The NoSleep Podcast - S21 Ep18: NoSleep Podcast S21E18

Episode Date: September 1, 2024

It's Episode 18 of Season 21. Ride the Sleepless Express into tales about family fears."Baby Girl" written by J. V. Gachs (Story starts around 00:04:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Linsay Rousseau, Doctor – Tanja Milojevic, Efrén – Jesse Cornett"Snowy Nights in Spring" written by Kim Larson (Story starts around 00:22:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Mila – Nichole Goodnight, Jelena – Nikolle Doolin, Thing – Jeff Clement, Mama – Sarah Thomas"Negative Space" written by Kelsey Lauren (Story starts around 00:41:45)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Seth – Kyle Akers, Will – Graham Rowat, Dad – Mike DelGaudio"Have You Ever Played the 'Would You...?' Game?" written by Quincy Lee (Story starts around 01:09:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Toby – Matthew Bradford, Seti – Jessica McEvoy, Darren – Jeff Clement, Jules – Kristen DiMercurio, Scott – Atticus Jackson, Rosalinda – Erin Lillis, Friend #1 – Mike DelGaudio, Friend #2 – Sarah Thomas, Father – Jesse Cornett, Dad – Graham Rowat, Mom – Tanja Milojevic"The Wandering Cemetery" written by Luke Hoehn (Story starts around 01:57:50)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Charlottle – Danielle McRae, Meemaw – Erin Lillis, Dad – Atticus JacksonThis episode is sponsored by:GhostBed - Get ready for the coolest beds in the world! GhostBed provides high-quality & super comfortable award-winning mattresses crafted in the United States and Canada. Get 50% off your purchase by going to GhostBed.com/nosleepVIIA - Unlock the power of nature with VIIA’s organic and vegan hemp extracts, perfect for relaxation and rejuvenation. If you’re 21+, head to ViiaHemp.com and use the code NOSLEEP to receive 15% off.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Kim LarsonClick here to learn more about Quincy LeeExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"Baby Girl" illustration courtesy of Thea ArnmanAudio 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.

All aboard. Tickets, please. Find your seats. The train will be departing shortly. You're 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 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. As the host of the No Sleep podcast, I've been referred to by many names. More often than not, it's names like, or... And even... But, a more pleasant name I hear a lot, is Podfather.

I assume it comes from the fact that I'm an older father figure and someone who was around from nearly the very start of horror fiction podcasting. So I don't mind when people think of me as... the father of this podcast. And as much as I love my sleepless children, I recognize that I hold no actual paternal connection to any of you. No, it's your own family who are responsible for how you were raised. Mothers, fathers, siblings, it's the people with whom we grew up who are the sources of much of the good and bad things that shaped who we are. It should come as no surprise to anyone that the horror genre is full of stories which are based around the concept of a close family member

inflicting trauma on those they should love and protect. Family horror is so relatable because we can not only understand why it's so frightening, but so many of us can relate to knowing how it feels to experience the dissonance of harm caused by a loved one. Parents and children, grandparents and their offspring, siblings, When those people in our lives end up being the sources of torment and pain, we know that the horror can feel more than mere fiction. In this episode, we have tales which show us that our families, and even our family lineage, can be a source of horror, which strikes close to home.

And with family trauma being so relatable, it's a good opportunity to remind everyone that we do offer trigger warnings on our stories. You'll find links in the show notes. It's usually accessible right from the app you're using to listen to this episode. So if family trauma is something you struggle with, make sure you check those out so the horror doesn't become too real. So take your seats, dear children. The Podfather has quite a trip for you. And now, the train is ready to depart.

Your journey into the darkness begins now. In our first tale, we meet a woman who has just been given some devastating news. The child she's carrying is not viable. If the story ended right there, it would be horrifying enough. But in this tale, shared with us by author J.V. Gatch, we learn that a mother will do anything for her child, absolutely anything. Performing this tale are Lindsay Russo, Tanya Milosovich, and Jesse Cornett.

So beyond the feeding and diapers, there are even more important things you can do for your baby girl. No heartbeat. Just two words. A simple incantation to destroy a world. The doctor speaks as I wipe off the ultrasound gel. I must pay close attention to my options.

I have to understand everything she says. My brain goes too fast. unable to form a coherent thought. My knee shake as I stand up. There's no rush. She's reading my mind. Or maybe she's done this way too many times. Go home.

Call someone. Read this pamphlet, rest over the weekend, and come back on Monday. Hairy-needled death. Now what? The rounded pastel-colored letters of the brochure curl around my chest like a python on leaving me breathless. The doctor points to a certain page. Look, this is the part you need to read after the 15th week.

There's everything I told you, and if you have any further questions, you can call this number here. It is an association that helps people going through this process. For now, you just have to pay attention to your fever. If it rises, come to the emergency room immediately, okay? I nod as I stand up. to leave. I should call someone. My mother, Ava, how does one start that conversation? How do I tell them

you've died even before opening your eyes? The next thing I know, I'm home. My feet float. The same time, I've never felt so heavy. I lie down on the couch and place my hands on my bulging belly. I pull them away, startled to realize I'm caressing a heart that no longer beats. I'm a coffin. My stomach shrinks. My throat is knotted. I grab my cell phone to call the doctor, overwhelmed by the need to tear you out of me as soon as possible,

to get rid of your body, of your weight in my womb. It lasts an instant. Deep down, I want to keep you safe in here forever. Once I make my decision, whatever it may be, I will no longer be pregnant. I will no longer be your first. future mother, Paola. I contemplate our possibilities according to the brochure.

An oxytocin-induced delivery when I see fit. Or wait. Expectant management. My body will realize what has happened soon. It will try to get rid of you on its own. Like a normal labor. Normal. Like such a thing exists.

I also have to decide if I want to see you. Spend some time with you. with your lifeless body, your corpse, the repulsion toward the idea tinged with irrational hope. What if you cry when I hold you? What if my love makes that tiny heart start beating? In fiction, pure love, the real good kind can achieve anything. Even that? No shock this time. I stroke my belly. Closing my eyes, I embrace the absurd idea of pretending nothing has changed. I hide the pamphlet under the couch cushions. Nothing that confirms the certainty of your untimely death is welcome here.

Calling anyone seems impossible right now. I just want a gazpacho. Yes, that's what I want. Play some music and cook a gazpacho as if it were yesterday. As if the words no heartbeat had never been uttered. As if the most important decision these days still were which car seat to buy for you, Paula. Unravel those two words.

Undo the spell. When I was little, my grandmother always had a jar of fresh gazpacho in the fridge. When I moved out on my own, she gave me a notebook with all her recipes and her round and childish handwriting. I know how to prepare this fresh tomato soup, but I always take out the notebook and place it on the table next to the vegetables. The pages are stamped with tomato and garlic flowers created by my fingerprints after chopping the ingredients. Following her instructions, I feel her right. watching over me. I start with the cucumber, the garlic, the green bell pepper, the smell of the vegetables lights up the kitchen. I cut the tomatoes while humming a copla, one my grandma loved.

I clavore in those eyes. Al-filereys of crystal for me car to car, cara. I'll stab crystal pins in my eyes, so I don't have to face you nor your truth. My will is so strong that it's capable of forcing your heart to jumpstart. Rage invades me at the thought of all those people who don't deserve the air they breathe, the space they waste, the annoying neighbor across the street that we can't get rid of, my wretched boss. the bastard who was your father because I was too drunk that day

because I missed him and fell into his trap because he intended to make you an anchor to keep me by his side I hated you for being his until you started to move inside of me how many nights I spent biting my pillow wishing you weren't here that you weren't at all oh God wasn't it a bit too late to answer my prayers The knife cutting my finger brings me back to reality. My body is still mine.

The pain reminds me I'm not a wooden coffin but human, flesh. I instinctively stick my bloody finger in my mouth as I search for a band-aid in the bathroom. The metallic taste floods my senses. I stop in my tracks. A spark. A small shock. Your feet pounding against my body. Baby girl?

Nothing. but I'm sure as hell I've felt it. I run to the kitchen, grab the knife, and slice open my palm with it. A clear and distinct thought is now burned into my mind. Certainty I cannot ignore. Blood comes to the calling of the blade. I overcome the disgust, cupping my hand. I plunge my tongue into this tiny red sea and swallow in the throes of longing.

I wait. There you are. stretching, untwisting your limbs inside me. I cry, I do. I allow myself to because these are not tears of sorrow, because I feel you more than ever. How you are now still in my womb and how you will be, green eyes, singing voice and pale skin,

a cascade of freckles from eyes to lips, small hands, light feet, you're ticklish. and very hungry. You're starving. Your voice flows through my veins, whispering to me what needs to be done. The sacrifice to keep you here with me. One I'm willing to offer.

I cover the wound on my hand with a bandage before throwing myself on the phone. I don't hesitate. I don't tremble. Immersed in the certainty of your voice, crazy as it may sound, I trust you, my child. Your father answers on the other side.

I thought you didn't want anything to do with me. I know, Efrin, look, you were right. Why don't we spend the weekend at La Césetta and talk about it? So, it's good to know you finally got into the head that you can't do this alone. But when I get off work, I'll get my backpack and go up there. I hung up smiling. What a surprise the doctor is going to get on Monday. And make a list of what we'll need.

The country house I inherited from my grandmother is an hour away from the city. Plenty of time to go to the supermarket, pharmacy, and hardware store before Efran arrives. Luckily, I didn't get rid of my grandmother's arsenal of pills. In winter, the village is always empty. The tourists won't come until spring. Just like you, Paola. I brought firewood. Efren looks at the empty woodshed.

How come you always forget something? things so important. You're always on top of everything. Thank you. He holds my wrist too tightly. He caresses my belly. My skin prickles. An unpleasant tingling settles at the end of my spine.

He kisses me. You stir. I try to get away. He pulls us closer. Let's have dinner first, I managed to say, slipping away from his kisses. Your baby girl is hungry. We sit at the table.

and I place the wine flask in front of him. I chew slowly, listening to him talk about the plans he has made for the two of us, but without asking us, slower and slower, dragging out the words. His mouth dries up,

he drinks more wine, and you cry with hunger in my womb. Efren falls to the floor, dragging the tablecloth with him, spilling the wine and the roast, breaking my grandmother's china. Although painlessly, thanks to the epidural. I do feel the tension, the pressure. The nurses talk to each other. They laugh.

The sun comes in through the window of my private room. The doctor smiles. My mom, your grandma, is holding my hand, soaking my sweat. She's so joyful, delighted. We both wish my father was alive to meet you. Such a perfect day for induced labor. My doctor has been so worried since she made that unforgivable mistake with the diagnosis. She wouldn't risk taking any chances and wanted to get you out as soon as it was safe for the both of us. I agreed. She let me pick the date, though. March 21st, my spring rosebud, my baby girl. After all we've been through, I'm so looking forward to seeing that little angel face. Going from vegan to meat eater wasn't all that pleasurable at first. It is certainly one of those aquapeutes.

like beer or tobacco. The rotten fish they eat, I don't remember where. It might even miss it now that my pregnancy is over and I can go back to broccoli and hummus. I will never be grateful enough to my grandmother for forcing me to participate in the hogslaughters at home when I was a little girl. She believed it would toughen me up. It turned me into a strong advocate for vegetarianism instead. But it also was ingrained in my mind in such a way that when necessity presented itself, I knew by heart every step of the process.

Grandma's sturdy hands guided mine that night, placing the cauldron for the blood, cutting open the flesh to collect the entrails. She gave me the strength to take care of your needs, baby. The Matanza. When done at home, instead of sending the hogs to the slaughterhouse, was a process in which the whole family participated, almost like a party.

Even the kids had their part, and were later offered some of the clean entrails as balloons to play with for the day. Doing it alone was a challenge. But your incessant calling encouraged me, cheered me on and did not allow me to faint. When stirring the blood in the bucket so it would not curdle, which would ruin it for the blood sausage, your hunger was unbearable.

The metallic smell, your screams drowned out in my mind, the cold of the cellar, my hands shaking. You're going to have a temperate. That's a given. I had to reopen the cut of my hand to calm you down when walking back in the dark from the swamp after throwing a friend's car and cell phone in the cold water. How convenient your father was a scumbag. No one questioned his messages saying he was leaving. It wasn't out of character that he would flee to avoid paying me alimony. It was the longest night of my life. It was worth it. I'll do it all over again to be here now as I am.

Overwhelmed by the certainty that you will cry soon. We will go home, and it will all have been nothing more than a nightmare from which we will finally wake up. The slaughtered meat has to spend at least 12 hours just there in the freezing air of the cellar before cutting up. That time is not for leisure or rest. The guts have to be cleaned with hot water, vinegar, and lemon. It's an arduous task, necessary to prepare the chorizo and the black pudding. Otherwise, so much of the meat would go wasted. I sleeplessly roasted onions and pumpkin, following Grandma's black pudding recipe all night.

Before I had a second of rest, it was already time for the quartering. Loins, belly, ribs, brains. I managed to get it all stored in Grandma's big freezer before Monday came. I'll never forget the doctor's face. Her shame. She does not know our little secret. Your medicine. I will miss Saturday's batch cooking for the day.

the week in grandma's kitchen among the smell of roasted garlic, peppers, stewing meat, chorizo snacks, and sips of warm wine with cinnamon. Wouldn't it be great if we make a tradition out of that, Bala? Would you mind making some changes in the main ingredients, I wonder? I can already see her head. The doctor has the biggest smile. It's not every day that you help deliver a baby you gave up for dead three months before. Your body pushes through mine. Mom cries with joy. Your head is out of me and now come the shoulders. A deathly silence falls in the room. What's wrong? I try to sit up and see something. What's wrong, Mom? She isn't holding my hand anymore. Wasn't it enough? Wasn't my sacrifice sufficient for you to live? The doctor gives me a horrified look.

My mom covers her face. You are no longer part of me. My body's empty. Your crows. You're cry shatters the silence. You're alive. The nurses turn away from me. One of them runs out the door yelling. The doctor observes you, mute. Her hands tremble. She swallows, lost for words. Your high-pitched shrieks pierce my ear. She lifts your contorting body. I can finally see you. Now you are, my baby girl. Sometimes it's the stories told about a family's heritage that can be the most frightening, just as Mila learned while caring for her grandmother. You see, in this tale, shared with us by author Kim Larson,

Mila learns about what happened to her grandmother and her family many years ago, a night that changed things forever. Performing this tale are Nicole Goodnight, Nicole Doolin, Jeff Clement, and Sarah Thomas. So enjoy your walks in the forest. Just make sure you don't do them during snowy nights in spring. She doesn't speak except on snowy nights in spring. Her back has turned to me as I prepare her bed.

I can hear her speaking. But I ignore her, as I always have. Mama. Mama? She whispers to the dark window, perhaps mistaking the reflection of her own aged face. for the woman she inherited it from. Or maybe, on these snowy nights,

she forgets the time that's passed and calls to her mother, hoping she might step out of the darkness and come back to her. I close the curtains, then offer her my arm for support. Jolina, time for bed. This time she ignores me,

transfixed on the window. Her frail hands are folded on her lap. I reach for one. Jelina, you need to rest. Just as my fingertips touch her skin, she snats her head up to face me. Her eyes, wide and pale blue, stared deep into mine. Unblinking, she whispers in her strange voice. Can you hear it?

I listen for a moment. I can hear it, just as I can hear Jalina's words. Its voice, like cicadas, rides the wind. It's calling out for me by name. From the dark forest in the looming mountains that surround our farm. I hear it every night. In recent days it's been louder or closer. I've been trying to ignore it pretending it's just the wind.

Jelina, come now, it's time for bed. I take her hands into mine and guide her away from the window. She comes without protest, but I know she has more to say. Carefully, I help her change into a nightgown and get under the covers. Everything's prepared. She has water, a book, and a bell to ring in case she needs anything else. I can leave now before she begins her story. I've heard it before on other snowy nights,

and I don't want to hear it again. But I stay, as I always have. Maybe I'm hoping for a missed detail that can explain why I understand Jolina and the thing that lurks in the dark, or maybe I feel it's my responsibility to listen since no one else can. I take a seat next to Jolina as she begins.

On snowy nights and spring, my mind is in the mountain forest. again. The moon is bright and the night is cold, but there is a roaring heat behind us, from our burning home. Our entire village is in flames. I bury my face and Mama's hair to hide from the smoke, but there is nothing I can do to stop the screams. Just as the trees obscure the blaze, my brother starts to cry. Mama sings to him in a sense. sorrowful but hushed voice. I do not realize she is also crying until a tear drops from her chin onto my neck. There is a sourness in my throat, but I hold in the tears. After some time he comes,

Mama keeps on walking. Deeper into the mountain forest, the snow is above my mother's knees. Her breath is labored. step is even slower than the last, but she can't afford to rest. There's so much further to go, and the soldiers might be coming after us. Shivering, I cling on to Mama as tightly as possible. Another warm tear drops on my neck as Mama pushes on. It is not long before the snow is almost up to her hips. She struggles against the snow and and weezes with each breath. Apart from my mother's breathing, the forest is deathly silent.

That is, until my brother bursts into a fit of screams and tears. Mama tries to calm him, shushing and singing. But he cries even louder. Mama says he is hungry and that she needs to put me down to feed him. Mother places me on the path she made. where the snow is not as deep. She sighs in relief to set me down. I watch Mama as she feeds my brother.

She rocks side to side, humming sweetly as he drinks. As if we were home and everything was all right. As if Papa was not shot dead in the doorway, of a house that is now a pile of ash. Mama's humming is so calming for a moment. moment, I think this is all just a dream. The cold wetness soaking through my clothes reminds me this is a waking nightmare. Once my brother is done with his meal, Mama bundles him up again.

She then bends down to me and takes my face in her icy hand. Oh, my sweet girl. She stares deep into my eyes as another tear drops. She parts her lips to say something. something more, but it catches in her throat. Mama? I ask, but she says nothing. Instead, she kisses my forehead, looks at me once more, then stands without picking me up.

Mama? I ask again with my arms outstretched, but she ignores me, turning away and trudging on into the snow. Mama! I cry out and try to follow her, but the snow is too deep for me, even on the path. Mama! Mama! I scream to her, but she does not come back. She hums to my whimpering brother as she disappears into the dark.

Mama! I cry over and over, even when I cannot hear her humming anymore. Alone in the mountain forest, on a snowy night and spring, I call to Mama, not knowing what else to do. I am so scared and so, so cold. I am shaking. My skin is burning, and my eyes are frozen shut. Slowly the cold seeps into my bones And then into my soul Until all of me is ice And then I am not cold anymore

I am warm As if the snow surrounding me were blankets and pillows in my own bed Exhausted from shaking and crying I lay down to sleep I dream of Mama. She is at the kitchen stove cooking oatmeal in a pot. I sit at the table. Mama turns to me and smiles, then says,

Today is going to be a lovely day. I look out the window expecting a bright sunrise. Instead, I see my own reflection against dark glass. I watch myself ask, Mama, why is it dark? Mama does not respond, because she is no longer there. Neither is the stove or the kitchen or the house. Everything is dark.

A strange, unsettling voice awakens me. Is it a soldier that has caught up? I open my eyes, somehow no longer frozen. and see that the thing looming over me is not a soldier, or a man, nor any earthly beast. Though its oversized face reminds me of a stag, it also reminds me of a stone cathedral, immense and imposing, with glowing eyes like candlelit windows, and many twisted antlers that reach to the heavens like pointed spires. emanating from it is an intense heat that has melted all the snow around us,

and a pungent scent that reminds me of spoiled milk and freshly cut lilacs. My heart is racing, and every part of me wants to scream and run, but I cannot will myself to do either. Even as dread consumes my mind, I understand it is pointless. walled in by snow and completely alone. I am at the thing's mercy. Jile. It speaks to me in strange, vibrating words that I've never heard, and yet I somehow understand.

Still afraid, I say, in those same strange words, but my home is gone. I choke up and a tear escape. escapes me. Soldiers burnt it down. Is there nowhere for you to go? Mama. Mama was taking me to uncle's farm in the valley, but she... Be calm, child. The thing reaches down with a hand akin to a gnarled tree.

It plucks me from the ground. and places me atop its behemoth head. Its fur is matted and reeks of rotting flowers, but its warmth is comforting. I grab onto one of its countless antlers as it strides through the forest with ease. The blurring trees nauseate me, so I watch the ground.

Below us appears a fresh path through the snow. Mama is not far ahead. No longer afraid I ask the thing. Will you carry Mama too? I smile. I imagine all of us. Mama and my brother and Uncle Ivan enjoying a hot meal in front of a roaring fireplace.

It is not home, but it can be. Soon we catch up to Mama. Mama does not notice our presence until she is almost underneath us, whether warmth or stench, something alerts her. She turns around, and the moment she sees the thing towering over her, she screams even louder than when the soldiers march through our front door. To calm her, I try to explain that it is a friend and that it is here to help. But my words come out strange. They buzzed like a fly caught in a hand. Mama does not understand.

She turns to run, but the thing snatches her up before she can take a single step. My baby brother tumbles from Mama's arms and disappears into the snow. He screams too, but his voice is muffled. Holding Mama up to its face, it asks her in deep, vibrating words she cannot understand. Mama responds with screams and wails. She struggles to break free, but the thing's twisted fingers are unmovable. It raises her up higher above the tips of its antlers. Looking up at my writhing mother, I see that her face is contorted into an expression of pure terror.

A single tear drops onto my forehead. Like a butcher bird does to its prey, the thing skewers Mama on its crown of antlers. Her wailing turns to gurgles as hot blood rains down on me. It soaks into my hair and clothes and warms my skin. I try to scream, to call for Mama, but my voice is like a beehive. I remember nothing else from that night. Ivan found me in the barn at sunrise. He could not understand me, nor could anyone.

else. She stares at me with wide, knowing eyes that look a lot like mine. At this point, I'd usually tuck her in, kiss her forehead, say, good night, Grandma Jalina, then leave her room. In my own room, I'd check the windows, turn on some music and try to ignore the trittering in the wind. But tonight I need an answer. I hear it now, calling to me, louder than ever before, louder than earlier tonight. The thing wants me, so I must do something I never have. I ask Jolina in the same strange words it speaks.

The thing. What is it? There's no hint of surprise in Jolina's face. For a moment I think she hadn't heard me. But then the wrinkles tense along her brow when she parts her lips, as if searching for the words. Father warned me to never wander far into the mountain forest.

"'Bysy lurk in the darkest, boldest places.' "'Bicey as in devils?' "'She confirms with closed eyes and a slight nod. "'The wind shakes our house, "'carrying with it the thing's unmistakable shrill voice. "'I take a slow, deep breath. "'Chalina, what does it want?' "'As soon as the words are out, I want to push them back in.

"'She opens her eyes again and tears while in them. Her lips quiver. Oh, my sweet girl. A tear falls. It wants what it is owed. The trauma in a family isn't always something inflicted upon a person. Sometimes the trauma can come when a family member goes missing. Like Seth in this tale, shared with us by author, Kelsey Lauren.

Seth discovers an old camera which leads him to a deeper understanding of his father, Missing for many, many years. Performing this tale are Kyle Acres, Graham Rowett, and Mike Delgado. So even if a picture is worth a thousand words, there can be more to see in the negative space. The store smells like its merchandise. A dense mixture of aged wood, leather-bound books, and moth-eaten cloth. Greg's vintage goods.

no frills and no promises. The ancient furniture comes with ring stains, moldy drawers, and a cheap price tag. The jewelry is unpolished, gems plucked away from their fillings, so only a three-pronged smile remains. This is my favorite shop in town. I make the pilgrimage every week in my beat-up truck, which I bought specifically for this purpose. Here's the secret. These are the kinds of places where you find something special. Not those high-end boutiques uptown that slather on a layer of chalk paint and charge three times what the items worth.

The real stuff is raw, dusty, and scratched. Requires elbow grease and a little sacrifice to exhume the value. Which is why I'm so shocked to see the Polaroid camera. It's in pristine condition. A glossy lens reflects the bare halogen lights of the thrift store. It almost looks like a mirage. The kind of thing a desperate man conjures up when his environment won't willingly provide it. I walk closer and it doesn't disappear.

Carefully I pick up the camera and weigh it in my hands. It's substantial with real parts. Not the cheap plastic shit they craft in molds these days. It's much larger than the more. recent models, and I have to hold it with both hands as I raise the viewfinder to my eye. I see the same cluttered store, fish-eyed by the shape of the lens. Hey, Will! I walk back up to the front with the camera in my hands. The register sits on a square display case filled with glinting gold chains, and Will

lumbers behind it. Greg's vintage goods, never had a Greg. There was only ever Will. What's up, Seth? Will still has the backwood straw of his Louisiana roots. He's never tried to lose it, despite moving to Oregon decades ago. What's with the camera? I lifted up. Will stares at it for a moment, foreheads crunched. Can't remember.

Must have come in with that last delivery. Huh. I run my hand over the item's thick metal casing. It's cool to the touch. Then I raise it to my eye and snap a photo of Will before he can react. Hey, no using the merchandise. Will waves his hands as if he can prevent a photo that's already been taken. To my delight, the square Polaroid pops out of the slot.

I watch in fascination as the image develops. But I'm disappointed. Something went wrong in the development of the photo. It shows the display case, but the shiny items within are missing. Will isn't there at all, and there's just a line of a grainy gray wall. Camera's broken. I show him the Polaroid. It isn't capturing the whole picture.

Who knows how long that film's been in there? My work's just fine with new film. A camera like this needs special film. You'd have to buy a compatible refill to even test it. Will groans, his face twisting. That's more trouble than it's worse. I could take it off your hands. I pull out of 50.

Fingers jittery with nerves. As is. No tests required. Will eyes me suspiciously. You just proved it's broke. Why do you want it? I feel parts of myself soften, and I wonder if it reflects on my face.

That's not good for bargaining. My dad had one just like this. It's actually a spitting image. Will stares at me, and I can see the complex arithmetic flashing behind his eyeballs, estimating how much he can get for it from someone else versus how much he can get from me times whatever bills he's looking to pay this week.

Fine. The math has shaken out in my favor. It doesn't always happen that way. Will is shrewder than I'd like him to be. Toss me into 50 and it's yours. Final sale, no returns. It'll take a week for the film to arrive. In the meantime, I work on cleaning up the camera.

It's easy to find the make and model online. After some digging, I come across a grainy user manual that looks like it's been scanned from a physical copy. as I'm cataloging the condition of each part against the manual's instructions, I realize there's a small dial on the underside of the case, almost hidden in the seam. The manual doesn't mention anything about a dial. It's strange, but not impossible.

Sometimes people make their own updates to antiques. It turns my stomach sour, but there's nothing I can do about it now. I flip the camera upside down and see that the dial is labeled with Roman numerals. I try to remember what they stand for, fail, and turn to the web instead. According to Google, it's labeled 1, 10, 20, 30, and 50. Someone added a shutter speed function, maybe? This DIY update could be why the camera doesn't work. I won't know for sure until I can test it.

Once I'm done cleaning the piece, I set it in the center of my display case. The items in the case don't seem special. a remote from a fat-backed 90s television set, a puzzle box with a grainy image of the Grand Canyon, vintage headphones with spongy orange padding connected to a thin wire strap. Seeing the camera perched there gives me the phantom urge to comb my dad's old polaroids. Even though I know everything is gone, some part of me still believes it's all out there somewhere waiting for me.

The things I've collected are just pale limitations. Similar, but not the same. Now there's a tiny voice in my mind. Whispering that this camera actually is one of those lost pieces. But what are the chances of finding the actual camera that belonged to my father? Twenty years later in a random shop, hundreds of miles from where he disappeared. All my dad's belongings were sold off or thrown away after he vanished, except for the few things I could fit in my Spider-Man backpack.

Since I had no other relatives, the state caseworker bundled me up and drove me to the nearest children's home. I was six. Once I aged out of foster care, I spent years looking for the lost pieces of my past. My search taught me to not get my hopes up. Most of the stuff we had was junk, not even worth the space it would take up on the pawn shop's shelf. Funny how something could be priceless to one person, but worthless to another. My stomach is alive with nerve. when the film finally arrives.

I open it with shaking hands, pulling out the new cartridges. Two packs of 600 film, eight instant photos in each. I plan to take a series of photos to pinpoint the malfunction. Maybe the dial modification messed with the sensor, or the way the camera processes specific colors.

Best case scenario is the old film was the issue, and the camera will work fine with new cartridges. Worst case scenario, I'll have to deconstruct. it, replace the broken parts, and piece it back together. I hate doing that. I hate swapping out the old for something new. It makes the antique feel tainted somehow,

like I've snapped its tether to the past. Once I load the film, I hold the camera to my eye. A slightly blurry apartment looks back at me, rounded at the edges from the lens. But my finger hesitates over the button. Capturing my dull apartment is a waste of good film. I looped the camera's sturdy leather strap around my neck and grab my keys. There's a lake not far from my apartment, and it's populated with archnecked swans and stubby-modeled geese.

The sun is about to reach its golden hour, and the photos will at least have some life to them. The walk isn't long, but the camera is heavy around my neck. It gives me a brief flashback of my father carrying his the same way as he paced around our old house. I can't remember where he was going, or why. why he looked so agitated. I don't remember much about those last few days. I arrive at the cracked sidewalk surrounding the lake. The concrete drops off into sloped grass,

and the grass becomes sand just before the start of the water. The lake is stagnant and dark, and smells like bird shit. But I like this place. I like the echoing birds, and the way the clouds go milky and pink just before sunset. All of it looks like a painting in some other life. a much better life than mine.

This is the perfect place to take photographs. Anticipation prickles across my skin as I line up my eye to the viewfinder. My index finger hovers over the button for a moment. And then I take a deep breath and press it firmly. The shutter clicks and a small square Polaroid pops out from the side. I hold the picture in my hands, resisting the urge to shake it. Contrary to popular belief shaking a Polaroid picture can disturb chemicals and cause the image to bubble and crack. The best way to let a polaroid develop is

to be patient. I look out across the water as I wait for the image. There are people strolling idly on the other side of the lake. A man and a woman who look at least a few years older than me. The woman pushes a stroller and the man holds the leash of a small, excitable puppy. Its sharp bark echoes out across over the lake. The side of the family puts an ache in my chest. I swallow and look away. The Polaroid is finally ready, and at first I think it worked. The lake looks the same, dotted with birds and set against a gauzy sunset. But there's no concrete sidewalk.

And the lake water is much lighter, almost clear. The people strolling on the other side are missing too. And something is weird with the oak trees. In front of me, they're towering and full. Leaves swaying in the breeze. In the photo, there are thin saplings barely taller than me. I sigh and raise the camera to my eye again. This time I snap a close-up of the lake's edge.

When the Polaroid dutifully pops from its slot, I hold it between my fingers to watch the development. The room of the lake comes into view first, and it looks normal, but then a dark shape starts to form in the center of the Polaroid. When I look up, there's nothing in front of me. I look back at the photo as the line sharpened and the colors burst to life. It's a woman. She's kneeling at the edge of the lake, a torn piece of bread between her outstretched fingers.

A goose floats on the water in front of her. Beak poised to snap at the food. I look from the photo to the real lake and back again. She's not here. In the photo, I can only see the back of the woman's head. Her hair is aggressively feathered like that famous poster of Farah Fawcett. Her shirt has long bell sleeves and the jeans pool. around her ankles flare outward.

My pulse drums against my throat as I snap another picture. When it develops, the woman isn't feeding the duck anymore. She's looking right at me. The camera slips out of my startled hands, the leather strap snapping against my neck. I pulse pounds in my ears and my chest feels hot with bubbling panic. Something in the deepest pocket of my brain screams out in warning. But this is just a mechanical error. maybe an old image imprinted on the camera equipment,

and it gets superimposed on whatever else the camera captures. But the woman wasn't in any of the other photos. I pulled a trio of images out of my pocket. I study the saplings and then look at their grown counterparts. I flipped at the photo of the woman feeding the duck because I can't bear myself to look her in her eyes again. The woman's outfit could have come out of one of my thrift store haunts, or from a department in the 70s.

The idea takes root in my brain like a seed, sprouting and fast forward. That's when I remember the dial at the bottom of the camera. When I check at the dial is set to 50, I didn't think to adjust it before I started taking photos. I twist the dial to another setting. 30. Before my writhing anxiety convinces me not to, I snap another photo. The sidewalk is there this time, crowded with people. It looks like there's some sort of festival around the entire lake.

with colorful tents and smoke rising from portable cooktops. A sign appears in the Polaroid. Barbecue Fest. 1993. 1993. 30 years ago, exactly. I barge into Greg's vintage goods with the camera cradled in my hands. No, sir, we agreed.

No returns. You knew it was broke. Do you know who dropped his camera off? Will stares at me for a moment, his gaze suspicious. I already told you I don't. I know, but can you... I take a short breath trying to steady myself. Can you try to remember, please?

Will doesn't move for a long moment. His eyes go hazy as he digs through his memory. I'd have come in with all the church donations last week. And that's pretty normal. The church always tries to sell stuff on their own, and then they donate any rejects. I've combed through those teeth. petering stacks in front of the church's kaleidoscope glass windows. Will, has anything ever come in that's strange, that maybe does odd things?

Will looks at me like I'm an idiot. I run an antique shop. Once I got a pie pan with half the pie steel in it. No, weirder than that. I clenched my fists and chews my words carefully. Have you ever found anything that was... I don't know, off somehow, in ways you couldn't explain? Will's expression turns guarded, and that's how I know I'm on to something.

What's your point, kid? This camera, I drift off, running my fingers over its crisp red angles. I'm not even sure how to explain. What if he thinks I'm crazy? Will speaks, and there's finally a note of seriousness in his voice. Listen, I've been doing this a long time, and some things just ain't got no explanation. You see things come in, sometimes they draw a person in and trap them like a spider web. I don't question it, and neither should you.

So you think that I'm, what, meant to have this camera? Will shakes his head impatiently. Think about what's meant to be or some Bible, something shit like that. All I'm saying is some things end up with who they want to end up with. Will's words follow me all the way home. I think about contacting the church, maybe tracing the origins of the camera that way, but what if Will is right? What if the origin doesn't as matter as much as the simple fact that it's mine now?

And I can do whatever I want with it. It only takes a few hours of debate before I order cheap bus tickets online. I stare at my collection in the display case, how each item points to my past like a game of Connect the Dots. But those are replicas. Replacements, barely even relevant, except that they stir up tender memories. This camera can give me something much more concrete. But first, I have to get there. The trip on the cramped Greyhound bus is unremarkable. I keep the camera and its fresh photo cartridge cradled against my chest while I try to not fall asleep in case there are any pickpockets on board.

It feels like it takes days for the bus to finally pull into the station. I glance around eagerly as I disembark, but nothing looks familiar. No faint stirrings of a childhood long forgotten. I never came back here. A part of me always wanted to, but the other part was scared. I'm not sure of what. Maybe that I'd find my dad curled up in his rocker on the front porch, a beer in his hand. Maybe that he came back, but never came to find me.

The strangers around me are filled with ominous possibility. Bumbled in coats, their faces shadowed in the watery dawn light. Any of them could be my father. I think I see him waiting at the bus stop, but when I look, the resemblance fades like a lens coming into focus. The town where I grew up is small. so it's a short walk to my old house. I haven't thought about what to do if someone lives there. Probably just tell a portion of the truth.

I want to look around and take a few photos for posterity. I won't tell them I'm trying to solve the mystery that has defined my life. I push on. My hand's shaking and my organs feeling too big for my skeleton. Then I round a corner and it's there. For a blistering moment the past and present superimpose. It was never an impressive house, but my dad did his best with it. Moed the yard, cleared the gutters, replaced planks on the porch when they gave way.

Now it's in shambles. Grass and weeds reach my hip, and the roof sags like an overtaxed bridge. The wrap-round porch has collapsed in places, leaving jagged edges of wrought-tinged wood. I don't have to worry about anyone else living here. It's more likely that the house will collapse on top of me. There's something tempting about the idea, about leaving the earth in the last place I saw my family. Before I lose my nerve, I turn the cameras dial to 20 and take a photo. Waiting for it to develop is agony.

But finally, there it is. The house I remember. Framed by white borders, chabby but dutifully kept. A figure fades into view and my pulse skitters offbeat. It's my father. standing on the front porch and dirty work jeans and a ribbed sleeveless shirt, his elbow leaning against the railing. Even from a distance, his eyes look troubled, cast in shadow by his heavy brow.

Seeing him fills me with something mammoth and unnameable. It's how I feel when I find the perfect antique, but stronger. A bonfire instead of a spark. I scramble up the dry, vines and weeds threatening to pull me off my feet. I wrap my arms around the camera in desperation. It can't break, not now. Not when the answers are right there. But I find my balance and push forward, leaving a trail of trampled stalks behind me.

My breath rattles like a hurricane in my ears. I reach the porch sooner than I expected. Each step groans under my feet as I leap up the stairs. The door hangs askew half off its hinges. I put my shoulder into it, creating a space wide enough to see. step through. Inside is no better. The living room carpet is tattered, with blackening stains from years of leaks. Those stains are mirrored on the sagging ceiling. Scratches mar the door frames and windows from a raccoon or a fox, or something worse. Beyond the living room, there's a hallway leading up

to the bedrooms. The corridor is ink dark, the windows and the bedrooms boarded up. I take in the wreckage of the only home I've ever known. And a sob builds in my throat, but I swallow it down. The camera. The camera can fix all of this. It can peel back the layers of time like old paint, showing my home as I remember it. Modest, tidy, warm.

With my father in his brown leather armchair. A laugh settling into the lines of his face as he watches me play jacks on the floor. When I hold the viewfinder, to my eye, it's blurry. And that's when I realize I'm crying. Pressing the button feels like a wish. A prayer. Something tossed desperately into the universe in hopes of an answer.

The camera clicks slices through the silent room like stereo feedback. I feel like I'm going to rattle apart as I wait for the film to develop. But it doesn't. The Polaroid is a blank square in my hands. The only spot of color on the entire thing is a muddy thumbprint from my white-knuckled grip. I can't resist shaking the photo, even though I know it won't help. The film crackles like a lightning storm, but nothing shows up. I drop it to the floor and snap another picture, not even bothering to look through the viewfinder.

Now I only have five polaroids left in the cartridge. I should have brought more film, but I didn't think it would take much to find something. I believe the camera would show me what I needed to see, that I was somehow destined to use it for this purpose. with shaking fingers I pull the new photo from the slot it's mostly blank but this time there's something at the corner of the image just a dark blur almost out of frame I tilt the camera farther up and snap another photo four more left I should wait for the film to develop but

some mad instinct takes over my hands I tilt the camera press the shutter tilt the camera and press it again I do this until I run out of film The Polaroids get her to the floor As the next one forces the last from the slot I lean down to collect them And then splay all eight photos in my fingers like a poker hand It feels like that too

Like I'm gambling but not sure with what A pressure builds in my chest Decompressing my lungs and making it hard to breathe Except for the wide shot of the house Every photo is blank But then color explodes On to all of them at once like someone's dropped ink over them.

There's no way they could develop that fast. The inky color even takes over that first photo, drowning out the house in my father's silhouette. The shape slowly coalesce into what looks like an overexposed image. It's impossible to comprehend, and I think there's been some kind of catastrophic failure within the film until something inside the photo moves. At first I think I'm imagining it, but then it happens again.

black creeps toward the edges and the white sections sputter like a dying candle heart pounding i toss the polaroids away from me they fall in an unnaturally neat pattern lining up in two rows edge to edge as they continue forming one full picture something starts to coalesce curves ending in sharp points like teeth or claws the jaw line next two pointed to be human then two oval shapes in the center of the picture. As I watched, paralyzed with horror, the eyes blink once, twice, and turn the hard yellow of a predator's gaze. It takes me a few seconds to realize the shape isn't just morphing within the Polaroids. It's growing up and out of them, gaining depth and shadow as it goes. An imprint emerges, held back by the Polaroid boundary like a hand pushing against cellophane. I can see the thing more clearly now. Horns and teeth, charred skin, vertical snake's eyes, slits where its nostrils should be. Out of sheer panicked instinct I stomp on the figure. My heel slips through the border, hitting something lava hot and solid as stone. I scream and jerk

backwards, but my foot sticks like it's submerged in quicksand. Hot, Agony burns up my leg and for a moment, everything stills. Then white blooms on the photo again, pushing back the demonic shape and I can finally pry my foot away. But the photo development doesn't stop. Lines and features sink in until I can make out a person staring back at me, tall and imposing, stress lines across his mouth and eyes. But a well of warmth underneath all that. Emotion, in my throat, stronger than the bitter taste of fear. It's my father. The white seems to emanate from him, and it begins taking over the rest of the canvas, stretching out towards the edges to

force away the dark. There's a faint roar of protest like a distant alarm. Then a hand comes toward the surface. A human hand, blunt nails and sunworn skin. My father's hand. I reach for him, too. fingers slipping past the borders of the Polaroid. Our hands connect and a spark of electricity shoots through me. I forget about the other figure. My thoughts centering on getting my father out. But he lets go of me and retreats into the flat canvas. I lurched to follow.

No! The voice is echoing and distant, like he's shouting across a lake. Dad. The camera, son. The voices. authoritative as ever. Just like when I was young and dusk took over the skyline. You can't play after dark, he'd say. Gentle but absolute. He has that tone now. The one telling me I can't do something because it would hurt me. I cradle the camera closer to my chest. No, I feel like a child

again. Small and vulnerable and uncomprehending. We have too much to talk about. Too much to do together. a lifetime of corners and gaps to fill. I can't give up this window to my father, not even if it comes with destruction. I was in your shoes once. I hear the hoarseness in my father's throat, like he hasn't spoken in years. I made the mistake of thinking it was a gift seeing the past, seeing your mother's face again, but it isn't. It's a trap. I can get you out, Dad.

Take my hand. The space must be filled, and it will not be filled by you. His voice thunders, then, a mammoth command. It shakes the windows of our old home and rattles the rotted floorboards. The command is not directed at me, but his next words are. Hand me the camera, son. In that moment, I know he's right. Even if I don't understand what's happening.

I know my father has only ever tried to protect him. me. Come in before dark, wash your hands, pick up your jack so you don't step on them. Give me the camera. I slip the leather strap from around my neck and hold out the old Polaroid camera. The darkness is back at the edges of the frame, encroaching in small growths like black mold. I see the whites of my father's panicked eyes and I know we have to do this now or it'll be too late. He reaches through and our fingers brush once more as he grabs the camera. There's another roar that sounds closer than before. He pulls, and I let go. We keep eye contact as he drags the object into his strange, flat world. Go! And then a deafening crash drowns him out.

Like a building swallowing itself up. I look around and realize that is what's happening. It's as though a sonic blast has rocked through the room, the walls and roof buckling dangerously. and for one moment I consider letting it swallow me too. But I look down to my father's distorted face and see the panic in his eyes. The concern for my life written all over his expression. He was never good at saying he loved me, but his actions always showed it. So I run. I don't stop until I'm standing at our old mailbox.

The house crumbling to dust behind me. I stare at the rubble for a long time, breathing heavily. into the muggy night air. When I glanced down, I realized there's something crumpled in my clenched hand. I don't remember grabbing anything when I ran. Washed out fear courses through me as I open my shaking fist. It's a Polaroid photo. I almost fling it away from me. Memories of the demon thing flashing in front of my eyes. But it's not part of that series. Instead, I see a picture I never took. It's my father, sitting in his brown leather chair, a gentle smile on his face. And he's looking right at me.

As the train pulls 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 Brandy! And, Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy 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.

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