The NoSleep Podcast - S20: NoSleep Podcast New Year's Eve Hiatus 2023

Episode Date: December 31, 2023

We’re bracing for 2024 with an episode featuring tales from our Season 20 Premium episodes.“The Sea Hag” written by Christian Riley (Story starts around 00:02:50)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: David CummingsCast: Narrator – Kristen DiMercurio, Cory – Atticus Jackson, Property Manager – Jesse Cornett, Floria – Mary Murphy, Skeeter – Graham Rowat“The Sleep-Away Camp Massacre” written by Matt Richardsen (Story starts around 00:38:05)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Max – Matthew Bradford, Adam – Elie Hirschman, Meredith – Nichole Goodnight, Jared – Atticus Jackson, Park Ranger – Jesse Cornett, Kid #1 – Danielle McRae, Kid #2 – Kyle Akers, Kid #3 – Mary Murphy, Martin – Jeff Clement, Counselor #1 – Erin Lillis, Counselor #2 – Mike DelGaudioClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Click here to learn more about Christian Riley Click here to learn more about Matt Richardsen Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon BooneNew Year illustration courtesy of Alexandra Cruz“Auld Lang Syne” theme by The Seasons. Licensed via Soundstripe.Audio program ©2023 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

From 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 fireland. 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 reach the end of 2023 our team is taking a week off to celebrate the new year and a busy holiday season But fear not, dear listeners, for we're not leaving you alone on New Year's Eve.

We're sharing two tales with you from our premium sleepless sanctuary. These tales were presented earlier in season 20, and this week, to ring in the new year, we're offering them up to your ears. And since we're now into winter, well, for most of us, and we've just spent weeks hearing about sleigh rides and Santa and dashing through the snow, we thought you might enjoy a nice change of pace. So these two tales take place during the warmer months, when thoughts of surfing at the beach or sleeping under the stars at summer camp are foremost in the mind.

After all, our theme this season is gathering around the campfire to hear scary stories. So before you put those marshmallows in the hot cocoa, toast them over the campfire with us. And so, let's bid farewell to 2023 and welcome me. in 2024, with hopes for a brighter and better year ahead. And as always, we thank you for letting the No Sleep podcast be a part of your life. All of us here wish you and yours a very happy new year. Now, midnight is coming, and the countdown has begun. Brace yourself for horror, beyond the setting of the sun. In our first tale, we meet a college student getting settled into his new digs before classes start. Traveling upstate means he doesn't have too far to go, but being a

poor student means having to settle for a drab place to live. But in this tale, shared with us by author Christian Riley, the man learns that his housing complex isn't just kind of run down. It also means dealing with the creepy old neighbors. Performing this tale are Kristen DeMecurio, Atticus Jackson, Jesse Cornett, Mary Murphy, and Graham Rowett. So living by the shore might mean some tasty waves, but it also means dealing with the sea hag. Truth be told, Corey Newman picked Humboldt State University because of the waves, not just the pot. Born and raised in Santa Barbara, he was the owner of seven surfboards by the time he graduated high school, and none of them were long boards, only because such boards.

weren't particularly necessary in the mild waters of SoCal, but in Humboldt, it was a different story. Corey had heard about the 10-foot waves. He'd heard that they were the norm in the Pacific Northwest, and that many of the surfers preferred to ride them with longboards. For Corey, the challenge was almost alluring. And as for Humboldt County's world-renowned reefer, well, that was certainly no Buzzkill either. Corrie's problem, however, was that he was a flake. Since he often spent half his waking moments baked on drugs, he could barely pull his act together long enough to appropriate his future living arrangements, despite his parents' valiant efforts at prodding their 23-year-old college freshmen into getting out of their house. And because of his delinquent nature,

Corey missed the cutoff dates for the college dorms and wound up with a one-bedroom cracker box in an apartment complex locally known as the fish hook. The property manager was a middle-aged burnout, with greasy hair the color of wet concrete and a beer belly the size of a watermelon. His name was Keith, but Corey thought he looked more like a Gary or an Ed. He was standing in the middle of the fish hook's parking lot,

staring with dull eyes, when Corey drove up and rolled down his driver's window. What's up? Corey put his Toyota for, forerunner in Park, climbed out, then cringed as he worked the stiffness out of his knees with his palms. Twelve hours on the road, man. Can you believe that?

Fucking long-ass drive. Ah, you must be Corey. The room's this way. Okay. Hold on, dude. Corey reached into his truck and turned off the engine, grabbed the keys and his wallet, and gave a brief, suspicious look around the parking lot. Then he inspected his surfboard strapped on top of the forerunner, making sure it was secure.

Don't worry. No one's going to take that thing. Oh, no. I'm cool, man. Surfer, eh? Fucking A. The property manager made no further comment. He led Corey under an overcast sky to the apartment complex, a building of little architectural marvel. Literally built in the shape of the letter J, hence its nickname, the fish hook, The building was a flat-roofed single-story structure housing ten units.

Modest would have been a descriptive overstatement, as the whole thing resembled a cheap hotel at the end of its vicarious life. Yours is number nine. Second from the end. Keith approached the unit, fumbling with a large key ring. Despite his tiredness, Corey was already thinking about connecting with any locals, finding out where to surf, from whom to buy drugs.

Oh, he had faith the pieces with. all come together, but like most young adults, Corey cared little for patience, and he was on the verge of expressing as much, under his breath, when he glanced into the front window of unit number 10, the end unit, next to his own. Dark and depressing inside, the room appeared empty. Here you go. The manager pushed the door open. Home away from home. What about that one? Corey pointed to number 10. He was thinking about one less wall to share with a neighbor, which meant one less person to complain about his loud music, loud friends, loud sex.

Is that available? Can I have that one? Oh, no. That one ain't available. Keith led Corey across the threshold of unit number nine, still chuckling. Not available at all. Corey's apartment was more of a studio, containing a single living space, kitchenette, and bathroom, much like the layout of a traditional hotel room only smaller.

He spent all of one hour moving in. His bed slash couch was a futon he'd brought from home, and he put together a bookshelf using pine boards and cinder blocks. On this, Corey added his stereo system. He completed the layout of his home, with an old television placed on a plastic milk crate in the corner, along with an accompanying PlayStation. His surfboard, he leaned in the corner behind the door.

A third world living arrangement now complete, Corey felt at ease. He took a break on his futon and fired up a joint, sat for a while. He wasn't feeling homesick yet, but wished he had some of his surfing buddies around to make him laugh. He thought about his ex-girlfriend, Summer, who he'd promptly dumped three days prior.

She gave exquisite hand jobs, something Corey would appreciate right about now, but there was no way in hell he was going to be clamped down in a long-distance relationship. Not that Corey would lose much sleep over cheating on summer. He had never been 100% faithful to her, but the idea of having a girlfriend several hundred miles away simply cramped his style.

In a cardboard box on the floor were half a dozen framed photographs, friends, family, epic waves, along with hammer and nails. Corey got up and began hanging them when he noticed that the walls of his apartment were supremely thin, so thin as to be unsettling. Furthermore, as he positioned a photo above his television

on the wall adjoining the end unit number 10, he heard what sounded like heavy breathing coming from the other side. Curious, Corey pressed an ear against the wall and listened for a bit, hearing only silence. He shrugged, pounded a nail, and hung the photo. then went back to the futon. A few seconds later, he thought he heard someone say. What was that?

Corey slept for 12 hours, as long as his drive the previous day. He didn't remember passing out, but he figured that with the road trip and the added weed, he had little say in the matter. He woke to the sound of a dripping rain gutter and ravenous stomach. After a brief trip to the head, he grabbed a sweatshirt and his keys and stepped outside into a drizzling gray morning.

His mouth watered at the prospect of a looming breakfast, and his spirit danced at the thought of catching his first humbled wave, which he planned on doing by day's end. Locking his door, Corey turned and headed for his truck. He walked past the end unit and glanced toward the wide, curtainless window. Again, the room inside was dark and depressing, seemingly vacant as the day before, with one odd exception. In the middle of the room was an old.

woman, sitting on a ladder-back chair facing the wall. She sat rigid and motionless, and her eyes appeared to be closed. Corey froze. He stared at the woman, wondered what the hell she was doing, what she was about. He observed her white hair, long and thick, of abnormal length for someone her age, or so he thought. She was wearing an eggplant-colored dress, embroidered with what looked like astronomical properties such as moons, planets, constellations. As she was rather plump, the sight of her brought to Corey's mind mythical beings, such as gnomes and dwarves, despite his ignorance of these creatures. He watched the woman for a minute or two.

Hell, he couldn't help but turn and stare, puzzled as he was. She never moved, never even opened her eyes or looked up, even though he was sure that his body had cast a darker shadow into the room. Perhaps she was asleep. Yet who sleeps like that? With a stiff spine in an uncomfortable-looking chair. Fucking weird. With a shrug and a chuckle,

he broke his stare and continued toward his truck when from the corner of his eye he peripherally detected an abrupt jerking motion, as if the woman's head had pivoted rapidly and frequently up and down. Corey turned and stared. But things hadn't changed. Even as he climbed into his forerunner and pulled away, stealing one more glance into the window,

he saw that the woman was still sitting in the dark. Corey ate an omelet at a restaurant called The Golden Harvest, then walked around Central Arcata, familiarizing himself with the town. On the plaza were several hippies playing hacky sack, and within ten minutes, Corey had himself an eighth of weed. He also got directions to several beaches, but was told that today, near the North Jetty, the waves were flat. He figured he'd check it out.

anyway. A few hours later, he swung back home to get his surfboard, and on his way in he noticed that the old woman was gone, and that once again her apartment appeared vacant. It gave Corey a slight chill, and he stood there for a moment, looking in the front window. Nothing was in the room, not even the chair from before. It occurred to Corey that he could just knock on the woman's door and introduce himself to his neighbor. But this notion carried with it the all-too-familiar lucid faux-paw inherent to most pot-smoking youths. Apparently, an interaction with someone as old as his grandmother was more unsettling than the ambiguity of this woman and her vacant apartment. Still curious, Corey scratched his head and walked around back.

Perhaps there was a backyard, and the woman was presently sitting there feeding pigeons. But this wasn't the case. All he discovered was a massive wall of blackberries, having long since consumed any open space between the building and the property fence. Fuck it. Fuck it anyway. Since his general attitude held that every single old person was dumb and stupid, in that order, he figured it wouldn't be difficult for him to put the mystery out of his mind.

Just another crazy old bitty. He walked back around the front, and there she was. Why, hello there. She was wearing the same purple dress, and her long white hair made for a stark contrast. In one hand, she held a filtered cigarette, smoking brightly. The other hand, as Corey noticed, was extended outward, toward him in a clumsy offering of a handshake.

He must be my new neighbor. She dragged that last word like a, bad limp, giggling afterward. And the whole interaction, all 15 seconds worth, left Corey feeling slightly squeamish. Yeah. Uh... My name is Floria.

What's yours? Floria? Yes. Her smile dropped. She frowned, then cocked her head and looked at Corey sideways. Is there a problem? Yes. No, I mean, no.

Um, yes, I'm your new neighbor. Floria smiled once again as Corey shook her hand, which felt cold and sticky, reminding him of how his own skin felt after surfing. And then she took a long drag on her cigarette before blowing the smoke above her head. So, when did you move in? When did I move in? Is this woman clueless or what? Well, I got here yesterday.

Suddenly, he moved toward his door. The urge to be done with this conversation now as strong as a critical case of diarrhea. She must have sensed his reluctance or something. Corey wasn't sure. But just like that, the old woman turned and strode into her apartment, slamming the door behind her. As he walked toward his own apartment, he saw her through the window, standing with her back against the door. She was still there when he left moments later, surfboard in hand. The north jetty wasn't much to write home about, just a web of sand dunes hugging a strip of dilapidated concrete,

a partially navigable pier that reached out into the Pacific Ocean. From afar, it looked like a Crohn's finger, ragged with time, gray from a lingering death. To the north loomed a miles' worth of beach, ending in a bank of fog. It was a gloomy day, an average day, as Corey would eventually discover. He parked his forerunner in the sand and fished his wetsuit from the back. A 7-millimeter O'Neill. He'd only worn it once while back at home, just to break it in. Too thick for SoCal, but it was the right thickness for these waters.

Thirty minutes later, Corey was on his board a quarter of a mile out, feeling right as rain. Never mind the flat waves. After four hours, he was ready to call it quits, head back to Arcata and get some dinner. He had met nobody out here, even though there were a few locals. They just gave him dirty looks. And that came as no surprise since he was a newbie on the scene. At least he had that eighth of weed he'd scored earlier to keep him company later.

Although it was only his second day in town, Corey was already feeling the dull pang of loneliness. And classes wouldn't start for another two weeks. He thrived on companionship, always felt out of place when he was alone. Like a strand of beached seaweed. I'll need to hang out in that plaza. I need some girls.

He paddled back towards shore. Speaking of seaweed, in the distance, up on the beach, Corey suddenly saw a large mound of black kelp, as big as his truck, rear up, then scuttle into the surf. It thrashed about for a second or two before dissolving into the whitewashed waves. What the fuck was that? Corey had been in Humboldt for only two days,

and now he was wondering if some of his recent spliffs hadn't been spiked with LSD. He'd seen strange things before, of course, while tripping on acid or mushrooms, but he never had any bad trips. No hallucinations that had made his blood run cold or doubt his sanity. Nothing like rapidly jerking heads or mobile mounds of seaweed. He mulled things over on his way home, a ten-minute drive that circumscribed Humboldt Bay

and took him past sand dunes and rutted sloughs. The tide was out, and to his right the bay was a featureless landscape of mud and thin fog. His stomach rumbled, and he was thinking Mexican food or pizza, something with lots of cheese. He'd get some beers to go and pull out the bong later, took himself into righteous oblivion on his futon, blow smoke against Floria's wall. If only he could meet a girl to liven up his party. These thoughts and similar others caromed around Corey's skull for those ten minutes on the road. They effectively masked the disturbing impressions he'd been left with since the seaweed incident. It all came back to him, however, when he pulled into the fish-hook parking lot.

Floria was in front of her apartment on hands and knees, gulping water from a spigot like a child, wet rivulets fanning down her chin, down her clothes. In a faltering manner, Corey retrieved his surfboard and walked toward the scene, avoiding eye contact with the woman as if his life depended on it. There was no doubt in his mind now. No insinuating terrible trip to rattle his logic. Flora was fucking certifiable. As he walked past her, he held his board to his side,

serving as a barrier or shield for all that it was worth, and it wasn't worth much, because he still looked at her from the corner of his eye. He saw her on the ground, in the water and mud, on all fours slurping like a dog. She looked up as he passed, her face, a composition of exhaustion, eyes bloodshot and heavy, lips parted and swollen,

and she dragged her syllables again, hanging them out there, along with her stare, which followed Corey through his haste to unlock the door and get the hell inside. Why am I so freaked out? Corey pondered this later that night, over a burrito the size of a small dog. She's just a crazy old loon. A crazy old loon, who was his neighbor. Corey finished his meal and paid his bill, then meandered out of the restaurant and into the night towards the plaza. It was only a block away.

And he was appreciating the limitations of Arcata, how everything seemed within walking distance, except for surfing, of course. Even the fish hook, his home away from home, was but a quick jaunt from where he scored his weed. He walked past that same spot, recognized his hippie friends sitting in the grass. Their nimble bodies formed a circle, and they were presently mastering an ensemble of percussive instruments, bongos, congas, jembes, from which they battered out a four-measure ostinado. In their earth-tone colors and natty locks, with their primal smells of dirt and patchouly, fresh herb and body odor all heavy in the air, it had Corey thinking of a National Geographic article. As enticing, as this atmosphere was, he bypassed it and worked his way to the strip of bars at the east end of the plaza.

Fortunes behold, this is where he met two young women. Veronica and Josie were both from Orange County, and both in their second year at Humboldt State. They were down with partying, and after a few hours of random discussions in a booth, the threesome wound up at Corey's apartment with a case of Heineken and his three-foot-long bong. They cranked reggae, with Corey's skanking like Bob Marley, and Josie showing what a decade's worth of belly dance lessons looked like. Veronica sat on the futon and just smiled. They all had their clothes off in no time,

and Corey rode the night like an epic wave until the crack of dawn. In the company of others, once again, Hail Rastafari. The morning proved to be a different story. It was early afternoon, actually, by the time the three of them came back to life. While the women took turns puking in the toilet, Corey stepped outside to get some fresh air. A luminous bank of fog, overcast yet bright enough to hint at the possibility of burning off soon,

covered the afternoon sky. That would make for clear skies and nice wave sets, Corey hoped. Standing outside his door, he glanced sideways and, at Floria's apartment, and then inside her window. Empty, of course, and the old biddy was nowhere in sight, which was fine with him. He thought about last night, then laughed. The thin walls with all his racket probably kept the nutty crone up all night. Corey took another glance at Floria's window, then noticed on the ground, in front of her door,

strands of black seaweed coiled together like snakes in love. It struck him as being only somewhat odd. He pictured Floria as a beachcomer, wandering the dunes in her screwy dress, white hair whirling in the wind, cooing over broken seashells. Corey laughed again. However, the woman obviously wasn't one for collecting things.

She probably goes out there just to stare at the sea. And after he muttered this, a shiver of mysterious origin ran the length of his spine. He went back inside and collected Veronica and Josie, and the three of them went back to the women's house for brunch. Two fun-filled days went by, with Corey spending them in the surf, hanging out at the plaza and getting baked slash laid over at Veronica and Josie's place. He experienced no more strange occurrences, much to his gratitude.

Blessings to Jha, things were finally coming together, although both Veronica and Josie mentioned that they'd eventually have to cool off on the sex, as their boyfriends would soon be back in town for school. Considering this detail, Corey would have to plan to replace the women when the time came, but to his surprise, that time came sooner than he'd expected. On the third day of partying, after surfing four straight hours of epic waves, Corey found Veronica and Josie dead in their bathtub. The women resembled tragic lovers, with their naked bodies pressed against each other, their elegant limbs folded over, sufficiently entangled, and...

boiled together, like snakes in love. He stared at their wrists. They looked like gutted fish, evenly flayed and hemmed by pastel tissue over a tub of shallow blood. There was a box cutter on the bathroom floor, its razor blade gleaming under the heat lamp, as if smiling with pride for its undoing. Later that night, Corey sat on his futon and vowed to smoke himself to death.

The previous hours were a haze, what with the police, the paramedics, the neighbors and friends, everyone crying, even him when he talked to his mom on the phone only minutes ago. He convinced her he'd be okay, just needed to get some sleep, then spend the whole of tomorrow in the surf, recharging his broken spirit.

He'd only known the girls for a couple of days, but damn. It was silent as he packed his bong. Oddly, he felt as if he were the victim of the day. He caught himself thinking that tonight, This very moment, in fact, he ought to be getting his dick socked or something along that nature. Then Corey shook his head, aware of his own shame. He thought about their deaths and how suicide was a far cry from what he'd expected from them. But then again, he didn't really know the girls all that well.

Who was he to make assumptions? He fired up the bong and took a hit, the first of many more to come, so he promised himself. and as he paused, holding his breath and squinting into the silence, he suddenly heard the strangest sound coming from the other side of the wall, from Floria's wall. He studied the sound for a minute before exhaling, and he listened more intently. It was still there and he couldn't place it,

couldn't quite figure out what it was or what it even sounded like. It went on for a while before a theory hit him. An excited dog running circles on the carpet, maybe? Corey had seen dogs do this kind of thing before, after taking a shit. They'd kick around with their paws, then sprint all about as if they were back to the hunt. That's what it sounded like, oddly enough. And it was odd because, well, it was coming from Floria's apartment and she didn't have a dog as far as he knew. After a few minutes, the sound stopped, only to be replaced by others.

He heard a man's voice talking. The words were indecipherable, low in tone, as if spoken. through wet gravel and from the bottom of a well. There was a disturbing quality to the voice also. A sense of command and urgency behind some syllables, and every so often the speaking would pause. There would be silence, and then a single, twang, a minor chord from a piano.

At least that's what it sounded like. Corey took another hit, held his breath, blew out. His room had become a den of smoke. He scratched the back of his head, still pulled. pondering the weird sounds. But then he heard something else, something much more suspicious, something from Floria.

True. Lounge enough, we need more. Corey hadn't fully made the connection between the coiled seaweed and Veronica and Josie's entangled limbs, but perhaps he should have. What if the old woman did it? What if she murdered his friends,

then made it look like suicide? Perhaps she was that angry from all his partying. Perhaps she was that angry. that crazy. These thoughts finally converged, though, in Corey's stoned mind. He made the connections and assumed the worst, was on the verge of storming out of his apartment and kicking Floria's door down, confront the old hag, accuse her of killing them, and maybe find out what was making that noise, who was talking. That's what he should do. But Corey didn't kick Floria's door down. He put on some reggae music, then took three more hits of his bong before passing out. Coming home

from surfing the following day, he saw the old lady. He'd been driving along Samoa Boulevard, a wall of sand dunes to his left. A flash of movement from that direction had caught his eye. And when he turned his head, he saw Floria, sprinting up and over the dunes with the speed and adroitness of an Olympic medalist. She was heading in the opposite direction, toward the jetty. He hit his brakes and pulled over, stared for a few minutes, flabbergasted, watched the woman's white hair pop in and out of view as she navigated up and down the sandy mounds. Later that night, Corey sat at a brewery sipping ale, still baffled over what he'd seen. He thought about the past week as well, and of his recently demised friends. He worried over the conglomeration of all this

strangeness in his life and wondered if he shouldn't just bail humboldt altogether, move back home. He left the brewery with a slight buzz and queasiness in his gut. He realized he was anxious. His nerves were chewing at him. There was simply too much to process for his mind. Flustered by this moment, not ready to go back home and chance a meeting with Floria. Shit, not even ready to be within her vicinity. Corey killed time by driving around Arcata. He had his window down, smelled the sulfurous odor from the lumber mills which had permeated the entire evening air.

It stank of rotten eggs. It could be worse. His mind was visiting once again, the grisive. bathroom scene. He drove past Veronica and Josie's house, depression cramping his bowels like a metal vice, tears building in the corners of his eyes as he looked across the street and was. Floria. Floria in her purple dress and her white hair, framing a ghoulish grin. She was standing on the lawn and looking at him, pointing a finger at Veronica and Josie's front door, and she was smiling, even laughing, as Corey observed. That was it.

Corey turned the forerunner around and gunned it, headed home. Fuck this place. Fuck Humboldt. Along Samoa Boulevard, the street lights were out. An odd darkness lingered over the fish hook. All his neighbor's lights were out as well. He made a U-turn and backed the forerunner into the parking lot, making it easier for him to load up.

When he got out, he peeked over the hood and stared, observing cautiously his apartment and that of Floreos. He saw nothing else. other than shadow, so he walked forward. As he approached his door, Corey looked into Floria's window, then jerked to a halt. There was a murky, fluid aspect to the inside of her apartment, as if the room were filled with water, and he thought he heard a sloshing sound coming from within. Quickly, Corey opened his door and flicked on the light.

He went straight for his futon and began folding it, planned on shoving it first into his truck. But then he heard something behind him. He froze in place, then spun around, discovering nothing but a closed door. He went to the door, and that's when he saw the thing standing outside, peering at him through the window. It was all shadow. No face or bodily features, just a dark silhouette, but it was tall and bulky. And somehow it resembled Keith, the landlord. Corey's knees buckled.

He stepped back from the window and then heard that distinct piano chord, the same as before. At this sound, one of his pictures fell from the wall, Floria's wall, and a finger-sized stream of water pouring into the room followed this. Then another piano clang, another stream of water, followed by several more of the same, before Corey fled to the door. The creature wouldn't let him out. It held the door closed, but it was leaning in front of the window, and it was swiveling its head repeatedly, as if overrun with excitement.

A sharp laugh came from Floria. apartment, and Corey turned to see that now a large hole was in the wall, up near the ceiling. The old woman was peering at him through it. She was capped, and her head bobbled like an engine block. She eyeballed Corey, stuck an impossibly long tongue through the gap, and started licking the ceiling. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he heard her words repeat themselves. We need more. Corey grabbed his surfboard, faced his window, then charged forward, but bounced back. He tried again to no effect,

then suddenly everything came crashing down on top of him. A tumbling wave. Floria's wall collapsed in a heap of ruined plaster and a surge of water. It hit Corey like a 12-foot swell. He went down into a corner, the weight of the ocean pressing into his chest. Instinctively, he groped for his surfboard, clamped his eyes shut,

then held his breath as a long tongue of seaweed, slithered down his throat. But in the end, the sea found him anyway. Skeeter's VW van backfired on the downshift as he rolled into the parking lot. He came to a lurching halt and looked around. This must be the place. But what a place it was. It looked like some run-down hooker hotel.

Nothing like this in Bel Air, that's for sure. He killed the engine and climbed out, shaking the stiffness out of his legs, knowing he had work to do before he could settle into his new home. His van was loaded with all his crap, including two surfboards, both of which probably wouldn't help him much up here. A friend of a friend said he needed a long board to ride these waves, so that was on the top of Skeeter's list of items to purchase, right below weed and beer, of course.

Evening. Skeeter turned and saw a young man approaching, a large key ring swinging on his finger. Hey, what's up? You must be the new guy. The man extended his hand. My name's Fred. Skeeter shook the man's hand, thinking that he didn't look like a Fred, but rather a Johnny or Corey.

Let me show you to your room. Tired from his drive, Skeeter just nodded and followed. They walked over to number nine, and then Fred opened the door to the tiny studio. The place smelled a fresh paint, but looked as old as a redwood tree. Rent is due on the first. Okay. Skeeter took the key. he glanced over at the empty studio next to him.

Hey, what about that one? Can I move in there instead? Ah, sorry, but that one's taken. Taken? Taken by who? Fred's laugh settled into a low snicker, as he turned and walked away. Oh, you'll find out.

But Skeeter didn't catch Fred's words. His attention was not. now shining on the western horizon, as he was thinking with exquisite excitement that he could hear heavy waves crashing on the shore. In our final tale, we're heading to the woods and visiting summer camp, a place usually for fun and frolicking in nature and making new friends. But in this tale, shared with us by author Matt Richardson, we mean a man who shares a horrible experience he had at camp, and it was so much worse than just bug bites and poison ivy. Performing this tale are Matthew Bradford, Ellie Hirschman, Nicole Goodnight, Atticus Jackson,

Jesse Cornett, Danielle McCrae, Kyle Akers, Mary Murphy, Jeff Clement, Aaron Lillis, and Mike Delgadoo. So enjoy the games of Capture the Flag and Eating All Those Smores, as long as you're not part of the Sleepaway Camp Massacre. I, Max Gelman, met the White Valley Sleepaway Killer and survived the weekend. I've never shared my story publicly. I'm hoping it will be therapeutic. You know, more therapeutic than the years of group therapy and medication,

which never accomplished more than a ticking in my mind and a crippling addiction to anxiety medication. So, if my grammar isn't perfect or, my writing is shit. Do me a favor and most kindly fuck off. Anyway, here we go. I hated sleepaway camp. I hated when my mother made me go from ages five to 15 and I hated it when she insisted that I get a job there at 16. I hated the rich kids. I hated the pine needles. I hated the smells. I hated being expected to socialize for the vast majority of every day. I hated pretty much all of it. The only thing I didn't hate was the free car my father offered in return.

Not a great car, mind you, we weren't rich. The windows were locked shut, the air conditioner didn't work, there was a distinct smell of onion and cigarettes. By that combination, I'll never know, but hey, wheels were wheels. They might as well have been wings at that point. I hit the road in my Honda shipmobile early on a sunny May morning. I loved that part. I never experienced that much freedom in my young adult life.

The drive took me from the barren White Valley Coastline through Fallerton City and up into the mountains. It rained the whole time. I stopped and picked smokes and snacks at a gas station along the way. I sang to all my favorite CDs. I called into a couple of sports radio stations like my dad always did, and argued with the DJs about the prospects of the Mets' playoff odds. It got to the point where I was actually disappointed. pointed in reaching my destination.

I didn't get there until quarter after five. I parked in the front faculty lot and sat back to enjoy the view. Hartshorn camp sat in the loosely populated county smack dab in the middle of nowhere. Twenty miles of trees surrounded the grounds on every side. The park offered two freshwater lakes, six different playgrounds, and nine different cabins. It was stunning. Even now, after everything that's happened. The place still has a haunting beauty to it.

I was apparently late to the party, so late, in fact, that the counselors were already in the middle of orientation. Panic crept in. From the center of the giggle sprinted a particularly annoying 19-year-old named Adam. I recognized him from a few years prior. A white stripe lined his white shirt, which meant to me that the kiss ass must have finally earned himself a promotion. Let's go, gelman.

Late to the first day of work? Great start, kid, great start. Don't you hate it when somebody close to your age uses the word kid? Anyway, Adam tapped on the glass annoyingly. I collected myself and discreetly tried to hide the pack of smoke sitting on the passenger seat. Let's go, gay man. He paused. Are you smoking?

You're underage, kid. By a long shot. You shouldn't be smoking. Who bought you those, hmm? You won't be smoking on my watch. Toss them. Get up and toss them in the garbage can right now. I can't be complicit in your shit.

I cut the ignition and lifted myself out of the driver's side. I grabbed my backpack from the back. Adam turned on the heel of his flawless boots and marched back toward the group. And he paused to look back at me. I'm serious about the same. Sigs, Gelman. Toss them. I'm not messing around. Those things will give you cancer, kid. I pulled the half pack of mentholz from my pocket. I deposited them dramatically inside the metal covered can. Adam nodded approvingly and walked away. I stared into the bin a little longer

marking their position underneath a candy wrapper before he beckoned me back over to the counselors. I fell in line with the cute but unfamiliar brunette. Perfect timing. All right, kids, some of you have been here before as campers and have an idea what to expect. But for those that have not... Do not kid yourselves. The next two weeks will be pure and unfiltered hell. A couple of the crony counselors chuckled emphatically from the front. Some of you might not make it through the 14 days.

Really? We expect that to happen. Some of you won't have the stuff. A meatball turned around, another of Adam's buddies. He pointed at me and grabbed his nuts. Then he laughed. Don't get too excited, Jared. It's only the first day.

That's enough, Gilman. No more interruptions out of you. He paused. Can I continue? I nodded. Now, if you all checked your email, you might know there are some new regulations to follow. Email? Who the fuck is email? The girl next to me giggled.

Welcome to the new millennium. How are there already? It's late again. She smiled. My name's Meredith. You? Max. Right, much better than gay man. Only my friends call me that.

Adam cleared his voice and launched into a new... soapbox. Because we're understaffed, all of us will be assigned double the work. That means less breaks. That means one counselor to each cabin. That means each of you will be expected to run an activity during the day. There is no handholding. Not these next two weeks, folks.

We can't afford it. A couple people groaned. I know it sucks, guys, but there's nothing else we can do. I wanted you to be aware of it, so when I on your ass, you won't be surprised, Gelman. Any questions? Meredith raised her hand. Where do we sleep tonight? Bunk assignments are posted in the commons.

The group grew silent. All right, well, no kids tonight. Free time. I have some icebreakers to get us through the last couple hours of daylight. Then I figured we could tell some scary stories by the fire. Who's in? Meredith laughed and walked away from the group. A couple people went, too.

I joined them. Guys, this is not over. We still have a lot to cover. Nobody knows how to operate the inflatable raft. One boy lifted off his shirt and hopped into the lake. We all followed. It's weird to imagine a party without alcohol these days. We held a round-robin tournament of chicken fights.

We bet money against Adam's best wishes. We swam races. Some of the girls lounged on the dirt. beach and tried to catch a tan, and the rest of guys looked for fish. Truthfully, it was the most fun I'd ever had on a camping trip. When we went to bed that night, I thought for once, maybe this year would be the first time I had a good time. I was wrong.

Adam held true to his word about the separate bunks, nine counselors for nine cabins. He made each of us individually promised to stay inside from sundown to sunset. The only exceptions would be if we had to peer. and even then he encouraged us to go before bed. He called it proper training for the real thing, and unfortunately some of the other counselors agreed with them. I, on the other hand, had one thing on my mind, the cigarettes. I mean, look, they had become a shameful and incessant habit at that point in my life.

I call it teenage rebellion or general angst or a wealth of bad decisions that I've since outgrown. But in the mid to late 90s, I could be an absolute asshole, without a nicotine fix. The thought had consumed my mind the whole afternoon. I knew I wouldn't last another day without hitting Adam unless I got the marlboros from out of the trash. I just needed one, you know, just one. Adam stayed up late by the fire.

I washed him through the open window of cabin six. My skin itched, my gums ached. Midnight turned into one and one went into one-thirty. But finally, sometime around, down two, I heard the welcoming sound of cold waters swelching fire. Heavy boots retreated to cabin one, and the lights went out. Jackpot. I waited for another 15 minutes.

My finger-tapped the entire time. I actually timed myself because I didn't want to fuck this up. I waited a full 15 minutes, and I slipped outside. The woods had an odd sort of afterglow that night. The moon might have been full or near full, but banks of rolling. and fog on the lake blocked its light, which made visibility tough up in the hills. I soon found myself reaching out with arms in front, dodging through pricklers, grasping for the open space of the parking lot in the dark.

Just like a true addict, I finally found it. A dim streetlight illuminated the spot like a video game. I located the garbage can, moved the expectant candy wrapper, and found the green pack of menthol sitting right on top. Sweet, Lewis, within seconds, I had pulled one out, sparked it, inhaled, and let the warm rush of relaxation wash over me. The itch on my arms settled, my head lightened. The day's troubles melted behind the burning paper of chemicals and ash. I took in my surroundings as a breeze brought a flutter through the trees.

The lake sparkled. The mists started to shift a little to the left, slowly taking over the campside and thinning out in the process. I allowed myself to enjoy the beauty. Soon college would come and take me away from here. I never wanted to be an atom. I always wanted to get out of Valley County, but I still loved it. It was still home. I kicked my cigarette and lit a new one.

Something jumped in the distance. A blue shape darted across the opposite end of the lot, just beyond the trees. A flashlight turned on. I thought, how my father's going to fucking kill me? me. Hello? I called out with a cigarette safely under my foot. Adam? I just had to take a piss, man. I went for a walk, got lost. Nobody answered. Adam, you out there? Nothing. Look, do what you want, okay? Give me toilet duty. Just don't tell my dad, okay? He's got a complex. It's a whole thing. I dipped into the pockets of my baggy jeans and

pulled out my own flashlight. A stupid thing. thing took a minute to kick on. I smacked it a couple of times. I rotated the batteries. When the beam finally kicked in, I pointed it in the direction of the light. Seemingly in reply, my partner in the distance went dark. Hello? What are you doing? To be honest, I didn't really expect anything sinister. I thought it could be Meredith or one of the other counselors fucking with me, or even just a trick of the light. I dip my flashlight through the trees. I was looking for that hint of blue. I found it after a moment in a clearing a little closer to my left.

I pointed in that direction, but I still couldn't quite see it. It was just a shame. Hello? It didn't move. Nobody replied. This isn't very funny. It still didn't move. I'd waited a couple minutes.

Or save. Pocketed the Sigs and walked back toward the camp. campgrounds with a quickened pace. Somebody followed me. I couldn't see them, but I could hear them rustling in the trees. And it couldn't be the wind. Something big moved a particularly heavy branch to the left, which caused it to recoil to the right. The sound was similar to a thwack. My nerves fired up. I could feel it in my bones. Someone was in the woods with me. This isn't fucking funny. I yelled with false confidence.

This is about the Sags. I looked to my right, sitting about 20 yards away, partially obscured behind a bush. A man in a blue sweatshirt was watching me. He didn't move. I ran. I spread it so fucking fast

that my track coach in high school would have been floored. I could still hear the guy following me. I smacked my face on pricklers hit my head on a low-hanging branch. A flash of blue jumped up in my peripherals just before I dove into the center of the campsite and slammed my body up against Adam's door. I nearly started crying. Adam, get the fuck out here. Right now. Adam, this is an emergency. Wake the fuck up. I turned around and looked wildly into the woods. Nobody was there. Adam stepped out in his

boxer shorts. Is that you, gelman? I can't see anything. Somebody took my glasses. What happened? I quickly tried to explain everything that just happened, but minus the cigarette. He smirked. Bullshit, you went for a walk. You were smoking. I stared at him. Is that really the fucking point? He smiled knowingly.

All right. All right, calm down. Where did you see him? I pointed to the winding path that led to the parking lot and kept blabbering. Blue sweatshirt. That's all I saw blue sweatshirt. Adam walked right by me. Did you leave your jacket by cabin nine? I shook my head.

Adam pointed grogly to the last cabin on the premises. What's that? Sitting on the door handle was a light blue sweatshirt. I checked my watch. 3 a.m. The kids would arrive at 8. Adam gathered the camp counselors around the re-lit, fire pit. He tapped his heel while the groggy lot assembled and aligned.

And we must look like soldiers awaiting orders, because he marched back and forth in front of us with a blue sweatshirt raised idiotically over his head, almost like a battleflake of some kind. All right, all right. Good morning, assholes. Whose fucking sweatshirt is this? Crickets. Gelman says the owner of this sweatshirt chased him through the woods. and somebody took my fucking glasses from my nightstand. So let's end this right here and now so everyone can get some much-needed sleep.

I'll repeat the question. Who did it? All of the counselors stood in place awkwardly. Jared? Is this yours? Jared actually seemed offended. Oh, man. I was sleeping. Adam nodded and cut him off with a hand gesture.

Maylang? Adam's tough-looking friend shook his head, solemnly. New girl, this year's shitty attempt at flirting? I never even noticed the short little brunette standing to my right. Einstein, check the size. That's a dress on me. Adam went through the rest of the group.

Nobody had noticed a thing. Every one of them claimed to have been sleeping. We were left with a mysterious blue sweatshirt and nothing else. All right, then, since this belongs to nobody, you won't mind if I'd do this. Adam tossed the blue sweatshirt in the fire, with some matches and said of the blaze. Idiot, that could have been evidence.

Deep quickly pulled it out. Evidence of what, though? A spooky encounter in the woods? I don't know if Gelman is even telling the truth. Maybe he's just trying to fuck with me. Wouldn't put it past him. But we'll set a watch. We'll keep each other safe.

I stayed up. with Adam and another counselor named Hannah. We sat by the campfire in silence. Nobody said anything. Nobody seemed to believe me. Maybe it was just a prank. Adam phoned the park rangers around seven. They agreed to perform a grid search.

Our bosses called and spoke with them. They didn't deem it necessary to shut down at that point. Maybe they should have, but hindsight. site is 2020, and the kids streamed in at 8 o'clock sharp. A few clung to their families, a few ran right in. I remember looking for the shy ones, the ones that reminded me of myself, and noting them in my head for future reference. Those were the ones that needed attention the most. I got Meredith doing the same thing. The park rangers stopped by the camp around 10. I was on my way to change and get ready for the inflatable raft when I overreact.

heard their conversation without him. Okay, we didn't see anything suspicious. It doesn't mean it's safe. Keep in touch. Keep us on speed dial. We'll be back. Okay, thank you, officer. I retreated back inside my cabin and got my gear.

The rest of the day melted away into work. After a day of rotating through activities, wrangling a group of ten or more mischievous children, and all the while entertaining the thought, of a crazy person in the woods. I was exhausted. The entire group was gathered around the fireplace. We ate marshmallows. We sang songs. And around 10 o'clock, Adam got up and ordered bedtime. The counselors cheered and the kids groaned. Finally, I heard it my batch toward Cabinade. Most seemed just as tired as me. Some still still. wanted to go home. Some just wanted to sleep in their beds. I told them to write letters to their

parents in the morning instead. They always seemed to like that idea. The counselors met earlier in the day and drew straws for that night's watch by the campfire. Marcus and Hannah got nine to 12, Jared and Meredith, 12 to 3. And finally, Kumar and Josie had the graveyard shift from 3 to 6. I guess Adam didn't trust me. I went to bed with an aching in my stomach and a gnawing my gums. 1.30 a.m. I woke up to a tapping on the glass window by my bed. My vision was blurry.

I reached for the familiar shape of my glasses on the nightstand. They were gone. The wrapping on the glass stayed quiet but insistent. It seemed like the tapper knew enough to know where I slept. I assumed it to be made. narrative. Butterflies went off in my stomach. I got up and squinted at the window. What's going on? I asked in my best inside voice. Who's there? The voice said in return. The footsteps retreated. I threw on my jacket and did my best not to wake the kids. Any one of them could

wrap me out to Adam. A couple of them shifted, but none of them got up. I opened the door to find a completely empty, camp. Two chairs sat propped by the fire pit. They were empty. The fire still burned on as expected, but there was nobody there to tend it. Shit. It's embarrassing to admit now,

but my mind immediately went to the gutter. I thought maybe Jared had worked his jock charm on Meredith and one or over. Maybe they snuck off somewhere to hook up. Maybe they found the new hiding spot for my SIGS and smoke them all. My depression turned to anger as another possibility crept into the back of my mind. Maybe she didn't want to go with him.

Maybe Jared Forster. I darted toward cabin seven and knocked on the doors as quietly as possible. Nobody answered. I tugged a handle and found it unsurprisingly unlocked. I was greeted by a gaggle of blurry children. They all immediately shouted a million explanations in my direction. Miss Meredith left and never came back. She was supposed to be watching the fire.

She took my glasses. Michael went with her to the bathroom. He was scared to go alone. Weird noises. Yeah, I heard somebody moaning. Somebody was definitely moaning, like this. Ah, ooh. I tried to tell the kids to calm down as they bombarded me with more.

Where? Where did you hear this? Tell me where. A few of them pointed nervously. Where? Guys, where? A particularly brave 10-year-old named Martin pushed himself to the front. Somebody took them.

I saw them through the window. They went to cabin 10. I checked my watch. 2 a.m. Time to wake up Adam. Adam and I stood in front of the door to cabin 10. The camp forbade people to go inside. The floorboards were cracked and the paint was peeling.

Every year the business side promised to send somebody to fix it up and every year they disappointed us. Waves of heavy rain drifted in through the trees. Lightning cackled in the distance. I could tell Adam was scared, as arms and legs trembled together so much they could have started the band. I didn't mind. I was scared too.

What's the point? We don't have any weapons. He stared back with wide and blank eyes. I'm thinking. We don't have time for that man. There are kids missing. We have to search for them. That starts here.

He winced. You think I don't know that, Gilman? Let me fucking think, please. The crack in his voice made me uncomfortable. And up until that point, Adam was the figure of authority. He was the guy to go to if you had a problem. Now, here he was, shaking in his overpriced boots and barely able to grip the door handle in front of him. And nothing had even happened yet.

Is anybody in there? I'm coming in. Took a deep breath. Then with one smooth motion, he turned the handle to cabin ten. Waltzed inside. I followed him. The first thing to greet us was the overwhelming stench of fraud. It was as if the door had created an airlock for the horrible smells inside. A sickening sweet tone drifted through, a cheap perfume mixed in with the rancid stock of a butcher shop.

The odor reached into my nostrils and trickled down into my stomach. I ran back outside and vomited and quickly followed suit. There's a dead body in there. I know it. I fucking know it, man. I'm not going to look at a dead body. I can't do it, Max. I can't. He stared at me pleadingly with snot dribbling down his nose. What do we do? Tears started to well up in his eyes. And I hated him then.

I hated everything about him. He looked pathetic, and we needed a leader in that moment. We needed direction. We needed guidance. And all we got was a stupid fucking kid. I mean, I didn't know any better. I didn't know what we should do. I never did.

I'm sorry. The bitterness sticks with you more than anything else. Keep your voice down. You want the campers to hear you? He shook his head silently. We have to look. It'll be quick. Let's go.

I walked back into Captain Ten and surveyed the chaos. Adam followed suit sheepishly. Ten bunk beds lined the sides. Nothing about that seemed out of the ordinary, but there were blankets on them. Pillows and twisted red and brown stained sheets covered every area. Clothes lay on the floor in various stages of upheaval. Something evil happened in that room.

I could feel it even then. He's been living here. I whispered and disgust. Check this room before. Adam shrugged despondently as his wide eyes surveyed the scenery. No, nobody does. Why would we? It's locked. It's supposed to be empty. We don't use it. Adam leaned outside to wretch again. I looked through the beds for a clue to the disarray. I found it in a couple of minutes.

Look, look, man, glasses. Adam rushed in to see it. Three rows, five glasses in each row. Somebody organized them like trophies. I found mine and slid them back on Adam did the same We need to call the Rangers We need help No response

I turned to Adam Shook him The sudden clarity allowed me to see His pitiful face all the more clearly I wanted to hit him Adam do you hear me We need to call the Rangers Okay

Go and do it now. Okay. He shuffled aimlessly for the door. I turned back to the chaos. There was one more mystery left. I suspected Adam didn't have the stomach to deal with it. The smell, the bulges under the covers of three beds, gave me an unsettling inkling. I approached one of them slowly.

Part of me expected a count. The counselor pop up and claim the whole thing as a prank, lit turds and the like. They would record it. Everybody would play it back at the campfire. Big joke on the guy who showed up late, right. Most of me expected everything but the reality of the situation. I pulled back the covers. Laying under the sheets was the mutilated body of a young girl.

She didn't have any eyes left. still wore glasses. 2.30 in the morning. Nothing prepares you for this. I couldn't stop that thought from echoing in my mind over and over again. Nothing prepares you to witness this

kind of carnage. There's no rulebook on how to react. Amelia's face had turned blue. Scars and scratches covered her neck, and it's a skin we're still wedged underneath her fingernails. But you could actually see it.

The blonde hair that I recognized as a magnificent curls to start the day was tangled, matted, and mixed with oddly colored stains in raw lake water. I reached out to check her wrist for a pulse. Skin was still wet, but horribly cold. Colder than any human being I've touched before since. I looked around the room one more time. Two more shapes laid in consecutive beds to my right. One was a lot bigger than the other. I knew someone would have to check them, but I couldn't bring myself to go through it again.

I fought with the idea while a pair of empty eye sockets stared back at me. I didn't have to debate much longer because somebody screamed. And then the whole camp came alive. 2.35. I left cabin 10 without checking the remaining lumps. The kids were all awake now and anxiously huddled by the windows of the respective cabins. Adam yapped by the fire pit with a dinosaur-like cell phone in hand. He looked toward me hopefully.

I shook my head. The remaining counselors exited their cabins one by one. A woman screamed. What the fuck? Who's screaming? What do we do? Everyone looked toward Adam for instruction. He hesitated.

Then he put his hand over his ear, turned around, and yelled something stupid back into the phone. Keep the kids in their cabins. Maley, come with me. 2.40 in the morning. Voices have an awkward way of traveling across flat water. Have you ever noticed? Sometimes if there's nothing to block the sound, a scream can travel for miles.

Meredith and her abductors seemed to be within the campgrounds. We followed her shouts and rushed to the lake. She begged us to help. She begged us to save her. Mayle picked up a tree branch. The big goon looked like. he could have taken on a grizzly. I mean, we were ready to fight.

We were so sure we would make it to her. We were so sure we could save her. When we got to the shoreline, we couldn't see a thing. A dip in the hill in the position of the moon obscured most of the light. We waited for another screen. Maly spotted motion on the other side of the lake, and we could see somebody struggling. We called out to them.

Only gasps echoed in the turn. The melee got into the water. He started to swim. The closer we got, the more we could see of the commotion. Meredith struggled to keep her head of it, but a shape behind her held her down. Her twisted little body bobbed up and down like a tiny ragdoll. She shrieked in a heaving anguish that dipped in and out like a skipping record player.

We swam faster. Only a hundred yards to go. Only a little further we would make it. We would save her. But suddenly, the shouting ceased. The thrashing slowed. And suddenly as everything started, it stopped. Meredith's body floated toward us in the lazy waves.

The man behind her looked straight ahead. Right into our eyes. I could see the whites. He waited for us to get close enough to be a threat. and he darted behind the tree line We were too late We were just too late Rescue workers pulled Meredith's body

Out of the water I don't think either of us had the stomach for it And they found the killers Strung up body in a tree just up the hill They took a long time to find out more Like a motive Not that it mattered None of it mattered to me

What's dead is dead and what's gone is gone. I struggled with the idea that it should have been me. 2.30 a.m., a long time later. Have you ever noticed that some of society's baddest apples all go by three names? They marked David Chapman and John Wayne Gacy. James Earl Ray, Lee Harvey Oswell, John Wilkes Booth. You get the picture. Well, the man who murdered my friend had three names too.

Real fancy names, the type that come from wealth. But I won't give that shit head the post-mortem satisfaction of listing one of them. So let's just call him the devil. The devil murdered his father in the summer of 84. Then he cut out his eyes and kept them in a plastic bag. Nobody really knows why. The police arrested him. They stashed him in a prison in the heart of Valley's northern wilderness.

He stayed put for a long time, and then he escaped. The investigating officers thought he high-tailed it to Canada. The devil had family out there in the boondocks. There were several other leads pointing that direction, too. They worked it for a little while. They brought in some private contractor who updated the town here and there. But as the years dragged on and interest in the case faded away, the cops shifted their focus.

And our guy stayed put the whole time. I started camp three years later. Hartshorn camp closed in the wake of the murders. The grounds are unoccupied these days. Sometimes I wonder what replaced the playgrounds, the cabins, the lake, or the supplies. I heard they knocked it all down and planted more trees, let nature reclaim the place, so to speak.

But I haven't bothered to go look. They have enough to worry about in the valley without looking for more. I can't speculate as to when he found us. I started camp as a kid in 87. He escaped in 84. I think about that part a lot. that one final stare across the lake

the way our eyes locked the way he nodded like he knew me in the light of dawn approaches our tales must come to an end until the next time we gather we'll keep the fire burning until you return

that is if you dare to remain sleepless the no sleep podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy.

To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us, just visit sleepless.com to learn about the sleepless sanctuary. Add free extended episodes each week and lots of bonus content for the dark hours, all for only one low monthly price. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for joining us around the campfire for our 20th season. This audio program is copyright 2023 and 24 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media.