideline photographers at his son's games would use would put this thing to shame. There are no nudie pictures on the memory card. He's not surprised. The guy doesn't look like the kind to be pulling tail. The only photos are of scenery, floating embers drifting off a campfire.

The mountain range at the far side of the lake, a deer frozen. in the underbrush, looking into the distance at some unheard disturbance. Some old guy in waiters, dumb smile directed unselfconsciously at the camera. Dean and Sean dumping the body of that chick into the frigid depths of Wend Lake. Where is that, maggot anyway? He should have off the guy and been back by now. Idiot probably took a break to whack off behind a tree. The sun is starting to set.

He doesn't want to be here past dark. not with that body anchored to the bottom of the lake. Something brushes against the hull of the motorboat. The log in the water. Something totally natural. Definitely not the hand of that woman, freed from her bonds, crawling up through the water and climbing up the side of the boat.

For revenge, not her gnarled claw posed to wrap around his neck, just like Sean did to her. I need help. Dean jumps. The nearby voice coming from the dock, anchored to. A squeak slips out of his throat as he steps back and drops the camera. It lands with the lanyard hooked on the rail above the gunwale. His son has his arm draped over the neck of the

photographer. Sean's feet drag on the wood. His skin looks gray, like defrosting steak forgotten for days. How did they sneak up on Dean? He should have heard them. I think I can help him, but I need your help. Inside me are... Sean's neck tears open, and what looks like blood-streaked rice pours out, slapping onto the dock. Dean screams.

The pile, not rice, but maggots, writhes on the wood, slipping through the cracks and splashing faintly into the water. There are worms in my heart. The photographer lumbers closer, dragging Dean's son. Keeping me all.

alive. His blood-red eyes meet Dean's. A smile stretches over his face, shaky and uncertain. Tears roll down his cheeks. They might work for him. Dean retreats more, ass coming up against the hard edge of the gunwale. Something splashes into the water. My camera!

The photographer drops Sean to the ground in a thudding heap and shambles onto the boat. Dean shrieks shrinking away. The guy trips, writes himself on the driver's seat, then dives off the boat after his camera. Drops of water splash on Dean's arm hair, scattering and reflecting the light of the falling sun. This isn't right. Nothing about this is right. His son lies lifeless on the dock. His whore is underwater with a photographer.

All of the evidence of the day is in the lake. He should push Sean over the edge, put all of him in the day. drink. Good riddance. Fuck. Fuck it. He needs to get out of here. The sun will be setting soon. The sun. He turns the key in the dashboard. The engine roars to life, and before he can let regret build up at the base of his spine, Dean drives the boat away from the grizzly scene. He was never here. The motorboat darts along the surface of the water, prowl in the air at a speed

that threatens to flip it. Water sprays over the windshield. Dean squints against it. Those aren't tears on his face. He doesn't mourn his son. Boy, never did anything right. Could have used his scholarship to finish up his masters so Dean could secure him the position with his firm like they'd planned.

But no, the maggot wanted to destroy his brain, hit after hit, playing that stupid fucking game. He'd spend every Saturday wrestling. with other men if he could. Slamming armored bodies against each other as a stupid ball flew over their head. Idiot. Dean grits his teeth and increases the throttle. The boat's lagging. Fucking maggot? No responsibility. No self-control. Daddy, always swooping in to clean up his mess. His manager? More like his handler. He deserved way more than the 20% he took off. Sean's salary. The shit that kid put him through. Well, no more. Dean doesn't know what he'll do

for money now. Maybe his firm will overlook the drunken tirade he spat at them while quitting. Maybe they'll take him back. The engine chokes, sputters. At the back of the boat, the propeller stops. Smoke lifts into the air, a thin, gray stream floating into the darkening sky. Oh, fuck. He scrambles around his seat, peers over the edge of the boat at the engine. What the fuck? Dark, slimy flesh comes up to works. Near black, like tar, reflecting the scant light on the lake. Leeches.

One on top of the engine housing pulses and slips off into the water with a plop. What? A large form explodes out of the water, soaking Dean. Sean's woman? Back from the dead? Here to make him pay for disposing of her like a Christmas tree in February? Crisp water distorts the face. But Dean can tell who it is.

The photographer soaking and battered from being pulled alongside the boat. He should be dead like the girl. Dead like his son. A long strip of fabric slips over Dean's neck. The photographer climbs it, tugging on Dean so the fabric digs into his flesh and between his vertebrae. I found it! I found it! Dean pulls back, slips, and lands on his ass.

For a split second, he has the time to look into the shocked face of the photographer before gliding off the back of the wet boat and into the frigid water. The lake around him churns, his movement stirring silt as he tries to reach the surface. His hands float toward where he thinks the ladder should be, but at this point, he has no clue if he's furne. facing up or down. There wasn't enough time for him to hold his breath, and Dean chokes on water that wormed its way into him. The fabric around his neck tightens, and he's lifted up into blessed air. I've got you. They've switched positions, and now the photographer pulls Dean

from Wend's lake, trying to drag him over the edge of the boat's gunwale, strangling him in the process. Dean reaches for the fabric, the strap of the camera, but is frozen by what he sees. Leaches all along his hand, running up his arms, fat, black bodies growing larger, pulsing with the vitality of his blood. His skin begins to shrivel before his eyes, growing tight against his bones, veins popping and stark contrast against his now fish-belly white flesh. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. But if he could, he'd scream. His neck creaks, the bones protesting against the pressure. Inside him, there's a resounding crack. He hears it like the breaking of an egg, deep in his waterlogged ears. His body goes limp. A leech humps its body over his eye, a ring of teeth

briefly in view, before it clamps down on it. Dean can't feel a thing. Almost there. One final pull brings Dean up a couple of inches before the camera strap breaks and drops him back into the water. His arms won't move. His legs are as useful as driftwood. Dean belongs to the leeches now. Gino falls backward, the man's body gone. He lands in the co-pilot's seat, chest heaving with the effort of trying to save the guy. He really did try his best. It's his nature. He doesn't want to see. He doesn't want to see. anyone hurt. All he wanted to do was enjoy this day, feel a little closer to his dad. Now, the place that used to bring them so much joy is home to three fresh corpses. Soon to be four, that poor woman, he doesn't know her at all, but he knows she didn't deserve what

they did to her. Maybe this was justice. Maybe this is Wind Lake acting through him. His guilt slips out, leaving his heart lighter. His chest ripples. A vibration there makes Gino wince. It's so strange, like his heart is growing legs, arms with which to pull itself free of him. The worms are leaving him. They squirm out from the bloodless seam in his flesh, leaving the heart they had been operating. They rear up and unfold pink fleshy wings, like butterflies made of skin. With rapid flapping motions, the insects take off into the sky, shadows in the sunset. Gino doesn't know how he's breathing. He can't move.

All he can do is watch his puppet master's rise higher and higher. It's a beautiful sight, a beautiful ending. At least his final resting place will be with his dad. Want a beer? Gino knows that voice. Knows it well. The doctor told you to quit drinking, Dad. His dad steps along the deck of the boat, his weight not tipping it one way or the other.

He sits in the driver's seat. Gone is the lifeless sag the coroner couldn't eliminate. He's full of life, skin glowing and eyes twinkling. Dad nestles Gino's beer between his soaking wet thighs and takes a long drink of his own. Ah, come on. This is a special occasion, isn't it? The swarm of heartworms are specks. against the purple and orange backdrop of the sky.

This place has always made him feel so alive. The rest of the world could have been a dream compared to how real Wend Lake feels. It is. It's a very special occasion. The light of dawn approaches. Our tales must come to an end until the next time we gather.

We'll keep the fire burning until you return. That is, If you dare to remain sleepless. The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us,

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