The NoSleep Podcast - S21 Ep22: NoSleep Podcast S21E22

Episode Date: September 29, 2024

It's Episode 22 of Season 21. Ride the Sleepless Express into tales about chilling changes."Unanswerable Questions" written by Bryan Leavelle (Story starts around 00:04:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced & scored by: David CummingsCast: Narrator - Peter Lewis, Gilbert - Mary Murphy, Liz - Erin Lillis, Voice - Atticus Jackson"The Transcriptionist" written by Andrew Osborne (Story starts around 00:25:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator - Nikolle Doolin"A Conversation with You-Know-Who" written by Christopher Jolley (Story starts around 00:45:50)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Potter - David Ault, Jacqueline - Ash Millman, Roberts - Andy Cresswell, Tyler - James Cleveland, The Darkness - Jake Benson"The Read" written by Preston Lang (Story starts around 01:19:10)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Lila - Kristen DiMercurio, Jordan - Linsay Rousseau, Karl - Jeff Clement, Officer Graves - David Cummings, Rene - Mary Murphy"Ghosts at the Campfire" written by Dedreanna Dionne (Story starts around 01:40:40)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Tom - Matthew Bradford, Mya - Linsay Rousseau, Linda - Sarah Thomas, Millie - Erin Lillis, Finn - Graham Rowat, Alex - Atticus Jackson"Maid of the Wave" written by JR Warrior (Story starts around 01:53:50)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Erika Sanderson, Robert - Guy Woodward, Isla - Ilana CharnelleThis episode is sponsored by:Trade Coffee – Trade Coffee is a specialty coffee marketplace that matches customers with the best coffees from local roasters across the country. Give Trade a try and see how you can make better coffee at home. Get your first bag of coffee free at drinktrade.com/nosleepMint Mobile – Ditch overpriced wireless with Mint Mobileís deal and get 3 months of premium wireless service for 15 bucks a month. C’mon, cut your wireless bill to 15 bucks a month at mintmobile.com/NSPClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about "The Gentleman From Hell"Click here to learn more about Dedreanna DionneClick here to learn more about JR WarriorExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"Unanswerable Questions" illustration courtesy of Catriel TallaricoAudio 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 train. 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.

Have you ever noticed that some people aren't who you think they are? When you get to know them, you develop a picture of who they are, what they like, how they act, etc., etc. And then, perhaps suddenly, or over time, you learn what they're actually all about. And in the world of horror, those changes usually aren't for the better. And if you're looking to change things up and add a new podcast to your list, one with captivating mystery and interest, I'd suggest you check out the gentleman from hell. 24 years ago, the peaceful town of Cold Sparrow became the center of one of the most baffling mysteries in modern history. Without warning, its entire population vanished, leaving no trace behind.

Among the missing was Benjamin Veers, a writer-turned billionaire, whose late father was something of an enigma long before the mass disappearance. In the decades since, theories have abounded, ranging from cult-in-res-shaired. involvement to mass abductions and even whispers of government conspiracies. Now a new team of investigators has been called to the desolate town. Three renowned private detectives who previously dismantled one of the most dangerous cults in recent memory. Their sights are now set on unraveling the mystery of Cold Sparrow. Some mysteries run deeper than others, but this one might lead all the way down to hell. The guy made a mint writing books about real-life mysteries.

I've been to a lot of bad locations in my day, but nothing sets my teeth on edge like this place. Did you hear that? Sure did. That's the elevator. The elevator that needs a complete overhaul to work. The same. Now there's a topic your father was exceedingly interested in.

What's that? The damned. Leon, I'm not getting a good feeling about this. I think you should just let it be. Here it comes. Oh, Caitlin to get out of sight. You hear me? We did what had to be done.

We killed you. Sometimes what goes down. Come back. Join the darkness and be sure to check out The Gentleman from Hell, wherever you find your podcasts. And so, with our tales this week being what they are, well, that's the thing. You'll have to figure out what and who they really are. Because finding out the truth can be so chillingly fun.

And now, the train is ready to depart. Your journey into the darkness begins now. In our first tale, we meet a doctor of philosophy. I don't know if he has a poster of Rasputin and a beard down to his knee, but I do know he teaches at the local university. And in this tale, shared with us by author Brian Lavelle, the professor finds himself in a one-sided discussion with someone whose actions are becoming rather questionable.

Performing this tale are Peter Lewis, Aaron Lillis, Mary Murphy, and Atticus Jackson. So, no matter how much you learn, you have to accept that there will always be some unanswerable questions. I awoke on the cold cement. I was locked up in a cage reminiscent of a Wild West jail cell, 10 feet cubed. It looked like I was in a cavernous basement with brick walls and a wooden staircase leading up to a dark green door on the wall parallel to the front of the cage. On the ground, at the foot of its chained and padlocked steel entrance gate was a note. I walked over, peeled the familiar pink post-it from the floor, and read the also-familiar handwriting scribbled on it.

Where are you? Another fucking unanswerable question. I had no clue where I was or how I had gotten there. I had started receiving these pieces of paper a few days ago and never thought they would lead me to this shithole, covered with blood and feeling like my head was about to explode. Maybe I should back up a bit, huh? I've been receiving these insane notes for a week.

The first one was stuck to my office door at the university. Although mysterious and equally unanswerable, the question was innocent enough, It read, What is the final digit of pie? I had written the inscription off as a prank. I was no mathematician, but as a philosophy professor,

I was well aware of the silly mind games and conundrums produced so prolifically by mathematics. The answer was obvious, but maybe a fresh undergrad stem lord was trying to be clever by fooling the goofy philosophy nerd. Maybe they had received a bad grade on their most recent essay and felt the need to score cheap intellectual points. I, slightly annoyed, but a good sport who's always down to play along,

took out my pen. I hastily jotted, we will never know, onto the post-it and stuck it back on my door. For a second, I considered writing a different answer. Is it that we will never know the final digit, or is it that it does not exist? And is there a difference? Hmm?

I checked my watch. Time for epistemology. No time for this puerile shit. Grabbing my things, I headed for my poorly attended class. Almost immediately I forgot about the pink note. My thoughts had turned to the students and whether they had actually read or, dare I hope, understood the Gilbert Ryle essay

that was assigned for the day's discussion. The following morning started early with Philosophy 101. Most instructors hate teaching that course, believing they have more important things to do. I, however, enjoy it. The students appreciate my good attitude and a knack for making the class fun, even though it covers too many subjects in too little time. Besides, the intro courses were the only ones that had more than ten students in the room. Here I could perform to a packed house, even if it was a captive audience.

The only thing I hated was handing back essays. When I do, I put them out in stacks on a table sorted by last names. Watching these kids' hopeful expressions morph into disappointment as they dig out their work only to find it covered in red ink is heartbreaking. Although I create a fun lecture, I am a brutal writing critic. It's for their own good. I'm doing them a favor, I tell myself. Sometimes I even believe it. This day was one of those horrible essay return days. Judging from the large number of bold but poorly defended arguments I was lugging to the lecture hall, it was going to be rough.

The heavy armful of paper was so slashed with red I half expected the bundle to ooze and leave a trail. bludgeoned and butchered ideas, a sack of bloody meat. Philosophers truly are sadistic, as no wonder nobody likes us. I plopped the manila folders on the table and opened the one labeled A through D. Stuck to the essay at the very top of the pile was another pink posted. Are patterns created by the mind, or innate to the physical universe? I had this note gotten there. The essays were in my office all night.

Maybe I forgot to lock it, or the cleaners had left it open after making their rounds. I did have an opinion on this particular question, but I was fully aware that it could never be more than an opinion. So, beneath the query, I responded, I leaned towards the former, but we may never know. As the students filtered into the hall, I pasted the sticky to the podium and prepared for one big bummer of a day. At six o'clock, I arrived back home.

My three-year-old son ran to greet me at the door. I did too, Gilbert. I missed you. Yes, I named my son after a philosopher that I taught in epistemology course. Philosophers can be weird, people. And as a result, sometimes their children receive... unfortunate names. My wife, Liz, was cooking dinner, spicy stir-fry for us grown-ups, and mac and cheese for Gilbert. I walked into the kitchen, embraced my beloved, and gave her a smooch. Before I could ask her about her day, she presented me with a pink piece of paper that was clinging to her index finger, a sly smile on her lips.

I found this on the front door when I got home from picking up Gil at daycare. I assume it's for you, and I think you can see why. I snatched up the note and read it. The others had been innocuous. This one, however, carried a whiff of the sinister along with it. Are evil people born or created? Liz sensed my unease. What is it?

One of your dweboid colleagues? I thought for a moment before responding. I took a deep breath and forced it out between clenched lips, making the sound of a bemused horse. I've no idea. I found a couple of these at school, too. I figured it was a student, but now I am officially puzzled. A little pissed off, actually.

I started to pull a pen from my breast pocket, but put it back. This could wait until after dinner. After cleaning up the dishes, as Liz got Gilbert ready for bed, I found the note and wrote my response. Fuck off, you low-life. I walked out into the dark, chilly, late fall, night, and stuck the note to my mailbox. While I did want my response to be read,

I felt deep down I didn't want the messenger to come back up to my doorstep, too close to my family for comfort. If I was given another sticky before someone confessed to this prank, I would contact the authorities. Maybe they had some kind of high-tech gadget they could use to help me identify their author. A couple of uneventful days passed. Everywhere I went, I looked for notes but found none. On the evening of the third day, as I was walking back to my car after a long slog of trying to philosophize with children who couldn't care less about philosophy.

I caught a glimpse of a small patch of bright pink on my windshield. There was a quick jolt of excited uneasiness, and I broke into a jog. When I reached my car and grabbed the note, my emotional state turned to confusion and then to grave concern as I read it. Where is the spare key to your house? The correct response should have been under the doormat, but it seemed obvious that whoever wrote this note already knew that and had moved it. Now, my uncertainty over the key's location and whose possession it was in terrified me.

I jumped into my run-down old Subaru outback and drove home as fast as possible. The trip took half the time as usual, but it felt like it lasted forever. After hastily parking in the driveway and scrambling out of the driver's seat, I ran to my front door and entered the house. Immediately I saw that something was wrong. If I were a detective, I would have described my living room as showing signs of a struggle. My family was nowhere to be found. I checked all the rooms, but my wife and child were gone.

I returned to the living room, and I realized I had left the door wide open. Once I slammed it closed, I saw a new note on the interior side of the front door. With trembling hands, I slowly removed it. It read, What happened to your family? My mind broke. In a rage, I punched my fist into the wall as hard as I could. I hit a stud, and my hand broke to screaming in pain, I dropped to the floor. I nursed my throbbing hand as my thoughts ran wild.

Every worst possible conclusion to this insane story materialized before my mind's eye. The coroner on the phone requesting me to identify the bodies, a lifetime of wondering what happened to my wife and son and never knowing the truth, the rumors that I was involved, which was worse, knowing everything about my poor family's grisly end? Or their whereabouts becoming just another in a long list of these damnable, unanswerable questions. The cops arrived faster than I'd expected and did, far less than I had hoped, asked questions and collected the post-its in a plastic bag.

Aren't you guys kind of like, I don't know, dust for prints or something? The cop responded with a look that said, Oh, great, another moron that watches too much sense. CSI. He then assured me in a bored, monotone voice that they would not stop until this creep was brought to justice. It didn't help. What kind of an asshole tosses such a cliche throwaway line to a guy whose family has just disappeared. I glared angrily and thought, oh now who's the stereotype, you fucking big. As they left, one of them suggested, I try and try and get some rest, another useless utterance. There is no way I will be getting any sleep tonight,

I thought. My vocal cords robotically told them goodbye, but what I wanted to say was go fuck yourselves. Now alone, I plopped down on the recliner in the living room. I just wanted to think, to devise a plan, to find my family, to save them if it was not already. too late. But I was more tired than I realized, and soon I drifted off to sleep. Two a.m. My broken knuckles ached. The house was completely dark. I did not remember turning off the lights. I reached for the lamp by the recliner and tried to click it on, but it emitted no photons. As my consciousness slowly leaked back in, I became aware of a foreign object clinging to my forehead. Reaching up, the fingers reported their findings and a tingling chill ran through my body.

Another post-it. I pulled my phone from my pan pocket, activated the flashlight, and read it. Where am I? Exploding up from the chair, I started for the front door. I've got to get out of here. My inner monologue screamed. When I tore open the door and bowed, bolted into the freezing cold morning air, my face was met. With the business end of a swinging baseball bat, everything went dark. I shredded the note I found in my makeshift prison and threw it down to the concrete floor, stamping on the pieces. I have no fucking clue, you sadistic piece of shit.

Fuck you. Let me out of here. I rattled the cage like the crazed great ape. I was until I was too tired to keep it up. My head pulsed with excruciating pain, and I could feel blood dried and congealing on my forehead where the bat had connected early that morning. What has this psycho done to my family?

What will he do to me? As my face twisted into a scowl of the skin around the scabbed wound stretched, the gash reopened and fresh blood trickled it up. my face. Light-headedness swept over me. After sobbing away my remaining energy, I laid down, curled up and fell unconscious. The smell of food roused me. I was starving, and a plate of meat and vegetables was sitting in the same spot where I had found the most recent note. I wolfed it down. The meat was perfectly prepared, juicy, tender, well-seasoned. At least this motherfucker can cook, I thought. I used the vegetables to sop up the succulent juices left behind. My heart stopped,

as I heard, chuckling, no, giggling, like an adult pretending to be a child from the wall to my left. There was a single hanging bulb in the basement that cast more shadow than illumination around the room. Who's there? I said who's there. Answer me. When my eyes adjusted to the darkness, they scanned the wall where I heard the voice, and I noticed a little hole drilled in the brick wall. As I watched it, I saw the unmistakable glint of a wet, pale, yellow eyeball peering out. I shrieked. The metal plate fell from my hands and clanged on the cement.

I looked down and saw another note moist and slimy with fat plastered to the floor. This one must have been hidden under the big pile of food I had just scarfed. The giggles grew louder. I stared at it for a long time before I could muster the courage to pick it up and read it, and as soon as I did, I wished I hadn't. How did I not see this coming? I dropped to my knees and puked. The image of the note and the words written upon it were plastered into my mind permanently. The ink was smeared and barely legible, like all the others.

This question was impossible to answer. Who did you just eat? These days we have technology like speech to text and other easy ways to transcribe words to the page. But back in the day, someone had to listen to audio files and type out everything they heard. And in this tale, shared with us by author Andrew Osborne, we meet a woman who is leaving a recording for someone to.

taking over her job, and she'll want them to take down every word. Performing this tale is Nicole Doolin. So if you pay attention and listen closely, you too might become the transcriptionist. Before we get started, I'd like to say hello to the person listening to my voice and transcribing the story I'm about to share. You see, at one point in the distant past, I had a similar job. Though back then I would stroll from the north end to a tiny office overlooking the Boston Common, slip one micro-cadet after another into a dictaphone, and type what I heard on a big gray IBM Selectric,

whereas I believe everything is computerized now. You probably work from your own home, and your employer doesn't even necessarily maintain a physical address. Yet I imagine the basic experience is much the same. You listen to someone or several people speaking, and you capture their words. Sometimes you pay attention and follow the conversation. Maybe you even empathize with the voices in your head, especially if they speak slowly and clearly, with lots of pauses between sentences,

so you don't have to work too hard. See? Isn't it nice when people stop talking? You're on the clock getting paid, yet your fingers are still. Maybe you even took a nice, cool sip of water as you waited for my voice to resume. And now you're thinking,

maybe this assignment won't be so bad. Not like the jobs where every word is garbled, planting seeds of headache in your mind that blossom into misanthropic rage as you fight second by second over the course of hours to untangle the insipid overlapping conversations of people who never stop interrupting one another.

Or worse, the muffled sound lumps of badly recorded audio bobbing in a murky stew of feedback and hissing as your intellect strains for any shred of meaning in the sound. Like an archaeologist scraping sediment from vaguely relic-shaped clumps of rock and soil. It's maddening, I know, which brings us to the topic of this. This recording. You see, back during my working days, I primarily transcribed tapes for the Boston Police Department, court hearings, interrogations, that sort of thing. Then one day, I was assigned a recording of two men having dinner or possibly lunch

in what must have been a Chinese restaurant, given the items they ordered and the accent of the server. There was quite a bit of background noise on the tape, and the microphone placement was terrible, as if it were wrapped in a thick napkin at a distance from the conversation. Though I later came to realize that it was, in fact, situated beneath the shirt

of one of the two men at the table. Not that I fully comprehended what I was hearing initially, mind you. The micro-cassette I received was unmarked and my instructions provided no context. Thus, at first, I believed I was merely listening to friends sharing a meal. But little by little, I realized they were in fact discussing a crime, a sickening crime. For a time, I could only decipher isolated words and phrases, and, again,

as a transcriptionist yourself, I'm certain you've had the experience of hearing sounds which strike you as unintelligible before a second or third listen, coaxes them into comprehensible forms, not unlike your eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness until you're able to spot a figure in the shadow staring back at you. For instance, did you hear it? Listen again. That voice in the static? Ah, there she is again.

Clear is a bell to me, though of course I won't know whether you were able to decipher her words until this transcript is complete. Nevertheless, that was my experience as I listened to the micro-cassette. training to catch any semblance of a word or phrase emerging from the murky sonic depths of rasps and wishing. And then I picked up on what sounded like a name. Aurora, followed by a brutish spike of laughter and a clear utterance at last. So we incinerated the bitch. If course language offends you, then I apologize for the profanity. In fact, now that I'm thinking of it, I recall

back when I worked at dictaphone prose. One of my Christian co-workers there simply refused to continue transcribing recordings containing swear words and would instead request another assignment. As for me, I was far more troubled by the seeming implication of violence in the phrase and quickly mentioned what I'd heard to my supervisor, who explained that the client was the Boston Bureau of Investigative Services. And the micro-cassette was a surveillance recording. by an undercover investigator wearing a wire. Beyond that, he had no further information and said that I didn't have to continue transcribing the tape

if I found the audio too disturbing. But at any rate, I was not to share details of what I'd heard per the terms of the blanket non-disclosure agreement I'd signed prior to the start of my employment with dictaphone prose. An agreement I'll violate now that the case is decades in the past and essentially public knowledge. Indeed, if you're old enough, you may even recall the extensive sensational news coverage at the time about a human trafficking ring in the North End, the charred remains of sex workers in the Fort Point Channel, the mishandled evidence, the overturned conviction.

Or did you forget? Naturally, I have no way of knowing what you do or do not remember. I am, after all, just another voice speaking between you. your ears, the latest of many. Or perhaps you are not even hearing me at all by this point. It's a funny thing about transcription, isn't it? The way you are subconscious can process a stream of audio as you type without the words truly registering, leaving your conscious mind seemingly free to ponder entirely different things, like how much you'd enjoy a cup of tea right now. And so you decide to get up and turn on the burn.

under the kettle as soon as there's a pause in the discussion. Which reminds me, I promised to stop talking now and again to give us both a bit of a break. Isn't that right? Where was I? Oh, yes, the men in the Chinese restaurant. After I spoke with my supervisor, I continued my attempts to decipher the conversation I'd been assigned to transcribe. When the pair was first seated, the man with the microphone presumably taped to his chest, did most of the talking in a low rumbling voice that was very difficult to comprehend.

On the other hand, the one who'd mentioned incineration had more treble in his voice. And thus, as he warmed to his topic and spoke at length, the ease of transcribing his word soon matched the difficulty of listening to what he was saying. He was the sort who often referred to himself in the third person, thus allowing me to identify him as Marco and the transcript. while he elucidated his particular criminal specialty, namely luring young women into drug addiction, prostitution, and even outright sexual slavery.

But his favorite part of what he called the circle of life was profiting from the deaths of the women he'd ensnared if they ever caused trouble or, simply in his words, got too fugly to fuck. I won't repeat the specifics of the arrangements he made with the men he referred to as his back-end clients for so-called human safaris, which Marco would then in turn record

and distribute on the black market for additional profit. Instead, just think of the most hideous sadism you can possibly imagine, then double your capacity for horror, and even then you still wouldn't be close. As for me, I heard every grisly detail as one hour lapsed into the next,

and I grew literally sick to my... stomach. Worst of all, Marco was completely untroubled by his sins, having convinced himself that whores and druggies were a scourge, and thus eliminating them was a wonderful boom to society. He said he was doing God's work. He went to church and tithed every Sunday. He was rich and his family loved him. As for myself, I was poor, and so I listened to every reply. pulse of second of the recording, transcribed every word and submitted the completed assignment to my supervisor, thinking that was the end of it. Back home in my bed that night, though, I simply could not stop thinking about the evil men do, and how much worse the totality of it was than I had ever

previously conceived, which is no small thing. You see, my father had been an abusive drunk, and I'm sorry to say that my first, last, and only husband turned out to be quite the philanderer. Yet Marco was a monster of another sort entirely. I wept for his victims in their unimaginable suffering, comforted only by the knowledge that my transcription was hopefully a small contribution to a larger investigation that would ultimately lead to some measure of justice.

In assumption, I'm afraid, it would prove to be quite fatally misguided. For you see, what I had no way of knowing at the time was how little evidence there was in the case against Marco, which essentially boiled down to the personal testimony of the undercover detective who'd been wearing the wire, the incriminating recording of his suspect from their night at the Chinese restaurant, my agency's transcription of their conversation, and my own personal recollection of what I'd heard. Nor was I aware of the payments Marco had made to numerous sources. within the Boston Police Department

to keep him abreast of investigations into his personal business interests and warn him if... Excuse me? My apologies. Apparently, some feel I've been rambling, particularly given that nobody will ever read this transcription. Nevertheless, you've listened this long

to the static in your headphones, the electronic phenomena of my voice therein, if not auroras. But now it's... seems her laughter at least is breaking through. And somehow, deep within your white-noise trance, you've acknowledged it. Finger still continuously and obediently typing. Even as your conscious mind processes the slow-dawning realization that yes,

the Aurora who died was indeed your Aurora. And now you're thinking it's late, and you'd like to stop transcribing because my words have grown frightening. Because they are, in fact, commands. Don't worry, though, it will all be over soon. Look to your left. Do you see it? That's right.

The pilot didn't ignite when you went to put the kettle on for tea a while back, and your apartment has been filling up with gas ever since. Though not quite enough yet, so before you finish this transcript, and go to light one of the cigarettes there by your laptop with the... Lovely silver Zippo Aurora bought for your birthday so many years ago. I do feel you should be made aware of certain things. If only for closure, though others disagree.

And yes, I realize you were quite a bit younger then. And now that you're middle-aged, you do reflect back on occasion and feel badly about the way you treated Aurora. This, despite the fact that whenever you've mentioned her name to your friends, it's only ever been to gloat how crazy girls are wild in bed. Deep inside, of course, you worried that maybe she was only crazy because she was wrestling with some deep-seated trauma you never bothered to ask about. And she was always too ashamed to reveal.

And even though she was a party girl, I know you sensed she was also quite fragile and likely to spiral into some truly awful places if you gained her trust, and then abandoned her once she grew tiresome. Well, you were right. Aurora did spiral quite badly after you left her, all the way down into the subterranean orbit of the worst, of the worst, of the worst, until she reached her ultimate destination.

And now we're all here together. As for me, I spent my last day alive watching news reports about a mistake. mysterious fire in the building that housed dictaphone prose, killing my supervisor and two others working graveyard that night, including the nice Christian lady who disapproved of course language. Investigators later determined it was arson, of course, originating in the production office where they kept all the microcassets and completed transcripts. Leaving me as the sole remaining eavesdropper with detailed knowledge of Marco's inadvertent confession, after I subsequently learned of a mysterious car accident which had claimed the life of the undercover detective with the low,

rumbly voice. I called the police. They told me, stay put, someone's on the way. To be honest, I probably should have been more wary, less fatalistic about my own safety. Yet by then I'd been alone for so long in the wake of my husband's passing, that in many ways, I already felt like a bit of a ghost, an invisible old lady walking back and forth to work, barely speaking to anyone, overhearing everything. I knew the children in the neighborhood were afraid of me, their mothers spitting through their fingers when I passed, muttering Vecchio Strega, old witch. They imagine. They imagine I was a crone with the power to cloud vision and judgment, or steal breath away like smoke.

Ironic, given that I perished, coughing on the floor of my kitchen, wondering in my last moments why Marco or his thugs couldn't just break in and flash my throat, rather than needlessly torching a lovely first-period townhouse that had graced Cops Hill Terrace in 1725. Alas. By comparison,

and the annihilation of the triple-decker you currently inhabit will be far less historically significant. Except for an odd coincidence, the authorities who will soon be picking through rubble and teeth are likely to miss regarding the fatal connection between yourself, a woman you dated briefly a long time ago, and the poker game underway right now in the unit directly above your apartment. Hosted by a former BPD sergeant, forced into early retirement, under a cloud of suspicion due to an alleged association

with one of the players at his table tonight thought by many to be an underworld figure though he was never convicted of any crime. What's that? Do I detect a bit of emotion? Does it all seem terribly unfair? Do you think you're just an innocent bystander in the right place at the wrong time

and there must be another way? There isn't. And as for what's fair, we'll let you ponder that one as you reach for your zippo and a final cigarette. Good boy. Now go ahead. Light up. If you have ever lived through the nightmare of a house fire, you know how horrifying it can be. Now add to that trauma the need to speak with the police about the event.

As we'll learn in this tale, shared with us by author Christopher Jolly, Jacqueline has to do just that, and she'll have some strange answers to their burning questions. Performing this tale are David Alt, Ash Millman, Andy Cresswell, James Cleveland, and Jake Benson. So you know what they say, where there's smoke, there's fire. And that applies if you're having a conversation with you know who. The date is 31st of July 2023. The location is Radford Falls Police Station. This recording is taking place in interview room two. Present for the recording is Sergeant Andrew Roberts. And myself, Detective Shane Potter. Could you confirm your name and date of birth, ma'am? Yes, I'm Jacqueline Waters. My date of birth is... 10th of August, 1982.

And you reside at number 12, Ashworth Terrace, Radford Falls? I do. Just so we're clear, this is a standardised interview. You are not being interviewed under caution, but as is your right, you have the right to legal representation, but you have chosen to waive that right. I... Yes, I have.

Okay, then, what would you prefer? Jackie or Jacqueline? Um... Jacqueline, Jacqueline's fine. Okay then, Jacqueline. First thing I want to make clear, whatever has happened, I'll make it my job to get to the bottom of this, okay?

Of course. You're the super cop. You've heard of my partner. My husband, he read about your story in the paper. Brook up, something like an organised crime ring. That is me. He was always impressed. with your stories.

When he was younger, he said he wanted to be a policeman. Here. Why don't? Would you like some coffee, Jacqueline? It's been a long night. Okay. Yeah. Sure.

I'll grab us a coffee. Jacqueline, I want to make it clear. We're just trying to piece this together. And once we have, you get on to... Well, have you got somewhere to stay? The... Sergeant... Willis, I think, said that a hotel would be provided.

Okay. Jacqueline, the reason why I'm here, in crimes like this, time is of the essence. Clues are fresh, information is fresh, all of it helps paint a clearer picture of what took place. What you remember, your witness statement, that's also clearer. As a cop, I know that as days go by, witnesses' memories can become muddled, unclear and affected by events around them after what they've seen. Subtle differences are all it takes to throw a case off.

A yellow jacket becomes an orange jacket. Stubble becomes a beard. Do you understand? Yes. Okay, then. So first, I'd just like to start with the night in question. What is the first thing you remember? Um, it...

Burning. A burning smell. Okay. I was sleepy and I thought that... I thought it was toast. I started to sit up and call that for Michael, my husband. I... That's when...

There's when I felt the wet on the sheets. It's okay. It's okay. The smell. What it was and... The smell of blood? Yes. Yes. I stumbled from the bed and I...

I was... calling out for Michael and then the kids. It started to... Did you go to their rooms, the children's? Yeah. I shouted for them, but there was so much smoke. I could barely see. And then I... And then I...

It's okay. It's okay. Take your time. The smoke. I've lived in that house for 11 years. I know it. Like... Like the back of my hand, but I just couldn't seem to fight my way. I stumbled, fell down stairs. I thought I'd turn near broken something, and then...

That's when I started panicking. I screamed for them. My family, the kids, screamed until I... Until I was a horse. I could barely say a word. It's then. I saw the front door was open, wide open. I thought I saw the face.

outline of someone. Someone you knew? I don't... It was familiar. I thought it might have been my husband and... You went through the door? Jacqueline, I'll need you to confirm in words that you went through the door.

Yes, I went through the door. I looked back at the house and could see that it was... It was so bright. The neighbours were out. I could hear the sirens, the flashing lights. But I didn't see them. They didn't see my family. It's water.

Better? Oh, I... Jacqueline, for the purposes of this recording, I need to reconfirm several details of what's happened. I appreciate this will be difficult, but... It's fine. So, we can confirm that you... You were the...

sole survivor of this fire. That investigating officers, when the fire had stopped, they had, well, they'd found your family in the basement. Yes. Your husband Michael and your two daughters, Mallory and Samantha. The family pet, your dog, lamb chop, was found wandering the neighborhood. We feel that perhaps you may have wandered out of the house. As you are also aware, you were... Well, you were coated in blood, your family's blood.

Early tests indicate the matches are of your husband and two daughters. I know. Now, obviously, the house is still an active crime scene, but we need to learn as much as possible right now. Am I... Am I suspect? That's your right to... ask, yes, you are a suspect. Jesus. That doesn't mean that you did it. If you want some insight

into police work, suspects allow us to eliminate different theories, ideas, suspicions. Of course. These questions will be probing, but I need to ensure that I get to the bottom of what's going on. Do you understand me? Yes. Good. Okay. So the evening in question, What happened before bed? Not much. Mallory had... She had an argument with us. What was it about?

Teenage stuff. Specifically. Um... Um... You know, teenagers? I do, but please. She was still very angry with me and a father. That we wouldn't let us see Ash.

Ash? Ash? Ashley Lamb. He's in my daughter's grade at school and... I know the name. That's because he's trouble. He's been here. God knows how many times. Lord knows we didn't want him spending time with our daughter. Okay. What else? Well, after the fireworks had settled, where girls went off to bed.

And Michael and I? We watched a movie. I think it was a James Bond movie. I'm not sure. It was Michael's choice. We turned in soon after. Do you know the time? A little after, 11, I think.

And... And then I woke up to... No disturbances before? No indication? Nothing. Not a thing. I see. I wish I could.

God, I should have done something. I should have... We're going to get to the bottom of this, Jacqueline. Okay. So there is an additional piece of information that I've learnt. Okay. Your family wasn't alone down there. They found another body with your family.

What? Another person, Jacqueline, was in your house in the basement. Coffee's up. That's fantastic, thanks, man. Jacqueline, head outside. Officer Faulkner is out there. Let her get you out for some fresh air, okay? Okay.

Sure. My partner will come get you in a short while. Okay. Thank you. She looked spooked. Yeah, that's because I just told her about. the other body. Right.

That reminds me. Just had Tyler on the line. He wants a callback. Oh, right. Maybe he had a breakthrough. Maybe. Got the photos? You've never seen anything like that before.

Any ideas what those words even mean? Not a clue. I did a quick Google translate, but got nothing. Something's not adding up. Say that again. What's your handle on her? I don't know. She's scared in shock.

Early forensic seemed to stand up a story. Does look like she remained in that bed. Feel right. I hear that. You remember Chris Mizzy? Mizzy? Um, the Professor Languages guy? Yeah, worked that case with the dealers that were using a cipher.

See if you can get a hundred. hold of him. Maybe he can take a look. See that? Shit. I haven't played with one of those since I was a kid. Right. Yeah, Chris Mizzy. On it, you want me to get her? Yeah, just hold off for two minutes.

Ten four. To get hold off, Potter. Well, it's because I'm so popular. How are we looking? Okay, I'm on a clock here, and you know how I feel about But... Come on out with it. Okay. Michael, Mallory and Samantha did not die of smoking before the fire started.

Okay. That may explain the blood. No, it doesn't. These bodies are in a bad way, but I've been unable to find any kind of entry. Tyler, I don't understand. What are you talking about? What I'm saying is, these three people just seem to... That makes no sense.

That's why they're called mysteries. I'm serious. Toxicology? And the blood? Well, he'd had to come from somewhere, but it certainly didn't come from... Fourth body? Yeah, keep at it.

Okay. Come in. There's cats and dogs, are there? Sure is. Oh, Jacqueline. Take a seat. Thank you. Strange.

You can get the forecast. How much long? Will this take? Not much longer. How's a coffee? It's good. So, last we left it, I explained about the other body that was found.

Yes. Do you have any ideas? A friend, perhaps. A relative? No, not at all. Do you think this person was... They murdered them? Well, that would be an assumption, and any police officer would tell you that we don't like those.

Just wait a moment. Potter, I've got to go. Apparently there's been a bus crash just two miles from here. They need some extra help. Okay, sure. Busy night? Seems that way. Look, Jacqueline, I'd like to ask you about these pictures if this is okay. Pictures? These photographs were taken by a crime scene photographer. I assure you that any images that may trigger you have been removed. Okay. Take your time.

This... This is the wall of my basement. Do you recognise that writing? No. No. I've never seen anything like it. Okay. It looks Greek, maybe?

I don't... This was on the wall? Seems so. Not sure what it says. Needless to say, does that mean anything to you? It doesn't. I'm sorry. I... Jackalind, I'd like to ask you a question. Okay. Three days ago, an officer was called to your property

because your neighbours had reported a domestic disturbance. I know, I know. The officer in question, Rawlinson, said that you and your husband both said that everything was okay, but he had a concern. A concern? Your neighbours said they heard the words, get back, get back to where you came from. This was screamed and your neighbour was convinced that it was you that screamed it was you that screamed it. I see.

Would you like to comment on that? Is that a question? I'm here to help. Do you, do you believe in ghosts, detective? Ghosts? Yes. I can't say I've ever considered it. Never?

Not even when you were younger? No. When I was 17, I stayed with my aunt. My mom could be difficult. My aunt, she had a house by the lake. Okay. One night I heard a steady tap, tap, tap on the bedroom window. It wasn't loud.

It was just enough to wait me. I opened my eyes and looked at the window. I could see these two eyes, a faint redness, paint redness, paint. It was like it was in a shroud. A shadowy shroud. Those eyes were the only thing I could make out. Jacqueline. The next day I spoke to my aunt.

It was half remembered and she told me about a man. A jilted lover, he took his own life, threw himself from the bridge and drowned. Then I realised that the red eyes were because he cried. Tears had turned his eyes red. Jacqueline, I just believe in facts, not stories. Why? I believe in what I see, not what I'm told. hard evidence

well I believed in what I saw have you never wondered never wondered that with every movement at the corner of your eye every strange sensation that the body feels that there is that there's maybe more Jacqueline

I'll tell you everything but you need to ensure you have an open mind an open mind please okay Mallory and Samantha were not my only children. You know that. Yes.

When I was at your house, I came across some of the older photographs. He would have been 15 now. Sometimes. On better days, I could spend my time imagining what his life would have been like. Who he would have fallen in love with. What he would have liked. Movies he loved. It was a car accident.

Yeah, Marie Sanderson, an ICU nurse, had just pulled in a triple shift. Driving home. She was beat. Fell asleep at the wheel and I never known grief like it. A strangling, all-encompassing pain that suffocates. A grief that suffocates the life from you. You ever experienced that? I can't say that I have.

Then you're lucky. Jacqueline That was two years ago But it was one year ago That it happened What happened First time he spoke What did you say

I was home alone Barely existing when I It may have been a noise A sound A whisper But something I was in the kitchen Staring into a coffee

Looking for God knows what When I heard a noise from upstairs If you were to ask me to describe it, I wouldn't be able to, but I heard something. So I ventured upstairs. The weirdest thing? I knew exactly where the noise had come from. His bedroom. I just, I knew it was there.

As I got closer and closer, I didn't feel scared. I felt excited. I pushed the door open and there it was. What? His favourite toy as a baby. A stuffed plushy cat. Tickles. Right there in the centre of the bedroom.

Jacqueline, I think that... It's in the photograph. Excuse me? The images you showed me. Yes. Second one from the end on the mantle? Yeah. You see it?

I do. Untouched. Not even. covered in ash, as pristine as it was when I found it on the bedroom floor. What did you think it meant? Well, my husband, he wasn't sure. I think he felt that I was beyond repair, damaged, broken, until Mallory saw it.

So what? She woke one night, shook my husband awake and said clear as a bell, There's a boy in my cupboard. She didn't say my brother, but a boy. My husband went to check it out. He came back. He didn't tell me what he saw, but I knew he saw something because he was white.

I don't mean that as a joke. He was white. Jacqueline, are you saying that you and your family were being haunted by your late son? Not haunted. That would be the wrong way to describe it. He was... He was... He was somewhere else.

You can throw those outdated ideas of heaven and hell away. They don't exist. Or at least our understanding of what they are. No, this was something else. You see, every sighting, every time we saw him or heard him. We were overwhelmed with a sense of pure anguish, grief, fear, like seeing him somehow communicated to us. Our boy was not in a good place.

He was frightened. He needed his mother. Jacqueline. It was eight weeks ago. It was eight weeks ago. Then we decided, Samantha had screamed. I'd never heard anything like it before.

What? I race to her bedroom and there, in the darkness he was on her ceiling, coming out of the shadows, suspended above her bed, looking down at her, reaching for her. My boy, my boy needed help. What did you do? The storm is getting closer and closer. Jacqueline, what did you do? My husband went with it, but it was more.

my guiding hand. You see, I had developed an interest in the occult long before, long before any of this. I never knew why. Passing interest? Passing fancy? But in that moment, I knew. I knew. What? Don't you see? It was meant to be. I developed an interest in that when I was a child. Dabbled, here and there. Never knew why. But now I know why. I knew why. Why?

So I could speak to him. Speak to my boy. Was this a Ouija board type thing? Ouija board is a game, no. I developed a different method of communication. Simple, but effective. One knock for no, two knocks for yes. You're saying that you were speaking to your son.

Yes, I would do anything for my son, anything at all. Go on. We asked him questions, his name, and sure enough. Then another question, are you alone? And then? Are you scared? He hadn't passed, he was trapped. Something had him trapped.

Our house had something else there, terrorising our son, scaring him. Like what? Oh, I think you know the answer to that. No, Jacqueline, I don't. You too? Who? You know who? Really don't.

What the preacher would scare you half to death with at Sunday school? The devil. Very sane. Somehow, my interest, my background, it had fed into my son. This demon, this fallen angel, wanted my boy. Jacqueline. So I decided to rescue my son, the only way I knew how. Jacqueline.

There's a ritual. Old, oldest time. A communion with the devil. A conversation with you know who. What? It needed a vessel. A body to inhabit. I gave it my daughter.

A body convulsed, twisted, contorted in pain. The voice that came from my daughter was not human. It was a sound. It was as sound unlike any other. If you were to give evil a voice, it would have been that. Jacqueline? I asked him a question. Very simple question.

Which was? I wanted nothing more than to see my boy one more time. What would it take? Jacqueline? He showed me and I... Agreed. What do you mean? What do you mean you agreed?

Jacqueline... You showed me and I agreed! What do you mean? What do you mean you agreed? Jacqueline, I... Dooley's bowling alley is being struck by lightning. What? You know what I speak.

Jacqueline? The question. What would you do? A fresh-faced young cop, fed up with the crime and the corruption. In his darkest moments, he says, would sell my soul. Jacqueline, did you? What is it? I don't understand it.

What is it? I got the dental back on the body. And? It's... I don't... Tyler? Not. Tyler?

The body. The body is who? The body is who? Jacqueline Stevens. It's Jacqueline Stevens. Who am I in the room? Hook, line, sinker. I gave her what she wanted, what she always wanted.

I did those things. It will she never you. 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 McAnnelly. To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from a 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.