The NoSleep Podcast - S21 Ep1: NoSleep Podcast S21E01

Episode Date: May 5, 2024

It's Episode 01 of Season 21. Ride the Sleepless Express into tales of ghostly encounters. "The Lonesome Post Oak" written by Jason Emerson (Story starts around 00:02:55) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator - Graham Rowat, Gentleman - Peter Lewis "The Last Delivery" written by Zach Melssen (Story starts around 00:34:10) Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Estella - Danielle McRae, Todd - Matthew Bradford, Officer Ramirez - Dan Zappulla, Deputy Gauntlett - Atticus Jackson, Glenn - Mike DelGaudio, Announcer - David Cummings "I Killed My Boyfriend. Twice." written by John Beardify (Story starts around 00:56:35) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Jocelyn - Nichole Goodnight, Andrew - Reagen Tacker, Jocelyn's Father - Kyle Akers, School Secretary - Sarah Thomas, Eli - Jesse Cornett "Sleepwalk" written by Marcus Damanda (Story starts around 01:12:40) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced and scored by: David Cummings Cast: Narrator - David Cummings, Mother - Erin Lillis, Younger Son - Elie Hirschman, Older Son - Jeff Clement, Wife - Nikolle Doolin "Home Wrecker" written by Sam Frost (Story starts around 01:23:20) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator - Marie Westbrook "Biafran Man" written by Jonathan Papernick (Story starts around 01:35:05) Produced by: Jesse Cornett TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Narrator - Allonté Barakat, Jordan Davis - Jeff Clement, David Green - Elie Hirschman, Camper #1 - Atticus Jackson, Camper #2 - Dan Zappulla, Camper #3 - Reagen Tacker, Camper #4 - Mike DelGaudio, Jason Rose - Kyle Akers, Program Director - Jesse Cornett, Andy Sears - Matthew Bradford, Robbie - Graham Rowat, Nurse - Erin Lillis, Medical Examiner - David Cummings, Jane - Sarah Thomas, Officer - Peter Lewis, Mandy - Nikolle Doolin Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Click here to learn more about Jason Emerson Click here to learn more about Zach Melssen Click here to learn more about Marcus Damanda Click here to learn more about Jonathan Papernick Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone "Home Wrecker" illustration courtesy of Hasani Walker Audio program ©2024 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

Tickets, please. Find your seats. The train will be departing shortly. Your aboard, the sleepless express. A direct journey into the darkness of the night. There are no sleeping cars available on this train. On this journey, you will experience the horrors found within the dark land. landscapes and endless black tunnels, you will hear things which will leave you frightened and disturbed. And remember, there will be no stops until the very end of the life. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome aboard the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your conductor, David Cummings.

The No Sleep Podcast has begun its 21st season. Imagine that. The show is now old enough to drink, so let's raise a glass of bubbly and celebrate the new season. And some champagne is exactly what you'd expect to receive while starting your journey aboard this unique train. Yes, the theme for season 21 is the ghostly train known as the sleepless express. No one knows where the train came from or where it's going.

All we know is that it only runs at night upon mysterious abandoned tracks that seem to never reach an end. A big thank you to the maestro, Brandon Boone, and our senior producer, Phil Mikulski, for the music and sound design for this season's new theme arrangement. I dare say it sounds like it's right on track. And since we're on board a ghost train, we're going to kick off season 21 with stories that remind us that everyone we meet is going through their own struggles, even after they leave this earthly plane. And so, fellow travelers, find a comfortable seat and get ready to ride the rails into season 21. We're glad you're going on this sleepless journey with us.

And now the train is ready to depart. Your journey into the darkness begins now. In our first tale, we find ourselves back in the the early 20th century aboard a train. What a strange coincidence. On the train is a writer just killing time by people watching. But in this tale, shared with us by author Jason Emerson, it's only when he meets a man who shares his interest that the journey becomes intensely interesting. Performing this tale are Graham Rowett and Peter Lewis. And so if you want a ghost story aboard a train, you're in the right place. The next stop is at the Lonesome Post Oak.

Many years ago, shortly after the end of the First World War, I was traveling by rail to New York City to meet with a publisher about a new project. After a late dinner, I went to the club car for a cigar, one of my preferred vices. There are few activities better than enjoying a smoke in a Pullman club car, the comfortable green velvet lounge chairs lining the car sides, the polished oak panelling, the large windows exposing the countryside.

It is like relaxing in a European monarch's parlor. One of my favorite pastimes, as if I were a regal heir myself, is people watching, appraising my fellow seatmate's dress, mannerisms, and conversation, and trying to discern their character, profession, and even possible names. After observing whom I surmised to be a married banker named Mr. Oliver Winstead in, conversation with a young bachelor pharmacist named probably Davy Nussbaum, I realized the older gentleman beside me was assessing me. He gave me a friendly smile. Have you decided on their names and professions yet? Indeed I have. Have you as well? Oh no, I've been considering you.

And indeed he seemed a gentleman. His Brooks brother's suit was clearly high end. He was comfortably portly from expensive dining, but not obese, and his full white beard and a mustache were perfectly quaffed, as though by daily attention from a valet. He had the air of a man comfortable with himself and accustomed to leadership, and a certain degree of benevolent superiority. I think you must be a writer of some kind, am I correct? Somewhat surprised I said I was. But, uh, not a journalist, I hope. Surprised again, I agreed, and said my pen moved more towards fiction and poetry.

Good. I cannot abide, journalists. It was then, I decided the gentleman was a man of business, probably an important one, or perhaps even a politician, for such men despise the press. You have no love for reporters? I openly glanced at the folded newspaper balancing on his trouser leg. Oh, I read what they write every day, but I know that the majority of it is fictitious, either through ignorance or malice, but I still must be informed, I suppose. I decided my seatmate must have been in his 70s, and although his body was aged, his mind seemed acute and aware, and he spoke as a person with long life experience. As we sat together, enjoying our cigars, we commenced a stimulating conversation that rained.

over many topics, including literature, history, the recently concluded war, politics, labor relations, the legal profession, and the pros and cons of the melting pot of our American society. I was impressed by the depths of his knowledge, by his strong yet unpretentious opinions, and his fatherly patience when he clearly disagreed with points I made, but to which he neither took offense nor sought to rebuke me. It was a very enjoyable hour of conversation, and we eventually reached a moment of companionable silence where we both puffed our cigars. Rather than just idly smoking, however, my acquaintance seemed deep in thought. Are you currently looking for a new story to write?

Well, I'm always looking for a good story. Do you have one to share? I do. He spoke rather contemplatively, as if he was a good story. if he was still considering his offer. He sat there looking forward, legs crossed, right elbow propped on the chair arm holding his cigar, the blue smoke tendrils, slowly meandering up to the ceiling. I took another draw from my cigar and let the moment linger. I've enjoyed our conversation.

I can tell you're an honest, earnest person. Perhaps I should give you a story. He was still looking forward and not at a time. me. It was then I noticed the previously full car was now practically empty, and the hour must have been getting late. A few of the lamps had been dimmed by porters, giving the car what I can only call a rather crepuscular feeling. Two men conversed across the aisle. A low, indistinct mumbling was all I could hear of their words. My companion maintained his composed silence. The smoke from his cigar continued its upward linger. The only person I've ever come.

confided this story too was my son, but he died 30 years ago before he even reached his majority. But I think it is a story that should not die with me. I was flattered by his notion, but also confused that he seemed about to give me a complete stranger, something apparently precious to him. I was about to object when he said, Do you know shorthand? Oh, good. Get out a pen and notepad.

I would like you to write this all down. Written below is the story as he told it to me. I grew up in Springfield, Illinois, and I knew Abraham Lincoln and his family extremely well. I never advertised the fact, because if I did, I would be overwhelmed with endless requests for anecdotes and information. I tell stories to my friends, of course, but this story is one I have kept to myself for various reasons.

I fumbled my pencil here as I jerked my head up at him in astonishment. Abraham Lincoln! My God! What story could he be about to tell me? Lincoln was a superstitious man. Did you know that? He believed in the power of dreams, but he also, in his younger days, was impressed by what some would call witchcraft. For instance, when one of his sons was bitten by a rabid dog, Lincoln took the boy to Terre Haute, Indiana, to get the mad stone cure. When Lincoln told stories around the general store stove in winter and while rying the judicial circuit in autumn,

his favorite tales to hear and tell were about ghosts, goblins, and haunted doings. In some ways, you could say he was like Washington Irving's Iqabod Crane. Many people thought he certainly looked like Iqabod with his ill-fitting clothes, gangly form, and large ears. The man chuckled here as if from a private joke. But during the Lincoln Douglas debates of 1858, Mr. Lincoln needed a ride from Rushville to Beardstown and then back home to Springfield. and Mrs. Lincoln asked me if I would take their horse and carriage and pick him up. I was 15 at the time. It was October, around the time of the Quincy debate, I think.

And as we drove across the prairie that afternoon, Mr. Lincoln delighted in telling me about his days as a surveyor in the 1830s. When he was a young man and lived in New Salem, which was about 20 miles from Springfield, The area we passed through was part of the region he surveyed, and he took great delight in occasionally telling me to stop the carriage and run into the woods to check a certain tree that he had blazed as a survey corner. He did this several times, and he never made a mistake once. He laughed in delight every time I returned to the carriage and said he was correct. Mr. Lincoln had the biggest smile and the heartiest laugh in the Midwest. It's a shame the pictures of him don't show that joy. After one such sprint, by me, the smile, still lingering on Mr. Lincoln's face and his loud

guffaw and knee slap, still echoing across the prairie, he suddenly went quiet. His face turned grave as his eyes stared over my shoulder. I turned and, in the distance, saw a dead oak tree. It was monstrous and clear. It clearly must have been a beautiful sight, green, round, and lush, when it was alive. But by then it was totally desiccated, all gray branches pointing upward and outward like a skeleton's hand, but with 15 or 20 fingers. Mr. Lincoln stared past me a moment longer, then looked at me and gave a faint smile and a chuckle.

He told me the tree was called the Lonesome Post Oak. It stood at the fork of two roads, and back at the beginning of the century, it was the only tree around for miles. He said everyone in the area knew of the tree, not because of its size or location, but because of what happened there, and the superstition that has claimed the tree ever since. Of course, being 15, I was eager to hear the story. The prairie was slowly inching by as our old horse walked along. I remember the clump of his hooves on the road and the sound of the carriage wheels crunching the dirt. The sound of the prairie was everywhere, birds chirping and squirrels chittering,

and the wind shuffling through the tall grass and tree leaves. It was a crisp October day full of sunshine all around us, and I remember thinking how content I felt, riding as Mr. Lincoln's companion. He said there were two brothers who, lived around that area back in the early times of the country? They were known as Big Thorpe and Little Thorpe, and two more execrable monsters never existed. They terrorized the entire region by attacking any travelers they came upon. Robbery, rape, and murder was all they knew. In the early days, not many people went through there, but as towns sprung up and communities were formed

to the people that had enough of the Thorps and their crimes. So, sometime in the 1820s, a posse formed up one night and set off after the brothers. They found them on the road and chased them for miles. One young man named Davis had a faster horse than his neighbors and eventually left everyone behind. When the Thorpe's separated, Davis kept on after the older brother, who was the worst of the pair. He caught Big Thorpe right at the road fork, right where that part was. post-oak is, and the two squared off. Both had rifles, knives, and tomahawks. They faced each other

on the road, aiming their rifles, the nervous horses pacing, jittery, circling each other. Big Thorpe fired at Davis and missed. Davis immediately fired back, but missed Thorpe instead hitting his horse right in the rump. The animal bounded forward and crashed into David's horse, knocking both men to the ground. They scrambled up, drew knives and faced off again, slashing the air, stabbing, occasionally cutting their opponent. Big Thorpe was a brutish, treacherous man, and he knew how to fight after years of violent living. Davis was a young man who could barely grow a beard, brash and full of bluster, and what seemed like fun while riding with a posse had suddenly become very real as he stood alone.

He realized almost immediately that he couldn't win. My companion paused for a moment to relight his cigar, which had gone out, and I was so tense, waiting for him to continue the story, to hear what was about to happen, my pencil hovering above my paper, that my wrist began to ache. Now, all this happened in a matter of seconds, you understand. The rest of the posse was still coming, but Davis was already exhausted, fighting for his life, his blood soaking his clothing, dripping into the ground from all the knife cuts he had taken from his opponent.

Big Thorpe, barely breathing hard, drew his tomahawk from his belt, ready to finish the fight. But suddenly, out of the blackness, Davis' huge black wolf dog which had fallen behind in the chase, leaped into the fray and grabbed Thorpe by the throat. Davis quickly jumped forward and stabbed the distracted villain right in the heart, causing a hideous scream to erupt from Thorpe that is said still can be heard on dark nights, ringing across the prairie. Within minute, Davis' friends arrived in a fury of hooves, and they jumped off their horses ready to fight, but found only the slaughtered villain on the ground and the exhausted boy ready to pass out. They dug a hole and tossed Big Thorpe's body in, buried him right at the base of the lonesome post oak.

It is still believed that Big Thorpe's ghost haunts the area at night, connected in death to his mutilated body. Nobody ever travels that way after dark. Mr. Lincoln had stopped talking, but I was so mesmerized by the story and was picturing it so vividly in my head that I had to shake myself out of the dream. What happened to his brother, Little Thorpe, I asked. He got away, he told me, but joined up with some other criminals in Cincinnati. He was caught and hanged a few years later. Did you ever go that way when you were a surveyor, past the post oak, I asked. Did you ever hear the screams?

I'll never forget the look he gave me. It was one I had never seen before on his face. Perturbed. He said, I was foolish enough to take that route once at sunset. I asked him what happened, and he was quiet for what seemed a long time, although I'm sure it was only a few seconds. I've never told anybody what happened that night, he eventually said, not Mrs. Lincoln or Mr. Herndon or Judge Davis.

He looked at me then and said, I will tell you the story if you promise never to tell another soul. I promised him as sincerely and seriously as I could. And apparently it satisfied him, for he commenced to tell the tale. He said his surveying work had taken him longer than he expected one day, and the shortest route to get to his lodgings that night was along the road that passed by the lonesome post oak. The sun was setting, so it was not yet dark, and although he was nervous, he figured he could make it past the tree before full darkness set in,

His horse was walking at a quick clip, not trotting, but not meandering either. It was summer then, he said, and the crickets were at their loudest. The sky was red-orange as the sun was setting like it had been sliced with a knife, and he was starting to feel the damp beginnings of the dew starting to settle in. As he approached the post-oak, its dead limbs stabbing the sky, he noticed, Although it was still a good 35 rods away, the world had gone completely silent. The crickets, the birds, even the wind had stopped moving the long prairie grass. He looked around.

His horse, pilgrim, continued walking but was suddenly alert, ears pricked up, muscles tensing. The sun was still setting. Evening was approaching, but the red hue of the bleeding sun was still spreading slowly over the tops of the prairie. The world was still visible, although starting to blur. The night had not yet come. It's not right, Mr. Lincoln said he remembered thinking. It's not dark yet. I should still have time. The post oak got closer as his horse picked up its pace, its skin rippling and quivering and apprehension. But even the sound of its hooves on the road seemed to have been stolen from the world. piercing into that silence just then was a high-pitched scream, like a panther's cry in the night with a wailing of a tortured man.

Mr. Lincoln jerked his head, left and right, and without warning he was struck full in the chest as if kicked by a mule and thrown from his horse. He landed on his back in the dust and had the wind knocked out of him. He lay stunned for a moment, then rolled over. over onto his hands and knees and gasped desperately for air. He sat up, face turned up to the sky, heaving for a breath. He saw something black fly past him on the left. On the right, he felt it above him, behind him, and then he heard the horrible grunk of a raven, half gurgle, half call. He was smashed in the back of the head and knocked down again, face bouncing off the packed dirt, the feel of feathers flapping on the back of his neck.

His mind went spinning. He felt a cutting pain behind his left ear. The raven cries pierced to the night, turning from grog to an evil sort of cackle as it flew circles around Mr. Lincoln. He sat up again and felt the blood running out of his nose, the scrapes on the heels of his hands, a thunderous pain around his right eye from where it hit the ground,

and he realized he realized he. He was right in front of the horrible old dead tree. To his right was a large stain on the road that seemed to grow in size and then coalesce into a shiny puddle of blood. He became aware of a veil of fog hovering a few feet above the ground and smelled gunpowder in the still air. He heard another caw, watched the raven circle him viciously, flying down nearly into the dirt of the road up through the hanging mist, leaving smoky circles in the air. But the bird did not

attack again. Instead, it landed in the branches of the post oak about eight feet above Mr. Lincoln's head. He looked up, watched it land on a skeleton arm of a branch, and then saw right next to it, standing in the tree, the shape of a man. It was huge, shoulders full of muscle and hair long. and stringy, knife and tomahawk in its belt. Mr. Lincoln looked at its face and knew it was big thorpe. He saw gray skin, tight and withered, blue lips and eyes burning red, as if hot coals had replaced the eyeballs. The raven took flight again as the ghoul in the tree just stood and stared. Mr. Lincoln got up to his feet and took only a step or two before he tripped over a tree. tree root that he swore was not in the road before, and when he fell, the dirt was no longer packed

hard, but it became soft and damp, as if freshly dug. The stench of death and decay filled his nose as he scrambled to stand up, but he could not get off the ground. He felt himself sinking. His scrambling became almost swimming in the wet soil, a frantic paddling of his arms. Something was grabbing at his legs and ankles, maybe claws, maybe roots that had come alive trying to drag him down. The mud crammed under his fingernails as he fought and failed and continued to sink, all while the raven caught and cackled its laugh that echoed from every direction. Suddenly he was crawling on firm ground, feeling pebbles embed themselves into his palms and bore into his knees. He stood up and ran to his horse, which had fled a short way down the road, pacing in

the middle, looking at him, afraid to go forward or back or leave the road's boundaries, as if surrounded by vast ditches or bottomless quagmires. Mr. Lincoln nearly broke his ankle, twisting it into the stirrup and getting mounted in his saddle. But Pilgrim stopped pacing and just stood fixed, implanted to the spot. Mr. Lincoln looked back at the tree and saw the raven had returned to its perch on its branch, but the shadow man was not there. He was out of the tree.

He was standing in the road, staring with those red eyes. The raven cackled. A scream again pierced the dusky evening that was quickly turning into night. The horse would not move, Despite the heels, pummeling into his sides, he was in a trance, staring at the red eyes. Mr. Lincoln reached into the knapsack, tied to his saddle, and grabbed his dip pen in his fist, swung his arm behind him and stabbed the metal tip into pilgrim's haunches.

The horse bucked and jumped into a run down the road, the raven gronking and cawing behind him, the night now nearly black, on the edge of darkness and oblivion. All Mr. Lincoln said he could remember after that was the pounding of pilgrim's hooves on the road, the wind scraping his already bruised face like dead branches and brambles, an indistinct gray blur of road ahead of him. He rode that horse until it was lathered and panting, until it was wheezing with each breath.

He raced for miles across the prairie until he reached the home of his friend Ebenezer Peck, where he was to stay the night. Mr. Lincoln explained to the condition of his clothes, the blood on his hands and face, and what turned out to be a black eye, with a vague half-truth that his horse had spooked and thrown him. Mr. Peck did not press for more details, but knowing full well the region in which he lived,

he seemed to know there was more to the story. As he cleaned himself up that night, Mr. Lincoln said he found scratches like claw mark, all over his ankles, where his pants, always too short, had exposed his flesh. There was a wound on the back of his head by his left ear that took a long time to heal and left a long scar that every once in a while would open up and seep for no apparent reason. Mr. Lincoln had horrible nightmares that night of a shadowy figure with red eyes staring at him, of screams and shouts surrounding him,

almost lifting him off the ground with their cacophony of a lancing pain in the back of his head behind his left ear, striking him and forcing him forward into blackness. Strangely, and unaccountably, he said, he remembered hearing a woman's scream, followed by relentless sobbing. Not long after that night, Mr. Lincoln was elected to the state legislature and began studying law, so he stopped his work as a surveyor. I only traveled that road a very few times again, I remember Mr. Lincoln said to me,

but not alone and never at night. A moment later, he added with a wink, I may be foolish, but I am not stupid. My companion finished his tale with a chuckle. I looked up from my notepad, my hand cramped with effort, but my mind buzzing with the import of the story I had just heard.

I looked around and realized we were the only passengers left in the club car, and few lamps were on. Now that I have given you this story, I need to extract from you a promise, a promise that you will not make this story in any way public until after I am dead. He must have seen the confusion and disappointment in my eyes, because he quickly said, Oh, don't worry. It won't be too many years from now. He was such a genial, even fatherly man at that moment that I could not but agree to his terms. I checked my watch to discover it was past 2 a.m. The old gentleman said he had better get off to bed and stood up. I stood as well, and as we shook hands I told him this was one of the most entertaining nights I had ever experienced while traveling.

He smiled and nodded. He had a warm smile, and blue eyes that held a mixture of authority, friendliness and melancholy. If you're ever in Washington, D.C., please call on me. He handed me his business card. I reciprocated and watched him as he left the car. When I returned to my seat, I gathered my writing utensils and looked at his card. It read, Robert T. Lincoln, President, the Pullman Company, Chicago, Illinois.

My God. The only living son of ever. Abraham Lincoln. Instead of retiring, I immediately pulled out my notes and made sure I had every detail of his story correct, and exactly as Mr. Lincoln had told it to me. It may be unsurprising to learn that after that night, I became fascinated by Abraham Lincoln's life. I even acquired a rather respectable library of histories and memories of that great man.

I was especially curious to learn about his early years in New Salem when he worked as a surveyor, but I never read anything even remotely connected to the story his son had told me, or to the area in which it occurred. While some people who knew Lincoln told of scars on his thumb, from an axe while splitting rails, and above his eye, attacked by escaped slaves while flatboating in New Orleans, nobody mentioned anything about one on the back of his head. I studied what I could about Lincoln's supposed dreams and visions of his death, and his and his wife's apparent belief in spiritualism

and their holding of seances in the White House, but much of it seemed rather imagined by people trying desperately to write themselves into the Lincoln legend. Robert Lincoln himself never wrote or spoke really about his father's life, and there was no record that he ever told another person the story he told me. Once, however, while researching the events of President Lincoln's assassination in the Library of Congress, I found two official reports

that raised my arm hair and flushed me with chills because it seemed to verify Robert Lincoln's ghost story. In a collection of medical documents regarding the President's autopsy, the Lincoln's personal physician stated of the President's wound.

On the occipital portion of the head, we noticed that there was a great serum edema about the wound and some extraversation of text crossed out. Blood around the text is crossed out, the wound itself seemed a clean cut gaping slit through the scalp right in the middle of an existing excrescence, linear in shape, with the ends only now visible as the bullet

had gone through the middle. A separate report, written by an assistant to the surgeon general at the time, described Lincoln in this way. The external appearance of the face of the president presented a deep black stain around his right eye. The fatal wound was on the left side of the head, behind and in line width and three inches from the ear. The bullet entry was exactly in the middle of a linear secretization of long-standing existence, both ends of white tissue still visible on either side of the bullet entry wound. I also discovered, on a small scrap of paper that was loose at the bottom of the folder, a short note written in pencil that had been subsequently crossed out.

The scrap was not dated and did not match the handwriting of any other documents. The text was extremely faded, but I could still decipher the words. While excavating the wound we found, in addition to multiple bone fragments, pieces and shards of black bone with a shiny surface made apparently of keratin. We cannot account for the fragment's origin. They appear as pieces of a bird's beak, but obviously that is impossible. They must be some sort of detritus that had accumulated within the assassin's gun barrel. It's got to be tough being a 911 operator.

You have to deal with people going through the worst moments of their life. Just like Estella, an emergency dispatcher in this tale, shared with us by author Zach Melson. Estella handles a call from a pizza delivery person who is sure he's being stalked by a killer. He's very, very sure of it. Performing this tale are Danielle McCray, Matthew Bradford, Dan Zippula, Atticus Jackson, and Mike Delgadoio.

So let's hope she can help out the man who is doing all he can to make the last delivery. 911, what's your emergency? Sir, I'm sorry, but I'm going to need you to speak up a little bit. I can't understand you. Delivery of the night for the pizza place I worked for. Okay, sir. What address are you delivering to? I'm sorry, sir.

I'm going to need you to repeat that. There was some static interfering. I'm sending police immediately. What's your name, sir? Okay, Todd, I'm Estella. We're going to get an officer to you as soon as possible. Is there any medical emergency? What do you mean?

Not yet, Todd. Are you in a safe location? Sir, I can't understand everything you're saying. Police are on their way, but I need you to find a safe place to hide. Look for a bedroom door you can long. or barricade to keep the intruder out. It's okay to leave a phone if you have to, Todd. Is anyone home in the house you entered?

No, I don't think lights were on, but no... Okay, sir, don't worry. Police are on their way. Is this the address you provided the house you're currently in or the house you were delivering to? Is there anything you can describe to help the officers find your location? Sure, sure. The stories, they got a big front window.

You can see their television from the outside. They have a break. Okay. Thank you, Todd. Can you describe the man chasing you? In his eyes. I've never seen... Sir, police are on their way.

Everything will be all right. They're almost there. Is the intruder in the house with you right now? Police will be there in a few minutes. I need you to find somewhere safe to hide right now. Can you find a bedroom with a phone that you can lock yourself in? I'll stay on the line. Don't worry.

Are you there, Todd? Sir, have you found another phone yet? Are you there? Yes, I can hear you now. Are you in a safe room, Todd? I'm going to need you to stay quiet and hide. I'll stay on the phone. You don't need to say anything.

Tap the phone once for no and twice for yes, okay? Okay, great. Can you still hear me? Perfect. I'm going to ask some questions. I'll be quiet so the intruder can't hear me and I still know everything is okay. Are you upstairs? Are you in a locked room?

Are the lights on? Can you still hear him coming up the stairs? Okay, don't panic. You're doing good, Todd. The police are almost there. One car will go to the original address you gave us and one will go to the house you're in. Is there anything you can barricade the door with? Okay.

Move it as quietly as you can in front of the door. Perfect. Is that done? Okay. I need you to find something else to hide behind if you can while staying on the phone. Sir? What happened? Are you hurt?

Todd, the officer just pulled up. Todd, the officer just pulled up. He doesn't see this. car you mentioned but he thinks this is the correct house. Stay behind the barricade until you hear the police knock on the bedroom door. We will check on the couple when we get there. Try to stay away from them if you can. Do not touch them. No, the officer has not entered the house yet. Get to the safest area in the room. Put down the phone if you have to. The officers just enter the house, Todd. He's downstairs, making his way.

up to you. Can you hear him? Please hurry. The officer is coming up the stairs now, sir. Are you there? Hello? Mr. Ramirez, I'm at 5127 Crescrest-right location. This place has been abandoned for at least weeds are grown up to the gutters of the house and all the windows are boarded up to decay. Deputy Gauntlet, are you sure the house is empty? I was just on a call with a young man who was inside that house. I sent an ambulance to your location. Be. on the lookout for an armed assailant and potentially three injured persons, one young male

and two older. Husband and wife, potentially deceased. As soon as Deputy Gontlet informed me the house was empty, I signaled on my computer to my boss, Glenn, for immediate assistance. I had only been working as a dispatcher for about a month

and this was way past my experience. What's going on, Estella? Glenn walked up from behind, startling me a bit. We have a code 419, but things aren't adding up, sir. Deputy Gottlet and Officer Ramirez reported both locations empty. I was just on a call with the potential victim,

and what he described matched Deputy Gottlet's description. Except both officers said the houses looked like they'd been abandoned for decades with no signs of anything, even being in the homes for years. Not so much as a squatter or even a wild animal. But the house wasn't abandoned. People were still living there when the caller broke in. He didn't mention anything about it being abandoned when he described the house.

Where is the caller now? I think he was shot, sir. I could hear gunshots and screams coming from the call as soon as Deputy Gottlet came up the stairs. But he reported the house being abandoned and totally empty. They're clearing the house now. An ambulance is en route. is the address? I could hear the rising concern beginning to fill Glenn's voice as if the case had the same

eerie hint of familiarity that Deputy Gauntlet mentioned. The call was placed from a landline in 5327 Crestview Road. Almost instantly as the words left my mouth, all color drained from Glenn's face. Are you okay? He didn't respond. Instead, resting his hand on the corner of my desk as he swayed back and forth. He ran his other hand through his hair, took a deep breath, then sighed extensively. Sir, is everything all right?

Do you need me to get you some water? He was beginning to genuinely make me concerned. He looked as if he would pass out at any moment. After another long moment of silence, he sighed again, tears. began to fill his eyes. Did you say 52-37 Crestview Road? Yes. Why? I started to feel dread fill my body.

That was the very first call I took working here as a dispatcher. It was such a gruesome scene, according to the details I was given from Deputy Gauntlet. At the time, just Officer Gauntlet. He was the first one on scene, and by the time he got there, there were three casualties, no survivors and no perpetrator to be found. They searched and searched for any evidence. Fingerprints, bootprints, bullet casings, there was absolutely nothing to be found.

Other than evidence that tied Todd to the killings, according to forensics, there was no fourth person, just that boy and the old couple. The official statement was that a murder suicide occurred after a robbery gone wrong. But I knew that wasn't the case, because I was on the call with Todd when it all happened.

It was 1995, and back then the police calls weren't recorded and used as evidence like they are now. You know, I fought and fought and fought to try to protect Todd's name, and he was just a kid trying to pay for his way through school, and everybody was convinced he was trying to rob an old couple when everything went wrong. I was brand new, so no one would take my word for what happened. The real killer was never caught,

and Todd's family never found out what truly went down that night. I almost quit right then. there. My very first call, and everything that could have gone wrong, did. It's haunted me since then. Every few months, my dreams bring me back to that night, getting that call. Just then, the phone began to ring again. This shouldn't have been possible. I was still assigned to the call with Todd. You never ended the call, and I didn't finish my assignment to it. I glanced at Glenn. And he gave me a slow, cautious nod, knowing this shouldn't be possible either, but letting me know to answer it anyway. I ignored everything in me telling me not to answer the call and picked it up anyway.

Todd's voice began to warp as he repeated those five words, sounding less and less human with each repetition. I threw my headset off as quickly as I could, slamming it onto my desk. His voice, its voice, was still coming through the headset, repeating the same phrase over and over. It no longer sounded human at all. The guttural scream sounded as if there were three voices twisted together in the most haunting way possible, with a deep static as the baseline of the sound. Suddenly, everything fell silent. The voice coming from my headset ended abruptly, and the murmurs of my co-workers on calls with other people abandoned the air, leaving everything still.

I stood up only to see the room entirely empty, as soon as I realized there was no one else in the room with me, including Glenn, who was now nowhere to be seen. All of the lights went out in an explosion of fluorescent light and glass. All the monitors where my co-workers should have been working went dark, and I was let in absolute darkness. The only light seeping in from the dim glow of the streetlights outside. One by one, the streetlights began to pop. First, the ones in the distance, slowly closing the light in on the building. The last light exploded, plunging me into total darkness. Just as I reached from my cell phone, every headset in the office boomed with the sound of an incoming call.

The noise was deafening. The only stillness my ears got was the short pause between the ringing of 15 calls acting simultaneously. I answered the call, dreading the decision but wishing desperately to save my hearing. The demonic voice was shouting from every computer in the room. There was no trace of humanity left in the voice that was once taught. Again, just as suddenly, everything fell silent. And then a familiar voice came through. Something about the monotonous tone of his voice,

lacking any emotion at all deeply disturbed me. Deputy Gottlet, do you copy? I forced the question out as my mouth turned to cotton. His voice was shadowed by something much deeper and much more unnatural this time. Deputy, do you copy? Still keeping the complete lack of emotion and fluctuation in his voice, Deputy Galtlet began to repeat the same phrase Todd had. Why didn't you save me?

Why didn't you save me? Behind me, Glenn, who suddenly reappeared, joined the chant with Deputy Gauntlet. The same demonic echo followed Glenn's voice. I whipped around, startled. Glenn was standing less than a foot behind me with a lifeless stare. His eyes had glossed over with a black mist, and his skin was frosted over by a pale white,

with purple creeping all over his body. He was the perfect, terrifying image of how I imagined those who would go on ridiculous mountain climbing adventures how they must look after they realized they'd bit off more than they can chew and this is how they will always be frozen in terror of the realization of their final moments

why didn't you save me why didn't you save me why didn't you save me Glenn's head had began to fall back as if he lost all control of his body. The chant continued out of his gaping, wide mouth, despite there being no movement to match the sound. Why did you save? The shouting stunned my ears, leaving them ringing as if I was standing only feet away from an explosion. I kneeled over.

covering my ears in a desperate manner, my nails digging into my scalp. Just as I looked up toward Glenn, his body began to levitate, inches off the ground, with a black mist surrounding him. The chant still flooded out from his mouth, which had grown to be impossibly widely, covering his entire face except his cold black eyes, flowed out of his mouth along with the works. Why didn't you save me? His head snapped down to meet my gaze.

The chanting paused, leaving me in blessed silence once more. I sat there, unsure of what to do. Stella! Deputy Gottlet and Glenn both addressed me simultaneously, fear filling their voices that will finally their own again. A look of desperation filled Glenn's eyes pleading with me to stop whatever he knew would come next. A gunshot rang out through the headset at the exact moment Glenn's head twisted in a sickening crack.

It can be bad enough to lose someone you're in love with. That kind of grief isn't easy to process. Just ask Jocelyn. You see, her boyfriend is dead, but that isn't the worst part. As we'll learn in this tale, shared with us by author John Beardify, most everyone seems to think Jocelyn is responsible for her boyfriend's death, and that's not an easy thing to let go of. Performing this tale are Nicole Goodnight, Reagan Tucker, Kyle Akers,

Sarah Thomas, and Jesse Cornett. So let's try to understand what Jocelyn means when she tells us, I killed my boyfriend twice. I always thought it was supposed to rain at funerals. Black umbrellas beneath gray skies, mourners gathered around the hungry darkness of a grave. But the weather was perfect on the day we buried my boyfriend, Andrew. Most of the people there probably wished that they were burying me instead. The whole town blamed me for Andrew's death and their icy stairs made the sunny May Day feel cold.

I spent most of the service staring at the flowers at my feet, replying my final conversation with him over and over in my mind. Where are you? I shouted into the phone that night. I thought you were going to come over after the gig. Andrew mumbled over the laughter and screams around him. Well, I was, but Eli's throwing this after party? Eli?

I fumed, hoping I'd heard wrong. Eli sells heroin. Eli is 20 and dating a 15-year-old. Why the hell would you... Hey, Eli says he knows this producer who's going to be at the party to not. He says. Andrew rambled on while I gritted my teeth and pulled my hair. How could he be so naive?

The background noise was like a jackhammer in my ear. Babe, I replied as patiently as I could. Eli probably made that up just so you guys would go to a stupid party. The guy is bad news, and you promised me that you wouldn't hang around that stuff anymore. The more excuses Andrew made, the more I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle him. I'd been so excited to see him to give him the late night behind the shed kiss that had been our ritual

ever since we'd started dating junior year and now he was blowing me off and breaking the promise he'd made to me about the heroin. You know what pisses me off the most about you? I finally screamed. You could be so much better than these assholes, but you keep letting them drag you down. I threw the phone so hard I was afraid I'd broken it.

Just before I did, though, I thought I heard Andrew yell something over the roar of the party. It sounded almost like I'm coming over, and he was. Andrew was just 10 minutes away from my house when the stag crashed through his windshield. None of the safety features on the second-hand pickup Andrew's uncle had bought him worked, but even if they had, it wouldn't have made any difference. My boyfriend died with 13 inches of buck antler puncturing his left lung. He suffocated slowly, pinned to the driver's seat,

each breath weaker and more bloody than the one before it. If Andrew hadn't been speeding to see me because of our fight, if only I'd told him just to stay at that stupid party. I'm sure the others were thinking the same thing. After Eli told the whole town about our argument, Andrew's family told me to my face that they didn't want me at the funeral. But I went anyway. And I placed a bouquet of red carnations on the tombstone.

The same type of flowers that Andrew had bought me when he asked me to prom. Maybe I needed to say goodbye to Andrew. Or maybe I just needed to see six feet of dirt, piled on top of the whole awful mess, even though I knew that the nightmare was just beginning. Andrew's family had lived here for generations while my parents and I were newcomers. As far as the public opinion was concerned, I was the outsider who'd murdered a hometown boy by being a frigid, controlling bitch. Small southern towns have long memories, and I knew that sooner or later, they'd come for me. I just didn't know it would begin that very same night.

It was around midnight when the phone rang. Whoever they were, they were trying to make themselves sound, like Andrew. I wanted to scream at them that I didn't need their blame. I blamed myself enough already. But that would just be adding fuel to the fire. I hung up. Ten minutes later, the phone rang again. It sounded like another bad impression of Andrew, but it was hard to make out anything over so much background noise. I couldn't tell if I was hearing howling wind, laughter, screams, or all of them at once. I couldn't hold back anymore. Listen, you sick, I'm behind the shed like usual. I can't wait. to see you.

The blood ran cold in my veins. Andrew and I were the only people who knew about our secret meeting spot. I peered out the blinds at my parents' backyard shed. It used to be a happy reminder of our relationship, but now, it felt unfamiliar and ominous in the twilight. Who or what may be waiting behind it. I ended the conversation, and when the phone rang for a third time, I didn't answer. The next morning, the eerie phone call felt like a bad dream.

I staggered downstairs for breakfast, but the floor seemed to drop out from beneath my feet when I saw what was on the kitchen table. What's that? I tried to keep my breathing under control. My father glanced up from over his newspaper. They were on the front porch this morning. I don't think it's a nice gesture, don't you? The red carnations were all wilted, but the bouquet was unmistakable. They were the same flowers that I'd left on Andrew's tombstone.

I even thought it could see flecks of grave dirt on the stems. I ran to the restroom and vomited. Just how far were these people willing to go? At school, I found my locker glued shut. The word killer had been carved into it with the key. Judging by the reeking brown clumps around the locker vent, someone had crabbed shit inside as well. I decided I could do without my books that day.

As it turned out, it didn't matter. No one, not even the teachers, dared to look me in the eye. People who I thought were friends wouldn't even speak to me. It was like being a ghost. By lunchtime the silence had started taking its toll. I went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face, imagining what my grandmother would have said to me if she were alive. You are strong. You'll get through it.

This too shall pass. I was back in the cafeteria when I realized that I had forgotten my glasses, but I didn't have to return to the bathroom to find them. They were laying in the hallway, stomped to pieces. Jocelyn. The school secretary said my name like it was something disgusting she wanted to spit out of her mouth as soon as possible. Call for you.

The last bell had already rung. Who would be calling me now? I pressed the office phone against my ear. There it was again. That awful sound like roaring wind, laughter, and screams. Not answering my calls, but... I slammed down the receiver cutting off that voice I knew so well.

It wasn't Andrew. It couldn't be. But whoever was stalking me had mastered his voice in mannerisms perfectly. And as I found out that after, afternoon, it wasn't going to end with phone calls. Without my glasses, anything more than 20 feet away was just a blurry mess. But I didn't need good eyesight to know that I was being followed. It was in the goosebumps on my arms, that tingling feeling on the back of my neck. And while I

couldn't make out the features on the figure walking behind me on the sidewalk, I've recognized their clothes, the red leather jacket, misfits t-shirt and jeans that Andrew had been wearing the night of the crash. As my pursuer closed in, I realized why I couldn't see their face. It was wrapped in gauze as though something horrible was hidden beneath. I looked around. The suburban half mile between school and home was deserted at 3.30 in the afternoon. No cars passed while the windows were dark. I increased my pace, my pursuer kept up. I started to run. They matched my speed. A shriek escaped my lips as I sprinted, half looking over my shoulder at those dead man's clothes at that awful bandaged face. I didn't turn around until I was at

front door. And when I did, whoever or whatever had been following me was gone. Laying in bed that night, I wondered if maybe I'd played right into their hands. Anyone could have bought those clothes and wore them. Those Erie Gau's wrappings might have just been away from my pursuer to hide their identity. For all I knew, Eli had been behind those bandages. And Andrew's deadbeat cousin Liam had been recording the whole thing from behind a sycamore tree. It was easy to imagine their conversation. Look at her run. She knows she's guilty. I was still turning it over in my mind when I heard pebbles clatter against the glass of my bedroom window.

That was another one of Andrew's signs. Time to meet behind the shed. Enough was enough. It was past midnight, but I still bawled my hands into fists and stormed downstairs to confront whatever was in my backyard. I should have told my parents. I should have told the police, even though Andrew's uncle Todd was the sheriff's deputy. I never should have gone out into that moonless night alone. There was no movement in our yard apart from the rustling of trees.

Where had they gone? Of course, behind the shed. By the time I rounded the corner, fear had replaced my anger, but it was too late. A hand clamped over my mouth, another pinned my arms to my sides. Don't scream. It was the voice from the phone. With my jaw clamped shut, I couldn't even bite at the fingers crushing my face. Even on that warm night, they were cold and reeked of damp, musty earth.

I'd always told myself that as something like this happened to me, I'd fight back. I wouldn't let myself be taken to a second location. But the speed that it all happened left me paralyzed. It felt like I was watching someone else's feet be dragged into the woods. Like the fast disappearing houselights beyond the trees had nothing to do with me. But once they were out of sight, I had no idea where I was. A long, low moan that seemed to rattle the trees reverberated through the woods. My kidnapper clamped down harder on my...

jaw, trapping the shriek that was rising in my throat. Whatever made that noise had to be huge, close, and desperately hungry. I dug my fingers into the dirt, writhing to escape my captor's grasp and realized that the ground beneath my feet was nothing like the forest I remembered. Instead of dry, crumbly clay scattered with leaves, it was black, waterlogged, and smelled like my captor. Strands of mist drifted between the gnarled trees. Where the hell was I? My captor mumbled in my ear. Come back with me. The gauze covering his face brushed against my skin with every word he spoke.

I don't want to be alone here. I hate this place. I couldn't say if it was primal terror, slick mud, or pure dumb luck that allowed me to slip through my captor's grasp. But when I did, my arm brushed against something sharp and hard stuck in their chest. I looked down. It was a snapped-off deer antler. Andrew? My captor touched his own face beneath the gauze,

as though not even he could believe it was really true. Now that my vision had adjusted to the dark, I could see those gray-green eyes I knew so well. Those tuffs of mousy brown hair, even those slouch shoulders that I was always telling him to straighten out. It backed away, tripping over logs and deep petals of muck fleeing from the impossible thing in front of me. Wait!

The antler and Andrew's chest crunched sickeningly as he grabbed for me. I tried to do it. to reach you so many times? How long has it been? Years? Months? There's no time here. There's no anything here. He staggered toward me through the gray mist. You can't leave me like this. The horrible thing in the trees let out another blood-curdling moan. It was closer now. A lot closer. As Andrew looked around in terror, the gauze fell away and I saw for the first time what the crash had done to his face. I... I'm sorry. My eyes scanned the trees for the source of that awful sound.

But I'm not supposed to be here. I'm supposed to be back with my family because I'm not... I'm not... Don't say it. Flex of blood splattered through his shattered mouth. To our right, a flock of dark-winged creatures flew squawking into the cold air. We were going to graduate together. I was going to have a band, a whole life.

And now all I have is... Andrew gestured to the gloomy forest around us. The gray mist was getting thicker by the minute. I thought when I died, it would be heaven, hell, or nothing. I never imagined anything like this. The things I've seen here. Please stay with me, Jocelyn. I'm scared, and I'm so, so cold.

Please stay with me. Please. Now it was guilt, not fear, that kept me frozen in place. Andrew ran at me, his arms, outstretched, although whether he was trying to hug me or attack me, I never found out. When I pushed him away, the mist swallowed him up. Although I couldn't say for sure, I'd swear I saw a gigantic, oily-furred thing moving through the fog, and a bony hand of the size of a small car wrapping around Andrew's body.

His shriek was cut short, but the moan that followed nearly deafened me. I scrambled away, hardly aware of what I was doing with no idea where to run to. I remember something slimy slithering over my shoe, and, rotting holes that opened beneath my feet, trying to suck me in while I clawed at the slick black mud. And then suddenly I was through. I even recognized where I was, the power lines that cut through the woods where Andrew and I had smoked our first cigarette years ago. When I turned around, the trees behind me were completely normal. No tendrils of mist, no pits of muck, no monstrous shapes in the dark. I wondered if the woods had ever really changed at all, or if Andrew had just

brought some of the afterlife with him when he had come looking for me. Later, I wondered if I'd dreamed it all. I wondered if I'd had some kind of breakdown. As much as I came to doubt my memories of that night, the experience never left me. It might even be what fueled my more morbid interests and led me to work in end-of-life care. A few days ago, I had the strange experience

of being Eli's bedside nurse that is passing. He'd contracted a nightmarish disease from a dirty needle. And by the end, there wasn't much left of him. Just yellowed skin stretched too tightly over his nearly visible skeleton. Even so, his foul smell and sores didn't disgust me. I wasn't angry or bitter about the past. I just listened patiently to his final words. No, Andy, I don't want to go into those woods. I held his hand. Everyone, no matter who they are, deserves a little comfort before they go, especially considering what might be waiting on the other side.

Pohl's into the terminal, we ask that you gather what's left of your sanity and depart the train. Thank you for traveling with us on the Sleepless Express. 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 editorial team is Jessica MacIntyre. Akevoy and Ashley McAnally. 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 traveling the railings. with us for our 21st season.