The NoSleep Podcast - S21 Ep6: NoSleep Podcast S21E06

Episode Date: June 9, 2024

It’s Episode 06 of Season 21. Ride the Sleepless Express into tales about death defiers.“A Grave Mistake” written by Brian DeKeuster (Story starts around 00:03:40)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Mary – Danielle McRae, Johns – Atticus Jackson“Sunset Grove” written by Jacob D’Amour (Story starts around 00:13:30)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Arthur – Dan Zappulla, Becca – Sarah Thomas, Mrs. Holmes – Mary Murphy, Ted – David Cummings, Ms. Ganz – Erin Lillis“Scorchers” written by Vincent Paiement Désilets (Story starts around 00:45:10)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Mike DelGaudio, Laura – Jessica McEvoy, Olivia’s Dad – Jesse Cornett, Olivia – Erika Sanderson, Tommy – Jeff Clement“Sicker” written by Jake Stein (Story starts around 01:00:10)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Graham Rowat, Boy – Allonté Barakat“Changing Channels” written by Stephen Hill (Story starts around 01:14:50)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Matthew Bradford, Ed – Jeff Clement, Doctor – Jesse Cornett, News Anchor – Atticus Jackson, Mom – Kristen DiMercurio“Not One Step Back” written by Enrico Corsi (Story starts around 01:35:35)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Mikhail Guryanov – David Ault, Davik Petrosian – James Cleveland, Piotr Larin – Jake Benson, Dima – Erika SandersonThis 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.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Vincent Paiement DésiletsClick here to learn more about Jake Stein Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Scorchers” illustration courtesy of Hasani WalkerAudio program ©2024 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

All aboard. Tickets, please. Find your seats. The train will be departing shortly. You're aboard, the sleepless Express. A direct journey into the darkness of the night. There are no sleeping cars available on this train. On this journey, you will experience the horrors found within.

the dark landscapes and endless black tunnels, you will hear things which will leave you frightened and disturbed. And remember, there will be no stops until the very end of the life. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome aboard the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your conductor, David Cummings. Allow me to share something for perhaps a wee bit unusual. I don't want to live forever. In fact, the notion of living well into my 90s seems unpleasant. Now, I'm not talking about having a death wish or anything.

It's just that living to that age seems physically and financially daunting. And if you share these feelings, they raise an interesting question. How long do you want to live? Or put another way, when do you think you'll be ready to accept? except it's time to die. Philosophers have noted that humans are the only creatures cursed with the knowledge of our own mortality. We all know that one day will transition from alive to not alive. And while we can make jokes like,

I'll sleep when I'm dead, we at some point need to face the finality and eternal aspect of death. Oh, and with apologies to those of you with religious beliefs that have some element of an afterlife to it. So if you're fine with acknowledging your mortality and feel okay at the thought of dying and never experiencing anything again, then I'm curious how you feel about the concept of dying and then returning to life in some form or another. Because in this episode, we're presenting tales which confront us with the question. What if death isn't that one last final defined definitive and irrefutable end of life. What if we encounter someone who should be dead, but isn't?

I think we can all agree that while horror presents the fear of death at its core, there is much horror to be found in the idea that death may only be the start of the nightmares. Isn't that a fun thing to think about, fellow travelers? And now the train is really. ready to depart. Your journey into the darkness begins now. In our first tale, we meet a woman with two husbands. Well, no, no, not exactly. One night she's confronted with a strange situation, a situation spelled out for us by author Brian de Kuster. You see, there are two men, both eerily similar to each other, except one is alive and the other isn't.

Performing this tale are Danielle McCray and Atticus Jackson. So if you're going to do something, do it right. You don't want to make a grave mistake. A hoarse voice rasped on the other end of the phone. It took me a minute to recognize it as my husband's. It sounded off. His words slurry and slightly garbled. The fact that the phone had dragged me from the depths of sleep at 4 a.m.

Didn't help my mental agility at all. John? What's going on? Is something wrong? Listen to me. I'll meet you out back and explain everything. But right now, you need to get out of the house as fast as you can. The panic in his voice cleared my head like a splash.

of cold water. Then be quiet. You don't want to wake it up. The phone went dead. I looked at it for a second, then got out of the bed as quietly as I could, grabbing my robe from the back of the door. I crept down the stairs and into the kitchen. I pulled the robe close around me as I stepped out the back door.

John? I walked out into the yard. Where are you? A dark figure attached itself from the shadows at the back corner of the garage, stopping just outside the light coming from the house. There was no moon tonight. But even in the dark, I could recognize my husband's familiar silhouette. John, what's going on? I rushed towards him.

Then the smell hit me. Death. Death and wrought and freshly turned to earth. The smell of an open ground. grave. Oh, God's! I gagged and turned away from the stench. I froze. Through the family room window, I could see asleep in his recliner. The television reflected off his glasses, which had fallen slightly askew on his face. My eyes narrowed in confusion as I tried to process what I was seeing. That's not me.

The voice from behind me was still his, but the hoarseness was more pronounced now. There was a shuffling step as he moved closer. I don't know what it is, but I... John! I bolted for the house. Once in the kitchen, I spun around to slam the door shut. As it swung closed, I caught a glimpse of a dark shape, rushing up the steps towards me.

I threw the bolt just as something slammed into the door, rattling the frame. Oh, Mary. What's going on? John leapt to his feet as I burst into the family room. John! Outside, you... As I pointed out the window, it exploded inward, showering us with both shards of glass and splinters of broken frame.

A two-foot-tall-stone garden gnome, playing a set of mushroom-shaped bagpipes, crashed to the carpet at John's feet. Outside. Get away from my wife, you bastard! Two hands reached out of the darkness and grasped the window frame. The flesh on them was black and rotten, hanging off the bones and tatters. The face that swam out of the darkness was something out of a nightmare. The left side had rotted away completely, exposing a yellowing skull streaked with dirt and black ecore. Deep within the socket where its eye used to be was a burning blue ember that flared as the thing began pulling itself through the broken window.

The right side, though bloated and discolored, was still recognizable as a copy of my husbands. Its one remaining eye was fixed on John, blazed with hatred. You! John's eyes went wide with shock. Yes, me. You stole my life, you son of a bitch. The thing climbed into the room.

With surprising speed, it launched itself at John. its hands latched around his neck with an iron grip. John flailed weakly at its arms and face, but it lifted him up by the throat and slammed him into the wall. Now I've come to return the favor. With all of its attention seemingly focused on my husband, it didn't appear to notice me at all. I scrambled over to the fireplace and picked up the heavy iron poker.

Two years I spent in that shallow grave you dumped me in. Two years in the ground. With the worms, with the maggots, with dozens of hungry scavengers eating pieces of me. And I felt all of it. Well, now I'm going to. I brought the poker crashing down on the thing's skull, just above where its left ear should have been. The bone caved in, cracking as easily as if it were an eggshell.

The blue coal in its eye socket winked out and the creature collapsed onto the carpet. John crashed down on top of it as he scrambled to his feet. I leveled the iron poker out of his face. My panic was gone, replaced by a smoldering anger. When I told you to dispose of the body, I meant burn it. I poked him in the chest with a tip. A wisp of black smoke curled up from under his shirt. Now, I suggest you do it right this time.

I swear to the gods, I will send you back down to the deepest pit of I summons you from. Yes, mistress. He bent down to start cleaning up his mess. It's common for a young person to get a job doing the less glamorous tasks out there, like being a dishwasher, builds character. But in this tale, shared with us by author Jacob DeMore, Arthur is a dishwasher at a retirement home,

and the things he sees there will build his character more than he could have imagined. I join Dan Zepula, Sarah Thomas, Mary Murphy, and Aaron Lillis in performing this tale. So do your job, be nice, and don't be so nosy if you work at Sunset Grove. For a long time, I thought there was no greater feeling of dread than clocking into a job you hate. Three days a week after school and every other weekend, there I was. standing in front of the time clock at Sunset Grove. By the time I was 16, my parents told me that I had to find a job and start working. Unfortunately, there weren't many options for a 16-year-old looking for work in Driftwood.

It was either fast food, retail, or a retirement home. For whatever reason, I chose the retirement home. It's not that I had a problem with starting work at that age. It's just that scrubbing, curate, vegetables and mashed potatoes off 50 plates a night, with the cook yelling over my shoulder to pick up pace, wasn't exactly fulfilling work. The pocket money was nice, though. There's nothing better than being a teenager with almost nothing but disposable income. I watched the digital clock tick over from 359 to 4 o'clock, begrudgingly typed in my employee ID and made my way to

the kitchen. As always, there was a stack of dishes left over from the shift before mine that would leave me playing ketchup for the rest of the night. Back a 30-something waitress with pale skin and a slim figure swept through the doors as I was working through my stack. She was the only member of the wait staff I knew who could manage to keep a sunny disposition no matter how bad the day got. Her shoulders seemed to relax a little when she saw me. Hey, Artie. I need glit. I need glit. I need glasses. Got it. Thank you. She picked up a tub of silverware and rushed back out the doors. The wait staff was always in a rush this time of day. They only had about a half hour to set the tables before some of the early birds started showing up for dinner. I loaded a tray with glasses and sent them through the commercial

steam washer to my left, pulling the hood down with a heavy metal clunk. Once they were done, Becca came through and took the tray out to the dining room. room. Before long, the cook began setting out room service trays. I never understood why it was the dishwasher's job to deliver room service. But nevertheless, I began loading the trays into my cart. Most room service orders came from the same residence, which meant I had long since worked out the most efficient way to load the cart. As I was loading, I noticed one of my regulars, room 2H, was missing. Could have been that she just decided to have dinner in the dining room today.

But as long as I'd been working at Sunset Grove, I'd never known 2H to have dinner anywhere but her room. As I walked down the hallway past 2H, I realized why. There on the door was a small laminated sign with a photo of the woman who had lived in 2H. Lilith Holmes 1928 to 2014

That was it Just a name and a pair of dates Not even a rest in peace But it got the point across I felt a tinge of guilt at the fact That I hadn't known the woman's name I'd been working at Sunset Grove For a year

And I still referred to most of the residents By their room numbers This wasn't the first of these types of signs I'd seen There have been two or three three deaths in the past year, each one memorialized with a cheap laminated sign that would be taken down after a week or two. It may sound callous, but I was never bothered by the deaths. They were simply a fact of life working in a place full of people entering the final phase of

their lives. It helped that I didn't make much effort to get close to the residents. I never wanted this place to bleed into what I considered to be my real life, so whenever I was at sunset, at Grove, I was in work mode. I would put on a kind face, Greek co-workers and residents with a smile, and otherwise speak only when spoken to. It was easier that way. Room 2H stayed empty for a month. The sign, as they always do, disappeared after a while. I wondered if that meant they'd already cleaned out all of Mrs. Holmes's belongings, or if they were still entombed behind that locked door. Eventually, the day came that I had a room service tray for Room 2H again. It seemed so sudden.

I hadn't heard anything about a new resident moving in. I shrugged it off and loaded the tray onto my cart, thinking it must have happened on one of my days off. I hoped the new tenant wouldn't be a handful. I may not have known Mrs. Holmes well, but she was always nice and courteous to me when I brought her her food. It's more than I could say for some of the other. other residents. I rode the elevator up to the second floor. Room 2H was my second stop from there. I knocked and pushed open the door into the dimly lit room. The blinds were all drawn, and there was only a single table lamp turned on in the corner across the room. I could see the new tenant sitting

in a recliner on the opposite wall. It was a woman with white-curled hair that fell to her hunched shoulders. In the dark, I couldn't make out her face, but her form was familiar. As I got closer, I realized it was Mrs. Holmes, sitting in the chair. I faltered. I have your dinner here for you, ma'am. Oh, good. Set it on the table here, dear. Her tone was jovial like always, though it felt strained, as if she were forcing it. I set the tray down on the end table beside her. As she turned to look at it, her eyes seemed to catch the tiny amount of light in the room and glowed for a split second.

Thank you. You're welcome. I turned on my heel and headed for the door. I stopped by the second floor nurses station on my way down the hall and found Ted inside. He was a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair, known around the facility for his eccentric taste in scrubs. Today's were navy blue with a messy pattern of stars. Ted was the only nurse I knew by name, mostly because he gave me no other choice. It was common knowledge at Sunset Grove that if Ted wanted to chat you up, there was nothing you could do to stop it. I poked my head around the door.

Hey, Ted. Arthur! He sat back in his chair. To what do I hold the pleasure? I saw Mrs. Holmes's back. What happened? Why was she gone? Sorry, but I really shouldn't be gossiping about that. I understand. It's just... There was that sign on her door a while ago. I thought she died. Oh, that. That was just a little misunderstanding. But, as you saw, she's alive and well.

Right. I should go. I've still got a cart full of meals to deliver. Best not to keep them waiting. I couldn't stop thinking. about Mrs. Holmes for the remainder of my shift that night. How could the nurses make such a drastic mistake, confusing a resident for dead? And where exactly had Mrs. Holmes been for the last month? At the hospital?

With family, the whole thing irked me more than it probably should have. I didn't like thinking about this place during my time off. But thoughts of Mrs. Holmes stuck with me all week. I delivered room service to her for the rest of the week. Each time I entered 2H, the blinds were drawn, the room kept dark. As always, I set her tray down on the end table next to the recliner. She thanked me, and I moved on to the next room. The next stop on my route was 2K, Ms. Gans, whose name I only knew because she had a reputation

around the building for being very outwardly spoken. There was rarely a week that went by where I wasn't overhearing the nurses laughing about something Ms. Gans had said that day. Most days, Miss Gans left her door open. I knocked anyway and passed through the open frame. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, rubbing her temples before she looked up and saw me. Set it right down there.

She pointed to the rolling TV stand where she took her dinner every day. I did as she said and set the food down on the stand, forcing a smile for good measure. She scooted off the bed and hobbled over to the chair to sit down. I pushed the stand closer to her and lowered it down so she could reach. She examined the tray,

then picked up the pudding cup and handed it to me. You take that. I don't need it. That's all right. I don't need it either. Ms. Gans pawting her desserts off on me was beginning to become a habit. As I tried to set the pudding cup back on the tray, she pushed it back toward me. It clearly wasn't a fight I was going to win,

so I relented. and accepted the pudding. Ms. Gans got to work preparing her coffee, which she had with every meal. I always loaded her tray with three creams and three sugars, but I'd learned in time to wait until she finished mixing before I left, because, more often than not, she'd ask for more. Is this decaf?

That's right. I need caffeine. People keeping me up all night. Knocking on my door. Knocking on your door? Middle of the night. They come, they knock, I open the door, and they're gone. My family doesn't pay $2,000 a month for me to get pranked all night long.

Have you talked to the nurses about it? They're probably the ones doing it. Ms. Gans winced and reached for her forehead. Now I've had this headache all day, thanks to them. I'm sorry about that. I hope you feel better. I made my way out of the room. It became apparent very quickly that Ms. Gans wasn't the only resident dealing with these problems.

I overheard the nurses talking about multiple residents on the second floor, complaining about someone knocking on their door at night. It only got worse throughout the week, with even more residents complaining. There were more complaints of headaches, too. Some residents even started exhibiting symptoms of fever. When I came to serve Ms. Gant's her dinner a week later, her door was shut. I knocked and turned the handle. It wasn't locked, so I went inside.

Ms. Gans was lying in bed, a fresh sheen of sweat, shimmering in the light across her forehead. She hadn't even touched her lunch. I quietly swapped the trays, trying not to disturb her, and tiptoed out of the room, stopping by the nurse's station before I got back to work.

Ted was there again, wearing a loud, floral pattern set of scrubs this time. Hey, uh, Ted? Is Miss Gans all right? Yeah, she's just a little under the weather. She's not the only one. There's some kind of bug going around. Ted scooted his chair across the room and pulled something out of a box.

He tossed me a medical mask. You should probably wear one of these while you're going into rooms. I nodded and put the mask on, leaving Ted to his work. There were four more residents laid up in bed on the second floor. Weirdly, no one on the first or third floor seemed to be affected. Things only seemed to get worse as the days went on. More and more residents were laid up with fevers. Soon enough, no one on the second floor was healthy enough to go to the dining room,

which meant my room service runs were getting longer by the day. Now that I had to deliver trays to every room on the second floor, there was no way I could get it done on my own. But even with Becca helping me with runs, I was still clocking out of work an hour late most nights. As we rolled the cart up to Room 2-H, Becca hesitated. Do you mind getting this one? I raised an eyebrow. Sure.

I had no problem bringing Mrs. Holmes her food. What caught me off guard was the way Becca seemed to give the room a wide berth as we passed, and the trepidation in her voice. As she spoke. Thanks, Artie. Something about her just creeps me out. Don't you feel that? It's a little weird how she sits in the dark all the time,

but I wouldn't call it creepy. So brave. I'll bring Mrs. Gansher tray and meet you down the hall. Sounds good. I knocked on the door and went into 2H. As expected, Mrs. Holmes was seated in her recliner with the blinds drawn and the single lamp on in the corner. Sometimes I wondered if she ever even moved from that spot.

How are you feeling, Mrs. Holmes? Are you a nurse now? I asked through the medical mask I was now required to wear at all times while on the second floor. Her tones seemed intended to be joking, but it came across more accusatory. No, it's just that we can't seem to get rid of this bug going around. I was just curious if you were still feeling all right. I'm fine. Mrs. Holmes was the only resident on the second floor who wasn't sick.

The bug hadn't spread to any of the staff members either. A thought occurred to me. Have you heard anyone knocking on your door at night? Mrs. Holmes's eyes shot to mine, momentarily glowing in the light as they had once before. She stared at me with wide eyes that seemed to be studying me. Finally, her tight lips peeled apart. I have not. Suddenly, I understood why Becca hadn't wanted to come in here.

I could feel the goose flesh spreading across my arm and a shiver run down my spine. I didn't want to linger here any longer than I had to. Have a good night. I said, mimicking my usual tone before hustling out of the room. I grabbed the cart and pushed it quickly down the hall toward Ms. Gans' room, where I would find Becca. but as I rounded the corner, I saw a crowd of nurses surrounding the door. Becca was standing off to the side, a distraught look on her face. What happened?

I went in to give her her food. Her eyes were open, so I thought she was awake. So I asked her if she had enough cream and sugar for her coffee, but she didn't respond. Oh, no. That's never happened to me before. I've never seen one of them after, after they died. Sorry, Artie, I need to take five. Do you think you can finish this yourself today?

That's fine. I've got it. Becca laid her hand on my shoulder as she walked away, her other one combing through her hair. Becca didn't come in the next day. With the waitstaff being short-handed, I had to do the room service deliveries myself. I hesitated before going into 2H,

but when I reached for the handle, I was relieved to find that it was locked. Some of the nurses must have been inside, so I left the tray by the door and went on my way. As I passed by Ms. Gans's room, I saw the sign. Mallory Gans, 1939 to 2014. She was about ten years younger in the photo, smiling next to her daughter. I felt a tug inside my gut and suddenly realized, I wanted to know what was happening. Where was this sickness coming from?

Why wasn't it affecting the residents on the first or third floors or the staff? And why was Mrs. Holmes the only resident on the second floor who was still healthy? I finished delivering trays and stashed the cart in the corner. I figured I had at least ten more minutes before my boss would start wondering where I was. So I found Ted in the nurse's station. Hey, Ted, are you busy? Not busy, Arthur. He grinned.

What can I do for you? You've heard the residents complaining about someone knocking on their doors at night, right? Do you have any idea what that might be about? Yeah, I've heard all about it. Best I can figure, it's someone screwing around on the night shift. Well, there are cameras, right? Couldn't we find out who's doing it? Ted's brow furled.

Why are you so interested? I don't know. I lied. I guess it's just that whoever it was they were bothering Ms. Gans. I thought maybe we could find them and get them to stop to like, honor her in a way. Ted pushed an office chair toward me with his foot.

Sit down a minute. I'll pull up the footage. Thank you. I sat down and watched Ted scrub through last night's security footage. It was strange seeing the hallway so empty. During the daytime hours, there were constantly nurses or housekeepers coming up and down the halls. but at night they were dead. Suddenly, there was a flash of movement on the screen.

Ted let go of the mouse and let the footage play out in real time. I felt my chest tighten as I recognized the figure on the screen, Mrs. Holmes. I watched her walk down the hall, moving with an unnatural weightlessness for her age. She stopped in front of Ms. Gans's room and knocked on the door. Then, all of a sudden, She just faded away. I leaned in closer to the screen. Ted sat upright in his chair.

Was that a glitch? Hmm, I don't know. The time code looks normal, but it must have been. Either way, I guess we know who's been causing trouble at night. I'll have a word with Mrs. Holmes. I don't know if that's a good idea. Ted looked at me quizzically. I didn't know how to explain it, but I knew something was off about Mrs. Holmes.

There was no telling what would happen if someone confronted her, but how was I supposed to convince Ted of that? Sorry. Thanks for the help, Ted. I left the nurse's station without saying another word. I could only hope that my initial warning would be enough to make Ted hesitate until I could figure out what to do next. My heart dropped when I couldn't find Ted the next day.

He was always there. Every single weekday, he was there. None of the other nurses had seen him either. Apparently he hadn't called out sick or anything. As far as anyone knew, he simply hadn't shown up for work. But I knew better. I knew he'd gone and talked to Mrs. Holmes, and she'd done something to him. Could he still be there inside room 2H?

Was he still alive? Had he mentioned me? I worked the first hour of my shift, constantly looking over my shire. shoulder. By five o'clock, the cook started lining up room service trays. I was on my own again. Apparently, Becca was taking some time off after what she'd been through. I couldn't blame her, but I found myself desperately wishing I didn't have to be alone. My heart thumped with dread every step I took toward Room 2H. I prayed the door would be locked again, but no such luck. I pushed the door open slowly and let the light from the hall flood into the dim room.

Mrs. Holmes was in her recliner, but as I got closer, I noticed her eyes were shut. She was asleep. I sat the tray down quietly and made for the door, but before I left, I felt curiosity tugged me back. I wanted to know what happened to Ted. If there was any trace of him in the room, this might be my only chance to find it. I inched heel-toe back through the entryway and into the bedroom. I found an antique lamp on the nightstand and flipped it on, bathing the room in a hazy yellow light. The room was pristine, not even a crease in the bedding.

I didn't know what I was looking for. Blood? A body? Just anything that would confirm the insane thoughts that were running through my mind. I moved to the bathroom, but like the bedroom, it was spotless. I checked every inch of it, even getting down on my hands and knees to inspect the bath mat for bloodstains. I was starting to feel like a lunatic. Maybe everything that was happening was exactly what it seemed, and the rest of it was all just in my head. Feeling a little ridiculous, I stepped out of the bathroom, gently closing the door behind me.

What were you doing in there? A jolt of fear raced through my body. I turned and saw Mrs. Holmes standing in the corner by her recliner. She looked tall. Her shoulders not slumped like usual, and her eyes were glowing in the light again. I didn't know what to say. Sorry. I hurried for the door.

Mrs. Holmes stood motionless, watching me go. Thanks to my little investigation, dinner was nearly over by the time I got back to the kitchen, and there was a mountain of dishes waiting for me by the sink. I shook off the unsettling thoughts plaguing my mind and got to work. It was going to be another late night, and it only got worse when the cook brought over a stack of burnt pans that would take ages of scrubbing to get clean. It was nearly an hour past the end of my shift by the time I'd finally finished all the dishes. The wait staff had clocked out 30 minutes ago.

That was fine. I was used to being the last one in the kitchen. It was the dishwasher's job to clean the floors at the end of the night after everyone else had gone home. That night, though, I should have been scared. But the weight of being alone hadn't hit me yet. My mind was too preoccupied with work. I finished mopping the floor, meaning all that was left was to take the trash out to the dumpster. I gathered up all the bags and took them out into the hallway, then out the back door.

I set the bags down and propped the door open with a pen. After 8 o'clock, the building locked down, and I would need a key card to get back in, something the facility didn't grant to dishwashers. I hoisted the garbage bags into the dumpster and turned back toward the building. Before I could even take a step back toward the door, though, I heard it clunk into place. I ran over and tugged on the handle. Locked. I'd have to walk all the way around the building and come in the front entrance,

probably scaring the hell out of the secretary at the reception desk, who certainly wouldn't be expecting anyone to come in at this hour. Crickets chirped loudly in the fields around the parking lot as I rounded the building. There was no one at the reception desk when I walked in. The secretary was probably out having a cigarette somewhere. I walked through the dining room and back into the kitchen, letting the door swing freely behind me. I heard it brush across the frame once, twice, then suddenly stop. I didn't think much of it until I heard a knock on the door.

My heart froze, fear tightening an ice-cold grip around my throat. I turned and, through the window, saw a pair of glowing. eyes on the other side of the door. Ever so slowly, the door started to push inward as Mrs. Holmes crept inside. I felt like I should have screamed in that moment, but nothing came to me. It felt as though my lungs had completely deflated at the sight of her. She stepped toward me. I stepped back until I felt my back press against the counter behind me.

I wanted to run, but something told me I couldn't. outrun whatever was standing in front of me. My hands reached onto the counter and felt for anything I could use to defend myself. I felt the lukewarm touch of the porcelain plates and wrapped my fingers around the rim of one. I waited, as Mrs. Holmes inched closer, until finally I whipped my arm around and smashed the plate against her head. She wailed and faltered a few steps, buying me enough time to run deeper into the kitchen toward the knives. She was on me again before I could reach them. I felt a wet sting on my calf and looked down to see her there, latched on with her teeth sinking deep into my flesh. I fell onto the concrete floor, my left shoulder taking the brunt

of the impact. I tried to crawl away but couldn't break free of her inhuman weight. With my free leg, I kicked at her head as hard as I could until she released me. Her blood-stained mouth hissed at me as I scrambled to my feet. I ripped the largest knife I could find out of the block and spun around, ready to drive it into Mrs. Holmes' chest. But she was gone. My eyes flicked frantically around the room looking for any sign of her. Then I felt something drip onto my cheek. In the reflection of the knife blade, I could see the drop of blood rolling down my cheek. I looked up, and there she was. She wasn't suspended from the ceiling. She was floating. As soon as I laid eyes on her, she dropped, falling right on top of me. I managed to raise the knife high enough and felt it

pierce her gut as she landed on me. I think that was the only thing that saved me from her teeth sinking into my neck. Mrs. Holmes reeled from the knife wound. She swung her arm out, and I felt the tremendous weight and strength behind it as it crashed into my side and threw me across the room. Pain shot through my back as I collided with the stainless steel of the dishwasher. I knew I couldn't afford to waste time licking my wounds. I pulled myself up to my feet just as Mrs. Holmes ripped the knife free of her gut,

coagulated blood seeped out of the gaping wound like thick mud. Mrs. Holmes hunched over like a predator waiting to pounce. My heart raced waiting for the moment. Like a bolt of lightning, it came. She leapt across the room at me. My instincts kicked in and I ducked to the right. I heard a loud metallic crash as Mrs. Holmes' body slammed into the dishwasher. I looked up and saw her top hat.

Lodged in the machine. Without even thinking about it, I yanked the lever, sending the hood down just far enough over Mrs. Holmes's thin body to activate the machine. She howled and screeched as the steam inside the dishwasher boiled her skin. I didn't wait around for the cycle to finish. I saddled the pain in my back and my leg and ran out of the kitchen before she had a chance to escape. I didn't dare look back. Sunset Grove closed down last year. Three years after I left for good that night.

I never found out what became of Mrs. Holmes, but I don't think she ever left. The article detailing Sunset Grove's closure cites financial difficulty after a spike in mortality rates. And there had been more than one story about staff members going missing over the years. Ted was the first of them. I would have been the second.

For a long time, Sunset Grove haunted me. I would dream about being back in Room 2-H, cowering under Mrs. Holmes' impossibly tall form. Her skin blistered and rubbery from the burns I gave her. In time, those dreams faded. It hadn't seemed possible, but my life started to return to a sense of normalcy. Reading the article on Sunset Grove brought those memories crashing back. I tried to tell myself that I was safe, but I don't think I am anymore. Not since I heard a knock on my door the other night.

I wanted so badly to believe it was nothing, just neighborhood kids messing around. But my head has been pounding ever since I heard it. My stomach twisted in knots. My breath short. I can't sleep through the night anymore. I find myself staring out the window. Watching. Sometimes, among the twinkling fireflies at the edge of the woods, I swear, I see a pair of glowing eyes watching me in the dark. For most of us, it's the start of the hot season, the summer

months that will bring us all the heat and humidity we can handle. The heat can be enjoyable in small doses, but in this tale, shared with us by author Vincent Pémont Desilé, we meet a woman desperate to cool off her sun. It's not the outdoor temperatures that have him overheated. It's something far worse and intensely transformative. Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, Gaudio, Jessica McAvoy, Jesse Cornett, Erica Sanderson, and Jeff Clement. So keep your cool, if you'll pardon the expression, it's not easy to do when facing some scorchers. Laura's grip on the wheel wouldn't loosen. Her foot crushed the accelerator.

The country road melted into a blur. Lying on the backseat, her son was caught in a loop of torturous screams. Heat came in waves on the back of her neck. Between the screams and spasms, Tommy's face was the same her students made when clueless. But add in pain, lots of it, triple the despair, and flood it. fear. Laura choked on the tears she refused to let out. A meditation technique she had learned, label your thoughts or feelings as such. Crippling dread, just a feeling, just a thought. The shrieks said otherwise. Trickles of blood poured down the leather. Tommy had given up on holding

his wound. Sweat streamed across the crinkles of his contorted face. He had ripped his shirt off His belly glowed red. The skin had become translucent, revealing the guts, the stomach, the throbbing heart. The ice she'd put on him, bags snatched from an abandoned gas station had melted. Maybe they won ten, fifteen minutes. It varied the time it took to turn.

At the chalet they'd be safe. She'd be able to think, make her decision. She could use the Remington if she had to fight them. or give her son a quick, painless death if she chose that, if it wasn't too late. Tommy's turning into a monster. Just a thought. She had seen it happen. The fever, the glow, the transformation, the fainting.

Her colleague Denise had said she got stabbed that there was fighting in the schoolyard. 911 didn't answer. In the nurse's office, Denise shouted that she, burned. Sweat soaked the exam table. On the intercom, the principal yelled to stay inside. They stared as Denise's torso glowed red. Heat filled the room. From all over the school, screams rose. Chaos flowed down the corridors. Vaguely human shapes tore their way through the crowd of fleeing students. After Laura had found Tommy and brought him to the infirmary, she barely read. She barely recognized Denise. Her fingers had mashed together into a pointy stump. Torn flesh hung around the

foot-long claw shaped from her transmuted bones. She was passed out, only livened by sporadic trembles. The nurse recoiled her hand after touching her forehead. Tommy asked Laura questions she couldn't answer. When Denise opened her eyes, she was one of them, and the nurse's neck didn't stand a chance. Laura dragged Tommy out of the room through corridors filled with ravaged corpses, or twitching, transforming ones. Focus on the road. In the corner of Laura's eye, hints of death detached themselves from the blur as the SUV sped by, a car off the road with a bloody windshield, another one sideways across the right lane, a house with the front door opened, a broken window. All those face

could have been theirs. The closer she got to the chalet, the more she dreaded getting there, where the choice awaited. Was her son better dead or a monster? Could she pull the trigger, or could she lock him in a room and wait? For what? A cure? Help? From whom? Laura knew next to nothing about those monsters, that illness, that curse, whatever it was. It's sprued. It's bred fast, and it hurt that she knew. Their minds were wiped out, or maybe they went insane from the constant burning pain their condition kept them in, their brains unable to comprehend what happened. It felt wrong to call her colleagues, her students, people she'd seen on the streets, in the parks, at the mall, monsters. Some called them stabbers, some scorchers. But you had to

make a separation. They were no longer people. Or were they? One had reached for her cell phone out of reflex before biting it. Laura had seen one trying to get into his car, his car. They still had shadows of memories, instincts, a trace of humanity. Would Tommy call her name in a fit of agony? Would there be consciousness left in him? Such a good kid. So good, it doomed him. About 20 survivors had gathered in the school's cafeteria. Lights off, tables stacked against the doors and windows. Sitting on the floor, Laura held her shivering sun.

They had made sure no one in the room had gotten stabbed. Within the first hour, they had watched a first-grade teacher change. They had to throw her deformed, searing body out the emergency exit under the protests of some horrified onlookers. Sometimes a commotion surrounded them. Sometimes one would pound against a window. Sometimes a dreadful silence reigned. A raspy, desperate voice called out from outside. The last syllable stretched as if dragged across concrete behind a speeding pickup truck. A girl answered. Dad? And before anyone could stop her, she dashed to the emergency exit door and pulled.

pushed it open. Daylight spilled in. The girl ran out of view, only to return into the doorframe after a long, gut-wrenching cry. The lanky figure that was once her father lifted her. The end of his right arm plunged into her stomach. The muscles on his naked body seemed about to tear, the veins in his neck, about to burst. All his hair had fallen off. His melted face had no eyebrows, no eyelashes.

Shreds of drooping flesh hung over his chin, his gums and teeth forever exposed. He bit into her neck, ripped a large chunk of it. Both disappeared, leaving only blood-covered grass in the doorframe. Before Laura could hold him back, Tommy ran to shut the door. As he neared it, two, four, six of them rushed in. Tommy was stabbed above the hip and thrown aside. The survivors who made it out did so because others got killed first.

Laura spared a thought for them as she sprinted across the parking lot with her son in her arms. Don't think about an accident. The road had turned rougher, uneven. The car skidded now and then. Laura slowed down. Don't think about the choice. About the what-ifs. about the accident that had sent Tommy's father into a coma,

about the choice she made after months of bad news, of hope fading on her son's face when she told the doctors to pull the plug. About how the comatose in the next room, as a miracle or bad joke on her, regained consciousness the following day, against all odds, against her. That decision haunted her ever since.

We're almost there. A beige and red shape darted on the road, jumped on the car. The windshield shattered. She hit the brakes. The wheels screeched. The SUV sloughed and smashed against a tree in a clash of crushed metal. It was the wind on her cheek that let her know she was still alive. Then the pain.

Everywhere. Her little finger bent backward. She turned her head. Her neck cracked. Tommy was between the seats. Face down, she saw him in a red blur. With as much caution as her quivering hand allowed, she plucked a shard of glass out of the corner of her eye. Blood ran down her eyelid. After three tries, she opened the door. Once she had pulled herself out, her dazed mind recalled the cause of the accident. The scorcher lay still on the road. His body contorted in ways beyond flexibility, bones sticking out. In a crescendo, Tommy let out a scream.

Laura pulled him out of the car, slowly. Blood trickled from his nose. Everything! Can you walk? He shook his head, no, but tried a couple of steps before he bent at the waist, seized by another wave of tremors and torture, another scream that scraped his throat. Yells answered in the distance.

A farmhouse stood at the end of a dirt path. They headed for it through a field of scruffy grass that crept up to their knees. Within a minute of tedious tottering, Tommy dropped. He gripped his skull and shrieked. Footsteps running on the road. Laura dove into the grass, put her hand on Tommy's mouth. A stabber jumped on the crashed car, peaked inside, and pounded the roof with his bony stumps.

Tommy's muffled groans seeped from under Laura's hand as he wriggled in her arms as his flesh burned hers. The stabber stood straight on the car and let out a guttural scream. More than six feet of charred tissue and bloody flesh. His frantic chest pumped in large inhales, the organs waving under the organs waving under the chest. under the thin, glassy layer of red. The one lying on the road responded with gurgles. His broken limbs twitched on the concrete. The one on the car leaped toward the wounded

and battered his face and body. Laura pulled up her son and they staggered across the field. Halfway through Tommy went limp. Laura carried him to the farmhouse. She burst inside and laid Tommy on the couch. A patch of his hair had stuck to her palm. She checked for breath, thin and hot on her cheek, and watched his lungs feebly expand. He quivered in silence, eyes empty.

Laura paced the house, making sure the place was safe. There were holes in the walls, broken glass, shattered dishes, blood on the floor, on the splintered cabinet doors, on smashed family pictures, an old couple with two children, probably their grandkids. Love and life had once filled this home. She grabbed a knife from the kitchen counter and rushed back into the living room to kneel on the old, bushy rug in front of her son. What was there to say? She wanted to hold his hand, but they weren't hands anymore.

She wanted to reassure him about death, but had nothing but tears. There's something. He was out, unconscious and assaulted by spasms. Her trembling hand brought the knife to his throat. A shriek came from somewhere inside the house, somewhere low. She stared at a door she had thought to be a closet. Another scream. Laura sprinted to the door, closed the little hook-lock,

pushed an armchair in front of the door, and ran back to Tommy. Come on. Do it. But what if? What if? What if? What if? What if it was temporary?

She could picture herself alone in a crowd of survivors, reuniting with their still alive back to human relatives. Feet up the steps, thumps on the door. The hook shook, the armchair jerked. The blade drew a thin line of blood on Tommy's throat. Laura dropped the knife, fell backward. She let out a scream of desperate frustration. The basement door burst open. Laura picked up the knife and stood.

What was once an old man kicked the armchair out of the way and stared at her with hateful, raging eyes. Nostrils flared above clenched teeth. The stench of burnt flesh pervaded the air. In a fit of overheating, he had torn his flannel shirt, exposing his body charred with third-degree burns, large veins throbbing all over. Red patches covered his naked.

scalp. He charged. Laura slashed. His arm hit her on the side of the head, knocked her down. The old scorcher screeched. A cut widened across his belly. Red liquid poured out. Smoke hissed on the wooden floor where the juice fell. The puddle reached the carpet. Flames rose out of it. Laura braced herself for another attack, but the scorcher collapsed on the flaming rug. A jolt of burning pain pierced her flank. She dropped. A new Tommy stood next to her. Blood dripped from one of his pointy stumps. He bellowed, recoiled from the spreading fire, and jumped out the window. Laura dragged herself to the front porch. Heat emanated from her side. She watched her son run away, crushed by her failure. Her hand clutched the knife. She had another tough choice to make

before fate made it for her. 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, 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 ink