The NoSleep Podcast - S21 Ep2: NoSleep Podcast S21E02

Episode Date: May 12, 2024

It's Episode 02 of Season 21. Ride the Sleepless Express into tales about urban legends.“The Boogeyman of Yarrowmarch” written by S.H. Cooper (Story starts around 00:03:45)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Sarah Thomas, Betsy – Mary Murphy“Peeping Tom” written by Pearl Dublin (Story starts around 00:22:40)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Erin Lillis, Mary – Nichole Goodnight, Joanne – Danielle McRae, Rebecca – Katabelle Ansari, Tommy Bright – Matthew Bradford, Younger Cop – Dan Zappulla, Older Cop – Graham Rowat“The Way I Heard It Was…” written by Canyon Sanford (Story starts around 00:40:50)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator – Jesse Cornett, Bubba – Atticus Jackson, Mike – Graham Rowat, Man – Jeff Clement, Girl – Danielle McRae“A Song from the Dark” written by Frank Oreto (Story starts around 01:11:55)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Samantha – Linsay Rousseau, Burke – David Cummings, Dad – Dan Zappulla“Tall Betsy” written by Sam Morris (Story starts around 01:35:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Waffiyah White, Clay – Reagen Tacker, Terry – Matthew Bradford, Clay’s Father – Atticus Jackson, Tall Betsy – Mary Murphy“The Wishing Well” written by Daniel Barnett (Story starts around 01:51:10)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Michael – Mike DelGaudio, Helena – Nikolle Doolin, The Thing in the Well – Mike DelGaudioThis episode is sponsored by:Betterhelp – This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. Give online therapy a try at betterhelp.com/nosleep and get on your way to being your best self.Green Chef – Green Chef makes eating well easy with plans to fit every lifestyle. Whether youíre Keto, Paleo, Vegan, Vegetarian, Gluten-Free, or just looking to eat more balanced meals, Green Chef offers a range of recipes to suit your preferences. Go to greenchef.com/nosleep65 and use code nosleep50 to get 50% off plus 20% your next two months!Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Peeping Tom” illustration courtesy of Kelly TurnbullAudio 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 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. When it comes to horror stories, one of the best sources is found in the realm of urban legends and folklore. Those stories that get passed down from one generation to the next. Usually it's a story that happens in a specific area, and as such, it gets told over and over again to the local youngsters or visitors in town. Whether they're true or not doesn't matter. The stories themselves are a perfect way to share the chills and thrills around a campfire or a dark walk at night. And of course, trains and railroads are the perfect setting for tales such as this. You may be familiar with an urban legend that has become, well, legendary.

I believe the setting is somewhere around San Antonio, Texas. No, it's not the legend of the stolen bike in the basement of the Alamo. It's the one about the train crossing haunted by children. As the story goes, one day a school bus got stuck on the tracks at the crossing, and a train struck the bus, killing all the kids on board. Now the crossing is haunted. So what you do is wait until after midnight, when the stars are big and bright. Pull your car onto the tracks at the crossing and put your car in neutral.

If everything goes right, your car will slowly roll over the tracks until it's safe on the other side. And when you get out and look at the back of your car, you'll see multiple child-sized handprints on your car, as if the ghosts of the kitties pushed you to safety. Did that really happen? Of course it did. Why would you question it? And on this episode we have other stories that are undoubtedly real, whether you want to believe them or not.

Stories about legends involving spirits or places that will ultimately cause a great deal of terror to those who dare repeat the tales or seek their veracity. So as our train journey begins, Remember not to doubt those legends. It's just safer that way. And now the train is ready to depart. Your journey into the darkness begins now.

In our first tale, we meet two young women who love tales of the macabre. They're especially interested in their town's spooky local legend. And as we'll learn in this tale, shared with us by author S-H-Germac. Cooper. When the ladies attempt to learn more about the legend, they discover that seeking proof isn't a good idea. Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas and Mary Murphy. So just enjoy the stories without looking into them too deeply. That way you'll avoid the boogeyman of Yarrow March. All urban legends start as something real. I don't know if that's actually scientifically true, but it's what I believe.

And these days, isn't that enough to make it true? Sometimes, it's fear-based, and the legends become a warning of sorts, like all the child-drowning ladies in white who are used to keep kids away from water. Other times, it's as benign as granny getting scared by a big black dog while out on an evening stroll. And suddenly, everyone knows somebody who's seen that same dog,

and they definitely died after, but only once they'd made sure to mention it to other people, of course. The dog grows, its eyes turn red, maybe its panting breath starts stinking of brimstone, and sweet little rover is now the scourge of the countryside, a portent of death to any who look upon him. Ours started as a gardener. Back in the early 1900s,

a man by the name of Arthur Dali came to Yarrowmarch in search of work. It was, and, still is, a small New England town. But even small towns need their gardeners, and he found employment soon enough. He made quite the name for himself by way of his green thumb, and he became responsible for tending all the public spaces, including the schoolyard. Everyone loved Arthur Dally. What nobody can seem to agree on is who was the first to go missing. By some accounts, it was the pastor's daughter. Others claim it took a few disappearances before. he worked his way up to such a notable victim. But the kids went missing regardless, seven of

them, between the ages of nine and 18, confirmed by piecemeal town records with muddy dates. I'm sure you can see where this is going. People began doing the math, when he arrived versus when they started keeping the doors locked, and asked themselves, how do Mr. Dally's gardens grow? as it turned out, with silver bells and cockleshells, and all the children in a row. I've heard a photo exists of some townsfolk and the pulp formerly known as Arthur Dally, but I've never been able to find it. Not sure I really wanted to. Kind of a grim souvenir for a very dark period. Normally that would have been the end of it. They dumped his body in a hole in the woods and moved on until nobody remembered the name of the murderous town gardener,

except they didn't. Parents continued to evoke the name of Arthur Dally to keep their unruly little ones in line until he surpassed his former self, horrible enough as he was, and like that black dog out for an evening jaunt, he grew into something else entirely, the boogeyman of Yarrowmarch.

And like all the best boogeymen before him, Arthur Dally got himself a little nursery rhyme. Dally, Dally, Daly, Dead Man, whose roots grow long and deep. Dally, Dally, Deadman, who seeks your soul to keep. Dally, Dally, dead man, he slumbers in the ground. Step lightly or you'll wake him. Then he'll drag you down. Pretty sure that poem was what kick-started my interest in ghost stories and urban legends.

Instead of scaring me like it was supposed to, much to the disappointment of my older brother, I started reading all the horror I could get my hands on. While the fiction was fun, it was the true stuff that really intrigued me. It was also how I became friends with Betsy. We were just a couple of nerds who got to talking one Saturday at the library and never stopped.

Then she didn't come home. I don't know if it was because she was 17, or not rich enough or not popular enough or not blonde enough or what. But even in a small town, Betsy was only third-page news, under the story of Mr. Capsfield's very large pumpkin. Even during my interview, the detective I was speaking to seemed bored. When did you last speak to her? Was she having any problems at home?

At school? Were you aware of Miss Ryder having any male acquaintances? I showed them the texts. I told them what I thought. Betsy had gone looking for dally-dally dead man. She believed she'd found out where they'd buried him. It'd been kind of a morbid pet project of ours, researching the events surrounding his death

and trying to pinpoint where they'd left his remains. Too morbid, I guess, for the cops to take seriously. I was used to the looks I got, the way their eyes changed, like they couldn't see past the weirdo label they'd slapped on me. I'd hoped, given the circumstances, it'd be different. Instead, they asked if I was covering for a runaway. It's just an urban legend, I was told.

Showing them our shared drive with all our research didn't help. All the real town records, the newspaper articles, it only solidified the label. I was mad when I left the police station. I was still mad when I got home. at the cops, at our parents, who didn't have time for more of our horror nonsense. Even at Betsy. Why couldn't she have just told me where she thought it was? Why'd she have to leave my last text asking for the location unanswered?

Since they hadn't found her phone, it was assumed she'd taken it with her, though likely turned off as they hadn't been able to ping it. I decided to text her again and call her again. Where are you? Are you okay? Answer me. She didn't, no matter how many times I checked. It's hard to sleep when you're worried. I tried, shutting off my light at my usual time and getting under my covers. But I just stared at my ceiling, thinking about Betsy and Arthur Dally and how mad I was to cover up how sad I was. My phone, always left on silent, lighting up from my nightstand, turned my white stand, turned my white sealing a shade of blue-green, and I almost fell out of bed grabbing for it. Betsy's picture filled my

screen. I had to keep from shouting her name when I answered. The line was quiet, and I said her name again. Her voice was a whisper, but I knew it anyway. I said all the same things I had before. Where are you? Are you okay? Answer me. I didn't think a phone call could be so quiet, and I had to check she was still there when she whispered. Whose roots grow long and deep? I told her to knock it off, but her paper-thin voice came through again. Tally, dolly, death for the one that never... There was no emotion in her voice, no change in tone or pace, only a flat whisper.

When I told her she was scaring me, she started again, all the way through. I don't know why, I told her those weren't the right words. It was a stupid thing to get caught up on, but my brain just kept repeating, It's not right, it's not right. She only stopped when I started screaming for my parents. My phone showed I just had a call, that it lasted as long as I said it did,

but the number wasn't Betsy's. I cried and shouted it was her. It was her. But Dad looked it up online and showed me it came back on a bunch of those Whose number is the sites labeled a spam? They took me to the police anyway, where I was told the same thing. Spam. Her phone is off. Hasn't been on. Must have been a nightmare. Mom let me take a Benadryl when we got home. If I couldn't get to sleep naturally,

store-bott was fine. I just wanted to put the day behind me. I crawled back into bed with my phone face down on the nightstand in case it rang again. I shut my eyes, willing the bed. vinegar to do its work. It never took long. But as I was just beginning to drift off, I swear, I heard Betsy's monotone voice whispering, barely perceptible from my phone. Mom didn't need to be convinced that I should stay home the next day. My head felt full of sand and my stomach bubbled. I just wanted to stay in bed. Mom said stress could do that to you. She left me crackers and ginger rail in case I felt up to eating and went to work, leaving me home alone. I wasn't able to fall

back asleep, but kept my face buried in my comforter with my eyes squeezed shut. My phone, always left on silent, dinged. It'd been so long since I'd heard any notifications, I wasn't sure if it was a voicemail or text. I tried to ignore it. I only thought I'd heard it. It was the stress, like Mom said. Then it dinged again. and again, and again, and again, and again, and again. I slammed my hand over the phone and lifted it. A barrage of text had flooded in, all saying the same thing. Dally, Dally Dead Man, whose roots grow long and deep.

Dally, Dally, Dedlyman, who seeks your soul to keep. Dally, Dally, Dead Man, in Yarrow March, he hides. Make sure you don't go looking for the one that never die. eyes. Betsy's name was across the top of all of them. I screamed, angry and afraid and confused, and threw my phone across the room. It smacked against the wall and landed with a thud on the ground. I stared at it, a stupid, nonsensical fear welling up that it would sprout spider legs and come charging across the room toward me. Of course it didn't. It just lay there, unmoving, silent. No more dings. My cat wall clock ticked the seconds by so loudly.

Each one pounded in my head until they sounded like Betsy's voice. Dally, dally, dead man. I covered my ears, tears running down my face. Why, Betsy? I thought, yelling in my own head. Why are you doing this? Where are you? Where are?

She did an answer, and I cried my son. back to sleep. I dreamt again of her head growing from long stems, bobbing in the breeze, her pale lips moving without sound, her sunken eyes wet. Neat little rows of Betsy blooms, and around them other plots, other heads. Their faces were indistinct, blurred, like old, poorly developed Polaroids. I only knew Betsy, and the way she stared at me. When I woke up, The image of her flower heads was still sharp. I knew why she was doing this. I'd seen it in her face.

My legs felt like jello when I got up and went to get my phone. Its screen was cracked, something I usually would have been devastated by, but all I could think about was Betsy and the way she was begging for help, begging me to help her. And I knew where to look. The place where we always stored the information we couldn't wait to share and pour over together. The texts were gone. It barely registered as I went to our shared drive.

I scrolled through our research, carefully organized in sub-boulders, until I came to Dally, Dally, Dead Man. According to the timestamp, it hadn't been updated in over a week. I opened it to find every document had been changed to the same scanned image, a page of yellowed paper from a book of handwritten nursery rhymes.

Dally, Dally, Derry Dettman. But not as we'd learned. it. Something older, an original, dated 1923. No mention of slumbering, only the one that never dies. Drawn along the bottom of the page was a row of plants dotted with clumps of tiny flowers, white Yarrow. Yarrow march hadn't been a reference to the town itself. It was the woodland trail from which the town took its name, marched right through swaths of wild white Yarrow. Dad didn't understand why I wanted him to drive me out to the preserve. I didn't explain.

I wasn't sure he'd believe me. He finally gave in when I started crying. He kept asking what was wrong, what was at the preserve, begging me to talk to him. The car hadn't stopped completely before I was jumping out and running past the entrance signs, the barriers, down the path into the woods. Dad chased behind, calling my name. Everyone knows where the march is. It's a popular hiking trail and field trip destination. As soon as the flowers came into sight, I was diving amongst them, pawing at their stems, digging at the dirt, all while Dad yelled for an explanation.

I clawed at the earth, stopped, moved, clawed again. At some point, I'd started screaming for Betsy. Dad was tugging gently at my arm, telling me it was time to go, and I almost gave in. but a cluster of flower set amongst many like it caught my eye. Brighter, taller, their leaves greener. It stood out only slightly, the one that didn't die. I tore myself from Dad and fell on my knees beside it, my nails raking at the dirt. She shouldn't have come.

She shouldn't have looked. She shouldn't have found him. She shouldn't have woken him up. I scraped something in that dirt, and came away with Betsy's phone clutched in my hands. She couldn't be buried there, cops assured me. The ground was undisturbed except where I dug. Cadaver dogs didn't detect anything.

It was likely, I was told, that Betsy had dropped her phone. I begged, I pleaded. I called and called and called. But it was impossible. Betsy could not be there. That's what they said. What they still say, they've written Betsyoff as a runaway and me as crazy. But I know better, even if no one believes me.

All urban legends start as something real. Arthur Dally, the boogeyman of Yarrowmarch, was real. He is real. I know he should be dead, but he's not. He's hiding. And somewhere beneath the wildflowers, he has been. my best friend. No boogeymen here.

Just a quick word from our sponsor. For ad-free, extended horror content, go to sleepless. com. The nosleeppodcast.com. Imagine the stress of losing your best friend to an urban legend. We all deal with things big and small that add stress to our lives,

but there are ways to deal with it effectively, and we can learn how, thanks to this show being sponsored by better help. I can't imagine there's anyone out there who isn't affected by stress on a daily basis. And if you're like me, it feels like it just grows and grows. And the worst thing we can do, keep that stress all bottled up inside and hope you can figure out a way to make it just go away.

If I've learned anything in my many years, it's that stress doesn't just fade away. You have to release it from your mind and body. Therapy has helped me find those release valves so I can deal with stress and alleviate it. Therapy is a safe space to get things off your chest, and figure out how to work through whatever's weighing you down. So consider better help when you want to try therapy. Online therapy that's convenient for your schedule,

so it's easy to look after your mental health. Just fill out a quick questionnaire and you'll be matched with a therapist suited to your needs. And if you want to switch therapists, you can do it easily for no additional charge. So get it off your chest with better help. Visit betterhelp.com slash no sleep today. to get 10% off your first month.

That's better H-E-L-P.com slash no sleep. Thanks to BetterHelp for sponsoring this episode. Now, back to the show. Keep your peepers open for this one. Is there a better setting

to tell scary urban legends than a slumber party? Friends gathered in a dark room lit only by a candle hoping the story remains in the fictional realm. Well, in this tale, shared with us by author Pearl Dublin.

We meet some friends who try to summon the spirit of a man legendary for his misdeeds. Who knew they'd be so good at it? Performing this tale are Aaron Lillis, Nicole Goodnight, Danielle McCray, Catabell Ansari, Matthew Bradford, Dan Zapula, and Graham Rowett. So if you want to have your own slumber party to tell scary stories, might I suggest covering your windows? That way you won't have to deal with a peeping, Tom. Can I begin now?

All right. It's a little strange. You heard about me, but I suppose gossip does tend to linger, especially in a place as small as this. Where to begin? I suppose I can start with what caused all of it. There's an old, I don't know what you'd call it exactly,

an urban legend, ghost story. Either way, it was a game that revolved around this guy who died in the 70s. His name was Tommy Bright, a deadbeat who had been the son of the mayor at the time. He'd spent his days wandering around town, bombing pocket change, food, and booze off of anyone who had the misfortune of encountering him. It's run around the fact that his father was mayor to get others to do what he wanted. And this unfortunately meant people, especially law enforcement, would looked the other way when he harassed women. Tommy was a notorious pervert. Infamous enough he had

been caught several times over the years, peeking through windows, or if he was drunk trying to break into homes at night, until finally someone had enough of them. He'd been stalking this one girl who had become his latest obsession all day, following her home, and Tommy stood outside banging against the door for hours trying to get in, but she apparently was not alone in that house. Her father gave him one warning to leave. Tommy, in all his stupidity, thought he was untouchable and he refused to. So the girl's father opened the door, shiny barrel of a well-kept shotgun poking out, only for it to blow a hole straight through Tommy's chest.

You can probably find all sorts of reports on what happened later. The father pleaded innocent, stating it was in self-defense, but got convicted anyway. Last I heard he was still in jail. that's the preamble needed to set things up so that you can understand how it relates to me. About 20 years later

sometime in the mid-90s I was a middle schooler. We had all sorts of myths we used to scare each other. Classics like Bloody Mary or the Hookman. For us though here in Bumfuck Nowhere we had our own local peeping Tom based on, you guessed it, Tommy Bright.

The game, or ritual if you'd prefer, was simple. You'd wait until the witching hour, the real witching hour at 3 a.m. not midnight, like most would have you believe. Then you'd turn off all the lights in your home and approach your front door. It was important, mainly for your own safety, that it be locked. You would then knock three times in a slow, precise rhythm and wait. If you did everything correctly, the ghost of peeping Tom would appear on the other side to knock back. Through the door, he would then ask you if you were a pretty girl. You'd say yes, no matter if this was true or not, or the game ends and he disappears. Next, he'd ask you if you would let him in, and you had to say no. I don't know what happens if you say yes.

Nobody should ever say yes. Tom would then start hitting the door, hard enough you could see a buckle. God forbid if you had a screen or glass door. If you wait through his tantrum and your door was sturdy enough, he'd calm down before offering you three things to pick from. One, he would tell you anything you wanted to know. Two, he'd leave something you requested on your doorstep, which you would find come morning. Three, he'd take away someone from you, someone you didn't like.

Two of my friends, Mary and Joanne and I were having a slumber party together, being babysat by my older sister, Rebecca, who was in high school. It was a Friday night and both my parents were away on a trip. Their marriage was going through a rough patch and they were trying to see if they could make things work out with this getaway together. Rebecca and I didn't exactly get along. exacerbated by our parents' strained relationship. She was dealing with hormones and the many trials of public learning. Well, I was too young to understand what a period was yet

and confused as to why my big sister never wanted to spend time with me anymore. I don't blame her now. I was probably a shit kid, especially after what happened. We were forced to go to bed, which, as, little girls having a sleep over, sleep was the furthest things from our minds, as we giddily ignored Rebecca's orders, and we stayed up chatting. Eventually, it began near 3 a.m., and we all had the stupid idea to try to summon peeping Tom. Which of his gift should we pick? I sat on the floor and clutched my arms around my knees tightly, heart beating excitedly from staying up so late.

I say we ask him to leave us money. Mary was this spinly thing who had hit her growth spurt before the rest of us, and we could tell she was self-conscious about it. Enough for us to go on a shopping spree at the mall. Nah, ask him for the answers to Mr. Smith's math test next week. I'm not ready for it. You want to summon the ghost of peeping Tom to give you answers to a stupid test? Just study.

Joanne retorted by throwing a pillow at her head. Hey, you fucking gremlins! We were interrupted by the silhouette of my older sister stepping into the room, looking as pissed as she sounded. I thought I told you all to go to sleep. Sorry. I sounded more sarcastic than I wanted to, but I couldn't help being mean back then.

Guess we didn't hear you. Her face scrunched into an expression of annoyance. I could tell she was trying to be patient with me, but was quickly losing that personal battle. You're lucky the dog has to go to the bathroom. I'm going to go take him out. When I get back, you're going to go to sleep whether you want to or not. Or what?

I found myself saying defiantly, trying to look cool in front of Mary and Joanne. I just wish I'd been nicer in those last moments. Rebecca narrowed her eyes. Mom and dad are breaking up because of you. That stunned me before. filling me with anger that had no outlet. She left, and I heard her open the back door and leave, our dog following her outside.

She'd be gone for about 20 minutes or so, taking him for a short walk around the block. Even though I was fuming, that gave us more than enough time. Once the hour rolled over, we scurried around the house, turning off every light we could find, including the outside light my sister had turned on so she could see.

After a quickly heated debate, we all agreed I should be the one to knock on the door since this was my house. Still recovering from my sister's harsh words, I shakily approached my front door. After ensuring it was locked, I took a deep breath and tried to emulate the knock pattern I was told to repeat. Seconds passed, then a minute, all of us keeping quiet and as still as possible. Before anyone could speak up and say that this was a stupid idea, three sharp knocks from the other side of the door answered us, followed by this muffled, raspy breathing. Are you a pretty girl?

It was him. Building out my courage, I squinted to look through the peephole our front doorhead, shuddering as I saw the vague figure of a man, illuminated from behind by nothing but moonlight. He lazily swayed from one foot to the other, and when he was at the right angle, I could see there was a gushing wound in his torso, thick sludge too feted to be blood slopping out of it. I could audibly hear it falling to my porch below, making wet sloshing sounds as it did. I eventually uttered a week, yes.

Will you let me in? Looking back to my friends sitting in the dark, my eyes adjusted enough I could see them both rapidly shaking their heads. No! I finally managed to say, immediately jolting back from the suddenly violent response from Tom. His entire body flung itself at the door. Limbs flailing and bashing repeatedly,

hard enough I could hear some impacts splintering the wood. This carried on for a solid minute. My friends whimpering behind me, sounding as if they were about to burst in tears. Honestly, I was going to as well, before it all abruptly stopped. Homely, as if he hadn't just tried to forcefully enter my home? Peeping Tom spoke. Okay, apologies for that. What do you want?

It has to be something tense. tangible, you know. None of us said anything. Knowledge, then. Would you want to know about the door? Not this or another one. It's narrower. Hung.

One whispered behind your back. Nothing. You want me to take someone. He sounded almost gleeful. Choose. You don't have much time. A solid slam from the back of the house. That of a door being opened and shut loudly

caused us all to shriek. Rebecca's voice angrily shouting through the darkness. Why did you turn off the porch light, you little shits? I couldn't see a damn thing outside. She then proceeded to stomp down the hall, turning on enough lights to break the spell we had cast on ourselves, blinking confusedly from the artificially yellow glow of a light bulb above. sharing a glance of concern, we all were lost on what to do.

What happens if you interrupt the game in the middle of it? Rebecca proceeded to march over to me, hands on her hips. Bedtime? Now. I dumbly looked between her, my friends, and the door. I said now. Turning slowly to the door so that my back was to my sister, I whispered, Who are you talking to?

Oh my God. Are you idiots playing the peeping Tom game? I can't believe your childish enough to try that. She shoved me aside. Hard enough, I felt justified in my actions in that moment. Rebecca's hand reached for the handle. No, don't. You'll let him in.

Mary was already at her feet and looking to run. Before any of us could stop her, Rebecca swung the door wide open. Outside there was no one there, just the blackness of an empty night. Even the glow of the moon that had revealed Tom to me was gone, obscured by a dark sky. There's nothing out there.

Bed, now. I'm not going to repeat myself. What did you, he was right there. With nothing left to do, we all dejectedly headed to my room. None of us uttered a word, too stunned at what had happened to really discuss it.

I can't speak for the others, but I didn't sleep that night. The next morning, Rebecca had... She vanished. We were questioned thoroughly by authorities, but really, who's kind of believe, three eleven-year-old saying it was

the spirit of a dead man that had taken her away. My parents broke up after that, blaming each other for their eldest daughter going missing. I guess Rebecca had been right. It really was my fault. They weren't together anymore. I'm an adult now. It's been 20 years since this happened and I still feel guilt over it. Every year on the anniversary of Rebecca's disappearance, I play the game.

I try to call peeping Tom to my doorstep so I can. ask him to give my sister back. In my darkest hours, I want him to take me next just so maybe I could see her again. You want to know something funny? Despite doing everything correctly, as close as possible to what my memory tells me, he's never shown back up. I keep in touch with Joanne and Mary. It's a small town, so we see each other occasionally. Whenever I asked them about what happened that night, they both adamantly refused to speak about it. I don't blame them. Sometimes I think I'm being crazy.

Maybe that night was just a dream. And something mundane and not supernatural happened to Rebecca. My only solace keeping me sane is that there was something I distinctly remember of the morning after. Two different pieces of evidence ensuring my visit from peeping Tom actually happened. When my friends and I were being interrogated by the police, it was done in the crisp coolness

of an early morning, all of us standing in the yard. I remember looking at the surface of my front door, seeing indents and impact marks around the edges, thin but deep scratches from nails against the paint. Two of the officers off to the side were having a conversation I overheard. Egh, what's this gunk all over the steps? He wiped a dark smear off of his shoe onto the grass. Know about the bright boy that got shot something?

decade or two ago. This one looked more grizzled than his younger counterpart. I was first response when it happened. Same stuff was splattered all over the scene. Kid didn't bleed blood, that's for sure. My eyes fell on the sludge that had stained the front steps. Still able to clearly see and hear in my mind of it pouring out of Tommy's chest wound. Forget about Tommy and try out this delicious ad.

Add free, extended horror content, go to sleepless.com. The no-sleeppodcast.com. In my small town, the urban legend is the haunted grocery store. It's not a real legend. It's just that having to shop there feels like a horror story. That's why Kelly and I love skipping the shopping thanks to Green Chef. Green Chef is the number one meal kit for clean eating, delivering pre-portioned and pre-portioned and pre-proated quality whole foods

with limited processed ingredients. Each week we can choose from over 80 flavor-packed options, and their plans are easy to customize, so we can skip the trip to the haunted grocery store and make delicious, nutritious meals in less than 30 minutes. And with summer fast approaching, we can savor Green Chef's seasonally-inspired recipes, where we celebrate the peak ingredients, flavors, and freshness of every season.

Find out for yourself. Go to Green Chef.com slash No Sleep 50. and use code No Sleep 50 to get 50% off plus 20% off your next two months. This ain't no folktale. You go to Greenchef.com slash no sleep 50 and use code No Sleep 50 to get 50% off plus 20% off your next two months. What a fantastic deal from Green Chef, the number one meal kit for eating well. Now let's get back on track. We've got another legend for you.

In a small town, you get to know the locals from the visitors. And when a group of friends spend their time hanging around the local convenience store, you get to see more than your fair share of visitors. But in this tale, shared with us by author, Canyon Sanford, at the store in question, there's a statue sitting on the counter, and the guys hanging around are all too happy to share the legend behind it with some out-of-towners. Performing this tale, are Jesse Corny's? Attecass Jackson, Graham Rowett, Jeff Clement, and Danielle McCray.

So listen to what they say and determine for yourself what the truth is, because they'll tell you the way I heard it was... Back in those days, we figured you could always tell if someone was from out of town by what covered their feet. No man, not in that day and in that area of Texas, thought of himself as an adult, wearing anything but a sturdy pair of cowboy boots, and usually some faded jeans. Wrangler preferred. Levi accepted.

Anything fancier than a pair of brown lizard boots, or more casual than a pair of running shoes, and you could place a bed in Las Vegas, or in the back room of Sabrina's laundry, but you didn't hear it from me, that the fellow was on his way somewhere else. This guy wore some kind of runner when he wanted. walked in, and Bubba pointed him out when the bell rang above the storefront door.

He had an eye for that thing, always looking to point at somebody and say something, usually bad. And we called him Bubba because every town needed a Bubba. And even though his name was really Mark, it didn't matter. He carried a little more around his belly than he needed to survive, and he never took that trucker hat off his head. so he was our Bubba. And Bubba always wanted to point at other people and talk. This guy came in and went straight to the back. And not but a minute later, a short blonde woman holding the hands of two little girls

came in the same way and joined him. I saw them looking to cans of food and turned back to the counter. Bubba was staring at the woman, and Mike kicked him in the ankle. Don't stare, Bubba. You'll burn a hole right through that lady. No, Mike. I'm gentle. I sat beside the counter because I had nothing else to do when I sip my beer. The suds warmer than I liked, but the buzz was fine enough for a Sunday. The copper lantern originally was a speakeasy that had been lit by a, you guessed it, copper lantern that poked out of the ground outside.

And when liquor was legal again, it became an old-fashioned honky-tonk. Mike bought it a decade before. On that day, it wasn't a bar anymore and hadn't been for nearly four years. A different honky tonk with colder drinks and more sawdust on the floor had moved in right off the Bandair River. And Mike figured there was more money and convenience. So he put tile over some of the wood boards and brought in shelves. He stocked those shelves with canned food,

bags of chips, dog chow, tackle for perch, and just about anything someone might think they need, but didn't want to drive out to San Antonio to grab. Bubba and I still hung out with Mike, and he never made us pay for the beer, and we spent most Sundays behind the register while everyone else was at church or in their living rooms after coming back from church. Then we drank beer and listened to the Oilers play on the radio and talked about how it used to be. Bubba had been warned, and when the woman turned, he was still staring right at her.

He got spooked and turned his face real quick, but it was no use, and Mike and I knew it. I don't know how she took it, but Bubba was certainly embarrassed, and his cheeks, or what you could see of them, under the mutton chops he still wore, were red like the Rosefields I used to pick when I needed the money. When it looked safe enough, I punched Bubba. in the shoulder and scolding him just enough to embarrass him a bit more. He shook me and Mike off, trying to tell us he got the hint. He knew as soon as these folks were gone that we'd jab at him again because that's what he deserved and that's what we did. The family seemed to get what they

needed and came up to the register. I took my bean dip and chips down from the counter to make room because I'd like to think I'm polite. Bubba was looking just about anywhere, other than at the woman, and it was awkward because he sat on a barstool between me and Mike at the register. It was like watching an elephant try to hide behind a pine tree. I felt a little sorry for him, but when I thought about how much he was embarrassed, I felt a lot better and kept a chuckle inside. I'd wait for the family to leave before.

I really laughed. Of course, because I'm polite. And one of the little girls was looking at this statue that stood next to the register, and she asked Mike what it was. He's working. That's all right. I can chew and walk on gum at the same time. He looked at the girl and gave her a wink. Mike always looked older than he was, and right about then he seemed like the innocent old man that could be anybody's grandpa. When he was the first of us to be offered a senior discount, we joshed him pretty hard because I was actually older than him by a couple of years. He really hated that, which made it okay. We sort of had a pattern in our friendship. When the little girl was looking at the statue that Mike had picked up in a flea market because he thought it

complimented the style he was going for. And whenever I eat it, cracker, I think back to that store. Same sort of environment, with ridiculous pieces of furniture strewn about and a cigar store Indian in the back. Fish in poles and fish they might have caught hung from the railings and everything was brown. Really, really brown. I worked for the copper lantern because it looked like it all belonged, but Cracker barrel always makes me think they're trying too hard. But I like their breakfast, and Mike can't cook. She asked again, real polite, and Mike said he probably shouldn't say. It was a little too spooky.

This seemed to excite both of the little girls, and they were both staring at the thing. The other one asked him to tell, and so he did. I wish he hadn't. That there is the donkey lady. God bless the kids. They didn't even snicker. Donkey lady had been a story told to me by my daddy, and probably he heard it from his daddy before that. Every kid in East Texas had been scared to death of her

because at some point in the woods they heard a real donkey scream, and they thought the donkey lady would be coming for them next. Sometimes that donkey turned out to be your daddy hiding behind a tree, making a y'aw, he-aw, sound, and then holding in his laughter.

She was another Texas boogeyman with an unfortunate name. If the sneakers hadn't given it away, we knew these people weren't from Texas because the kids had never heard the story. Not that there's just one. Who is donkey lady? I chuckled.

He looked at Bubba, who took over the story. You want to know about donkey lady. I'll tell you. She was a woman, see, real regular like, like your mom here. He pointed at the woman, probably trying to appease her for his earlier transgression. Maybe it worked. Bubba can be charming every now and then. The way I heard it was, this lady, she had some kids. see, and they lived out in the woods, the ones you see right over behind this store. This was back in the day when all the houses were log cabins and they had to be worn by a fire in the winter. It was a particularly cold day, so they had a particularly big fire. But one of the little

kids, she had a little boy and a little girl, and this was the boy. He got up and tried to stoke the fire and make it warmer. The problem was, they stoked it a little much, and suddenly the fire is out of control. The fire pours into the home and spreads quick. Now the mother has to get the children out, but the problem is that the only door out won't work. No one knows why, but I suspect the fire at all. already warped the wood or some such. Anyway, the mother takes the kids as fast as she can to the window and opens it up and lifts

the kids one by one to get out. All the while, the fire is burning and burning and brighter and brighter. By the time they're both out, the mother tries to get out through the window, but she's already caught fire. Now, the fire, it does. something to her skin. Her fingers meld together and they look like hooves. The legs turn in and her face it melts and goes real long. Her clothes are torn and melted into her skin and they say her limp coming out looked like the run of a donkey. She makes it to the nearest river, fire all over her.

The river right out down the road here, Bandera River. She jumps in to take out the flames, and she doesn't come out. Some say she died in that house, but didn't know it until she got in the river. And some say they've seen her. If you go out to the bridge that crosses the Bandera River and you honk your horn, you'll see the donkey lady. And she'll see you. And that's when she'll get you.

Bubba punctuated the story with his hands and an elevated tone. He kind of looked like Vincent Price in that Dr. Fibbs movie. The little girls giggled and clutched at each other. The story always worked for little kids. I should know. I used to be one. The dad was all smiles, too. But the mother didn't seem all that impressed.

Say, that's a neat story. Yeah, except that isn't what happened. What do you mean? I mean, that ain't the story of donkey lady. This is the story a donkey lady. The way I heard it was, she was a mom to a little boy and a little girl, sure, and she lived in a log cabin. That much is true.

But her husband was still alive, and they lived down the road away, and they were farmers. Problem was, Dad wasn't too much fun to be around when he got on a drunk, and he was liable to whip the children real bad when the crops weren't doing good either. He was the kind of man to make his world right through the misery of the unfortunate. Anyway, the wife had had enough of it, and she knew that this year had been a bad one for their crops, and that if she didn't get herself and the children out soon, they might not be safe. So she hatches a plan that in the middle of the night, she's going to get the kids and run away, all while the husband is asleep, drunk off his keister.

She tries, but when she's got the kids by one hand and the other on the door of the house, turns out that the man wasn't too far gone in his sleep. He gets up and he goes for the kids, but she pushes him out the door and tells him to run. Instead, the man gets his hands on her, and he puts her in the fire just the same as the other story. But when she starts to burn, she grabs him and pulls him into the fire, too. He dies, but she doesn't. And instead, her hands are warped, and her nose falls off.

And she runs to the Bandera River. That's also true to try to put the fire out. She saved the kids, but they never saw her again. But other people, they go around these parts at night, they look in the fields, and they might see the red glow of her eyes, the kind of red that matches the fire that lit her up. That's how you know you're looking at. Donkey lady.

The girls didn't giggle this time around. They really did look a mite scared. But not too bad. Ghost stories were fun, weren't they? The dad was loving it, though. I could tell. The river's out around here? Yeah, Bandera River, down the road.

Maybe a mile or so. There's a bridge, but you can only go down it and turn around. The road on the other side got torn down, So all you can do is sit on the concrete, and to be honest, no one ever goes down there. That all true? That's the bridge and the story? Well, whether it's true or not is up for debate. But yeah, that's the donkey lady bridge. As far as bridges go, it's the one with the most donkey ladies.

Mike and Bubba and I laughed. The dad did too. Mama and her girls were not laughing, but the girls did seem real interested. Well, I love a good ghost story. Y'all know about her down here? That's right. She's a local legend.

Scared the bejibbers out of me as a little kid, but when I got older, the name kind of made me laugh. Still, love the legend and the local color of it, So when I saw this little statue, I had to pick it up, you know. The dad nodded, then looked at me. Real cool. Not how you heard it when you were young? No, uh, that's not how I heard it at all. Yeah?

Yeah. Uh, the way I heard it was a little worse than both of those tales. And at least that's how I heard it. I felt about it. Some of the main parts of the story were the same. The log cabin, the mother of a little boy and a little girl. And there was a husband in my version, too. But there were some other players that came in.

Here's how it goes. Then I told him and his family, I wished to God I hadn't. The family had a little farm, and they had a donkey that They used in all the farming and ranching work they did. I picked roses, so I'm not sure what you do with the donkey, to be honest. Anyhow, there's a man who walks around the countryside just because he can. He's the son of the richest merchant in town. The man, he's a mean guy, and he likes to pick on animals.

He comes to this farm, and he sees the donkey. And he spits on it, and he slaps it. And as it turns out, the animal doesn't like it. He bites the man's fingers off, right down to the nubs. The man takes his nubby fingers and runs back to town and runs back to his daddy, who is certainly not happy. The merchant, he hires a bunch of thugs to teach him. teach the family a lesson. They go down with pitchforks and torches like Transylvania came to town,

and they've got Frankenstein in that cabin, or whatever. I never read the book. Well, the dad tries to talk them out of it, but they don't listen. The money spoke better to them. First, they pitchfork the donkey and kill it. It bleeds. It bleeds. all over the grass. They grabbed the dad, and then they beat him senseless, and realized they accidentally killed him. They see that this situation went from just sending a message to murder. So they leave his body in the house and realize that they need to kill the rest and burn the evidence. The mother, she tries to get the children.

out of the cabin and it works, but the pitchfork people grab her before she can leave. They set fire to the cabin, and they get out of there. You're in the screams of the woman, being enough confirmation they did the job. Most of the people leave, and they go back to town, but some of them have to go look for the kids. Turns out the children were taking refuge, at the Bandair River, and when the people catch up to them, these kids think they're about to die, and they probably were. But then, they hear a sound out in the woods, like the screech of a woman mixed with the bleat of a donkey.

And out of the woods comes a monstrosity that takes the men and pushes them in the river. It beats them to death with her hooves and drowns them. She looks back at the children, and they realize that it's their mother. But she's too far gone to stay with them, so she leaves into the woods. Now the story goes that her mind is warped, and that she's always in protection mode. She sticks around the bridge to protect any and all. children that might be there. You go around in the middle of the night, you might hear a screech,

or you might see red in the dark, or there might be no sign at all. But it's said that the donkey lady is there. No matter what you do, and no matter what she do, she'll get you if she wants to. There ain't nothing you can do to stop it. The dad loved it. The mother wanted to leave. The kids were silent. I tried to appease them a little bit. Now, now, hey now, listen here.

The story, all the versions are kind of clear. The donkey lady loves children. She was a mother herself at some point. she protects kids so ain't nothing out there in them woods you need to be scared of that seemed to perk them up a little bit but i could tell they were still scared of the whole thing not just like any kid would be should be i thought that was as good a place as any to let the people go and they would have just walked away from us i was right for a minute They took their stuff, and they went back to their vehicle. But the dad, he came right back in and came up to me.

How would you like 50 bucks? I'd like it very much. And what is this now? He smiled, a devious smile. Well, we're not from around here. Not sure y'all could tell that. I had no idea. Bubba spoke with no hint of sarcasm in his voice, but Mike elbowed him anyway.

Well, we're from Florida, and we're just taking the scenic route on the way to California for Disneyland. You ever been? No, but I'm not really in the demographic. I thought that was in Florida. Oh, that's Disney World. Well, you've been there a few times, but they have different rides in California. My wife has family in Los Angeles, so we're killing two birds. Anyway, I love those stories you guys were telling,

and I was just thinking that maybe you could show us the bridge. I laughed. It isn't too far. I can give you directions, but, yeah, you know, that's pretty cheap. No, no, no, I want you to drive us, like a tour. I could sit with my kids in the back seat of our car, and then we'll come right back. But here's the thing. I think they could use a good scare.

You know, like our, what do you all say here? I think daddy's scared us. I've never really spooked my girls before, and I think I can really get a story out of this. Well, they'll be telling for years. I laughed a little, but a bit unsure this guy was serious. I'm not sure. Be sure. Come on, man. Way I see it is, we go down there, you turn the vehicle off on the bridge, and we all look out.

Then when it's time to leave, you pretend like you can't turn the vehicle on. Like the engine's busted. It might be donkey lady, you say. And then you say, we might have to spend the night here. The kids are going to hate it. So I say, I'll get out and see if I can do anything. I leave the door open, little, go where they can't see me, and start giving a howl like a donkey.

Donkeys don't howl. Mike kicked the stool this time. Sure, but they don't know that. Closest they got to a donkey was a Bible story. Anyway, I do that. Spook them and come back up to the car and grab at their ankles. Really give them a joke. After that, I think they'll practically be wet in the pants, and we can come right back.

I laughed, but I also figured I had nothing else to do. The sun was coming down and that meant the week was going to start in another few hours. Fifty more bucks in my pocket was always useful. I agreed and I took his keys and went down to the bridge. It was the first time I'd ever driven a Volvo and it was also the last. We left the copper lantern and took a ride down Maine and drove a mile out of town. The bridge was easy enough to find but we had to take a little bit. path that wasn't marked on any map. The woods were like a narrow hallway of trees and leaves,

cutting the sun out of our lives, and we got down to the end and saw the bridge. It was like any bridge you've ever seen out in the woods, just an ugly gray concrete slab that went from one bank to the other. The other side had some barrier, and we went down to the edge of the bridge as far as we could. I wanted to stick closer and off the bridge, just in case it hadn't been serviced, and might be dangerous. I shut the vehicle off and looked back at the kids. The mother was sitting in the passenger seat, so I was really just talking to the little girls and the dad. Well, here we are. The bridge where donkey lady lives. Spooky, right? The girls were. already scared. The dad had been right about being able to scare these kids. Anything would scare

them now. Mickey Mouse himself would scare these kids now. We let the spook hang in the wind, and then I fed them a line about how I had to get back home. I pretended to turn the key and got the engine to turn just enough to make a sound, but not enough to turn. turn over. I thought I acted pretty good. I was right. The girls weren't happy. I pretended to argue with the dad for a while about how we were about to be stuck all night, and he said how that was no good, how that Disney promised land was waiting for them. I said there was nothing I could do, but maybe he could go look in the trunk or the woods for something to help. He said, said all right and left the door open just a bit. I watched him in the side mirror walk around the

back of the car and crouch down. A minute or so later, I heard the sound of a man attempting to make the sound of a donkey. It started low and slow and then got louder and faster, like it was coming from far away and getting real close. It kind of worked for me and looking to. It kind of worked for me and looking at the kids, I knew it worked for them. They were clutching at each other and I knew he was going to get them good. In the side mirror, I could see him crouched, walking back up to the open door. In the distance, I saw two pinpricks of red light. But I just figured it was tail lights in the distance, trying to squeeze through the trees. The dad got close to the door and shot his hand through,

grabbed the thigh of the closest daughter, and squealed that donkey sound as loud and as best as he could. The little girls were screaming and he was laughing. I'm not sure what the mother was thinking, and I thought she must be the most patient woman in the world to deal with this. Suddenly, where those lives are those lives. lights had been. I saw a creature emerge and sprint to the car. It moved so quick. I never got a good look, but I know it ran on two legs and it had two arms and it had one might have passed

for a face, but it was long and round and didn't have a nose. It came up real quick onto the dad and he grabbed him. Can hooves grab? And it pulled him down onto the concrete. The grayish hooves beat into his back, and his screams of anguish were mixed with coughs of blood. And then the monster grabbed onto his shirt and his pants and drug him across the concrete back into the woods,

his face and teeth scraping into the bridge. It disappeared the way it came, but blood and skin left to show the man and been there. Everyone was screaming, and I realized I was too. I started the car and reversed out of there as quick as I could. I never saw the family again after the police got done questioning us. They just went on to California, I guess to stay with family while they looked for the dad. You can probably guess that they never found him. Mike and Bubba believed this story, or at least they say they did.

Bubba tried to give me some line that he would have got out and went for the dad, but Mike told him he was an idiot. No one really knows what they'll do. Until they're there. I appreciated that. And to Bubba's credit, he never said anything again. Mike never sold the copper lantern. And if you go down to that neck of the woods, he's still at the register.

The Bubba passed on. So it's just him and me and the beer. He got rid of the statue. you never went back to the bridge. 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 Brandon 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.

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 rails with us for our 21st season. Authors, no duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the risen consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.