The NoSleep Podcast - S21 Ep8: NoSleep Podcast S21E08

Episode Date: June 23, 2024

It’s Episode 08 of Season 21. Ride the Sleepless Express into tales about tragic tykes. “The Ice Cream Man” written by Gene Broadway (Story starts around 00:03:30) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – David Cummings, Billy – Dan Zappulla, Ice Cream Man – Mike DelGaudio, Nicholas Fowler – Matthew Bradford “Tommy” written by 1000andonenites (Story starts around 00:27:20) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced & scored by: David Cummings Cast: Narrator – Erin Lillis, Mary – Sarah Thomas, Mary’s Kid – Matthew Bradford, Anna – Nichole Goodnight “Down the Slide” written by Adryan Straver (Story starts around 00:33:25) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Kristen DiMercurio “Walter” written by Halle Harper (Story starts around 00:45:45) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Narrator – Jeff Clement, Walter – Reagen Tacker, Dad – Jesse Cornett “Blocks” written by Albert Ramirez (Story starts around 01:10:55) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Narrator – David Ault, Little Mikey – James Cleveland, Little Mikey’s Mother – Ash Millman, The Toy Man – Andy Cresswell, The Good Little Girl – Erika Sanderson, The Good Little Girl’s Mother – Penny Scott-Andrews “Digging a Hole” written by Jeff Wood (Story starts around 01:43:25) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Don – Graham Rowat, Dena – Sarah Thomas, Kelly – Nichole Goodnight This 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 team Click here to learn more about 1000andonenites Click here to learn more about Adryan Straver Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone “Walter” illustration courtesy of Jen Tracy Audio program ©2024 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

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. you one of the cardinal rules of horror storytelling. You write about what scares you. A writer has a fear of drowning. Here's a story about someone drowning. A writer is terrified about walking alone at night and being attacked. Well, here's their story about that. And with a lot of horror writers being parents, you can imagine how terrifying it would be to have your child harmed or killed. Not sure

there's much worse than that, right? Well, that's why horror has so many stories in which children are in grave danger or end up being killed due to accident or malevolence. Stories about harm coming to children will give all but the most heartless person a disturbing experience. And kids in horror aren't always the victims. I'm sure you've seen movies or stories which feature the villains being young, innocent children. So whether it's children suffering harm or children inflicting, arm, there is something especially unsettling about the combination of children and dark horror. On this episode, we're going to be killing kids left right and center. Sorry little Sally and Bobby,

but it's off to the morgue with you. Okay, that's a bit insensitive. But yes, the stories we're presenting this week will challenge you with the notion of children dying, or children being rather awful little creatures, but rest assured no children were actually harmed in the making of this episode. So as the sleepless express rolls into the dark tunnels, just repeat to yourself, I believe that children are our future. Well, at least most of them. And now the train is ready to depart, your journey into the darkness begins now. In our first tale, we meet a boy on his way home from school. It should be an uneventful situation if it weren't for the bully waiting to harass him.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Gene Broadway, on this day, the boy discovers someone else waiting for him, someone offering up a rather sweet treat. Performing this tale with me are Danza Pula, Mike Delgadoio, and Matthew Bradford. So scream for him, if you will, but think twice if you meet the Ice Cream Man. The summer sun was early this year, and Billy felt its full force beating down on his neck as he stepped off the school bus and looked up the dusty old dirt road. The Smithfield family lived at the end of County Line Road, working what used to be the old baity farm. It was a fine piece of property, but walking to the end of the road meant passing

the Fowler home, and Nicholas Fowler was a bully. On the good days, it would be raining, and Billy wouldn't have to deal with Nicholas at all, unless Nicholas sent out his old pit bull to chase Billy for a stretch. The old dog seemed to sense the game and kept his teeth just out of reach of the young boy's denim jeans and converse shoes, getting so close at times that Billy later wiped the slobber from the beast off his shoes and let them dry overnight by the wood stove. That was on a good day. On a bad day, which was becoming all too typical, the older and bigger Nicholas would come out himself, searching Billy's bag for leftover lunch money, or ruining his homework just for the spite of doing it. Sometimes Billy would wind up in the ditch along the old road,

looking up with a new Shiner or a freshly bruised shoulder, watching the spokes of Nicholas Fowler's Schwinn-10 speed racing off toward the Fowler home, the beast barking as it ran behind. Just as Billy was about to begin his dreadful walk up the old road, he heard the distant sound of music, some caroling tune that was unfamiliar and different from the usual routine of his day. Billy looked off into the distance toward the direction of the music. He couldn't see anything coming from either direction, but the happy music was most certainly getting closer, and he could tell it was coming from the west, from the neighboring county. Billy stared for what seemed to be several minutes, past the sign marking the county line,

toward the crest of the hill more than a mile away. Then he saw it. Billy could tell the oncoming vehicle was a box truck of sorts, maybe a van. It seemed to be mostly white, but the sun bounced off the windshield as it got closer, and the 10-year-old boy had to hold his hand up and shield himself from the nearly blinding reflection. As it got within a half mile, Billy could make out a small speaker on the top of the truck, which he could now tell was a van. Or was it a box truck?

To be honest, it looked like both. The front looking more like a truck and the back looking like a van. It was a moving van, like the ones Billy had seen on the rental lot next to the hardware store in town. Except this one was white, with colorful writing across the top

above the windshield and along the side. There were also what appeared to be random posters or something of that sort, along the side of the van, at least along the side Billy could see as it approached. The music grew louder, the writing became more distinguished, and although the sun's reflection kept Billy from seeing the driver, he could now clearly make out the words written across the top of the paneled truck. Ice cream.

As the truck approached, it began slowing down, and then rolled to a complete stop next to the old dirt road right next to Billy. There was a glass window in the back half and a tiny metal shelf just on the other side of the window. Everything on the inside and outside of the panel truck looked white, clean, and pure. The truck rocked just a little, like someone was moving about inside, and Billy was startled to see a man appear at the other side of the window. The man reached to his left and touched something. The music stopped, and the window slid open.

Well, hello there, sunny boy. What'll it be? The man smiled, a warm and inviting smile. He was probably about the same age as Billy's own father, maybe 40 or maybe a little younger. The man was dressed all in white, and the only distinguishing feature from his otherwise unimpressive face were those dark brown eyes. But as the man smiled, the eyes seemed to smile as well. And Billy instantly liked the stranger. How could you not? In Billy's small world, he had perhaps seen every face of every person living in Terrence,

and not one had the warmth of this strange man in a strange panel truck that came from nowhere to stop on a remote country road on the edge of a county bordering no place in particular. Just then, Billy looked around, up and down the side of the van, and he saw all sorts of pictures of ice cream treats and desserts. Some were on sticks, some were on cones, some were white and covered in brown or red coating, some were dark and twisty, and some were as colorful as a rainbow.

Billy looked back at those kind eyes and said the only thing a 10-year-old boy on his way home from school would say. I don't have any money. Billy expected the man in the panel truck to tip his hat, and close the window, start the music, and drive away. But he didn't. His eyes never blinked, and he never stopped smiling, and he didn't close the window or drive away.

Well, hmm. He lifted his hat slightly to scratch his head. I don't recall asking how much money you had. If I remember correctly, hmm. The man was looking into the distance, up the dirt road, as if he were trying to see something from the past. I believe I asked, what will it be?

Ah, yes, that's what I said. I didn't say anything about an exchange of money at all, now, did I? Huh, and you know what? That just doesn't seem fair. You didn't wave at me to stop, and at the moment, I don't have a single price sign posted anywhere. So it was completely wrong for me

to assume you might be a customer. The man spoke in an animated fashion, first holding his chin, then waving his hand for expression, as if he were half talking to Billy and half to himself. But he never really stopped smiling, and Billy caught himself smiling too. Suddenly the man snapped his fingers and came to a conclusion. Young man, there is only one thing to do, and I absolutely insist upon you're accepting it without an argument. The first cone is free. Yes, it must be free, at absolutely no charge to you. Before Billy could even think of protesting,

the man reached behind him and pushed something else. A board just below the window slid across from left to right. It appeared to be some sort of list, a flavor list, according to the caption just below the window. It read, and there was a menu of seemingly endless items to choose from. Young man, pick your flavor. And enjoy an ice cream on the house.

That means free in case you hadn't heard that expression at school. I take it you're on your way home from school? Yes, sir. Good. That's a good boy. Now, look along the list and find something that sounds delicious. Billy began to look down at the list, and it was an odd array of items that didn't look like any flavors he had seen before. Instead of the regular flavors, the chocolates and vanillas and strawberries of the world,

he saw such things as green with envy, or tough as nails, or red passion, whatever passion was. It seemed to Billy had heard that word a time or two. The man could sense the confusion on the young boy. face, so he offered a kind suggestion. Now, young man, it has been my experience from years in this business, that when a person is choosing a flavor, it is best to trust his first instinct. As soon as something catches your eye, that's the one to pick. Billy glanced up at the kind face, then back at the board.

As he looked over this odd menu, one flavor in particular stood out to him. Leave me alone. Billy barely muttered the flavor out loud, half thinking about the ice cream and half thinking about walking toward home and inevitably dealing with the cruel antics of Nicholas Fowler. But the ice cream man heard Billy clearly. Excellent selection, young man.

That has always been a favorite of my own too. And I am proud that you have made such a wise choice for one so young. Your parents must be proud. Very proud indeed. The ice cream man disappeared as quickly as he'd appeared. The window slid shot, and Billy could sense movement in the truck. He hadn't intended for Leave Me Alone to necessarily be his selection, but none of the flavors really made any sense,

and he didn't want to be rude since the cone was free after all. The ice cream man reappeared at the window, and as it swooshed open, Billy could feel a rush of cold air hit him in the face, a refreshing feeling on such a hot day. Ooh, so scrumptious, yummy, yum, yum, yum, yum, yum, yum, yeah. Are you ready for this, young man? The ice cream man was smiling, and he brought his hand out from around his back to reveal a large, single scoop of ice cream,

resting on a cone with a pointed tip, wrapped up securely with a white napkin. The ice cream itself was sort of an off-white color, and while there was nothing especially delicious looking about it, Billy felt his eyes get a little wider and his mouth start to water as he reached out for the cone. Thanks, mister. Billy brought the cone to his mouth and took a bite, one of those tentative bites,

partly because he knew he was about to put something very cold in his mouth, and partly because he had no clue what, Leave me alone was going to taste like. He held the ice cream in his mouth to savor the flavor, and while it wasn't especially sweet, it was very refreshing. Billy felt the summer heat leaving his body, and a calm settled in. His second bite was as good as the first, and he felt exhilaration, a new sense of energy and focus, a determination.

Well, what do you think? The ice cream man was smiling proudly, as Billy was clearly enjoying his selected flavor. This is great. The best ice cream ever. The ice cream man leaned back from the window, still smiling. Oh, goody, that's just what I was hoping you would say. I am so happy you enjoy it. Now, I must be going, young man. It has been a pleasure making your acquaintance. But there are so many customers that I simply must get to before this day is over. I hope to see you around town.

Oh, and, uh, young man, do me a favor, as a new friend. Let's just keep this free cone a secret, okay? No one needs to know I let you have the first cone for free. They may all want one if they do. Is that okay with you? Billy smiled wide, letting one big bite slide down his throat and preparing to take another. I won't tell anyone, mister, I promise. Oh, good. That's a good boy.

Now, you get along home and try not to let that melt on your shirt. I wouldn't want your mother upset with me. The window swished shut and the ice cream man disappeared into the truck. The music started playing as the truck started and pulled. away. Billy watched for a few seconds as the truck sped off into the distance, then turned and slowly started walking, finishing off his free cone as he headed toward home. Billy was walking home, smiling, and had all but forgotten his nemesis when a blue 10-speed Schwinn bike came flying out from behind a row of trees and onto the old dirt road. Nicholas Fowler slid the bike to a stop,

creating a cloud of dust and throwing gravel out in several directions, his pit bull lumbering out into the road behind him. Well, if it isn't our old pal, Billy... No one could say Billy's name more sarcastically than Nicholas. I wonder what kind of goodies he has in his gay little backpack. The overstuffed dog barked, as if he had understood what his master had said and wanted to offer his encouragement, anticipating the fun that was about to begin.

Huh? What's that? Oh, I think you're right, Rascal. We should go and see what our friend has brought us today. Nicholas pulled his left foot back from the ground and put it on the pedal, pointing the bike in Billy's direction. And as Billy turned, he could hear Rascal bark and Nicholas call out. Come back here, you little pussy. If you try to run, it'll only make it worse. But Billy had no intention of running. He reached out. instead to an old dead tree limb hanging from the nearest oak, a four-foot piece of wood that felt like it was about the same weight as a baseball bat. It had probably fallen from the top of the tree and was hanging down from the lowest branch.

Billy grabbed the limb with both hands, and just as he heard Rascals' deep bark about ten feet behind him, he turned and swung with all his force, all in one fluid motion. The old tree limb struck the dog along the side of the side of the, the head, a perfect hit. Rascal yelped as his head jerked away from the force of the swing, and blood flew from his mouth and nose. He landed near Billy's feet and started shaking and convulsing,

his entire body bouncing off the ground. Billy reached back, and he faintly heard a scream that sounded like Nicholas Fowler as the limb connected with the dog's head a second time. Rascal lay there, as dead as the tree limb, Billy still held in his hands. Nicholas stopped about six feet from Rascal's dead body and let his bike fall to the ground as he crouched over the dog, careful of the puddle of blood from the head wound expanding faster than the earth could soak it up.

He felt sick to his stomach, disbelief and rage building inside as his fists clenched and he turned to face Billy. Billy had backed up slightly, but not to run or cower. He was judging the proper distance for his next swing. Nicholas Fowler moved forward, his face red with fury. You son of us! Billy swung again with his full force. The dead limb made contact with Nicholas Fowler's face.

Blood from rascal smeared across his skin, and his head jerked away from the force of the blow. Nicholas didn't go down as quickly as his dreaded dog, and Billy reached back to swing again while Nicholas was slightly off balance. He connected again, harder this time, and the tree limb broke off in Billy's hand. It had struck with such force

that Nicholas was now down on his knees. The blood from the dog was now mixed with the blood from Nicholas's own wound, a cut along the side of his face. For once in his life, Nicholas was quiet. Billy didn't know if it was the shock of what had just happened, or if the injury was so severe that Nicholas had lost his speech, Billy didn't care, and he didn't wait to see what Nicholas would do next. Instead, Billy dropped what

was left of the dead tree limb and reached for a rock that lay just a few feet away. It was a solid rock, jagged on one side, heavier than it looked, but it was easy enough to hold in his right hand. He heard some indiscernible mumbling from the direction of his sworn lifetime enemy. Nicholas was trying to catch his balance and get his wits about him, struggling up onto his right leg with his left knee still planted to the ground. Billy reared back like a major league pitcher, just like he had seen on television when he and his dad were watching the Braves, and he slammed that jagged rock into the side of Nicholas Fowler's already injured face.

Nicholas went back to his knees, and the next blow from Billy put Nicholas on the ground, lying next to his dead dog. Billy got down in a crouch, then buried his knees into the ground on either side of Nicholas, and started slamming the rock into the boy's head over and over, then picked up a second rock in his left hand, this one bigger than the first, and with both hands he continued to smash the stones into the head of Nicholas Favis Favis. Leave me alone. You leave me alone. Then, as the body of Nicholas Fowler stopped resisting completely and lay there limp beneath him, Billy took three final blows into his enemy's now unrecognizable face. Leave! A massive blow from his right hand that cracked the skull.

Me! A second blow from his left hand that pierced. the jagged rock into the side of the skull, knocking the right eye from its socket. Alone! One final blow with the right hand. This time he left both the rocks right where they were, lodged into the skull of Nicholas Fowler, red blood, all sorts of tissue,

and what may have been brain matter oozing from the deep wounds. Billy couldn't be sure if it was brain matter or not. He had never actually seen brain matter before. Billy finally caught his breath and stood up, looking down at the two corpses. He looked down at his hands, at the blood on his hands, and the blood that had spattered out onto his shirt. He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand

and was surprised to find blood there too. As he stood there examining what he had just done, Billy for the first time felt nervous and afraid. What have I done? My mom is going to kill me when she sees all this blood. He thought for a few brief seconds,

glancing up the road toward home, then back at the bodies, stepping over them back onto the dirt road. Then an idea occurred to him. I'll just have to stop at the faucet outback and wash up real good before I go inside, and I can throw this shirt into the fire bucket. The Smithfield's,

kept a rusted out 55-gallon drum behind the house for burning cardboard and papers and whatever else they put there. So he figured that fire could just as easily get rid of that old bloody shirt. Billy started smiling. What a great day. He would never have to face that darn bully again or his demon dog. As the sun beat down into Billy Smithfield's neck, he happily walked towards at home, wondering what his mom would have on the table for supper. Maybe if he was lucky, it would be meatloaf night. And maybe if he was especially lucky, there would be ice cream for dessert. We all know that ghosts are the spirits of dead people who can't move on after their passing.

And if a young child dies, their hauntings can be even more upsetting. But in this tale, shared with us by author 1,000. Andwinites, we learn about the ghost of a young boy who seems to be doing something unheard of. His ghost is growing older. Performing this tale are Aaron Lillis, Sarah Thomas, Matthew Bradford, and Nicole Goodnight. So as there's nothing common about this spirit, let's discover the truth about Tommy. Aren't supposed to get old. Everyone knows they stay the age they died for eternity.

But not Tommy. He was killed when he was only three. His little body brutally crushed in a hidden run outside his home. He had been standing on the pavement, holding his mommy's hand when he was distracted by a sparrow on the road. Squamming out of Anna's clutch, he ran into the road. He was dead an instant later. And poor Anna, shocked and traumatized by what she had just witnessed, could barely remember. the color of the car as it sped away.

No one was ever brought to justice. Tommy was their only child. That is how the story goes. Anna and Mark, her husband and Tommy's father, had no more children, continuing to live quietly together in the same house, keeping themselves to themselves. And Tommy froliced about on the street,

sometimes on his red tricycle, sometimes kicking a red ball with Scooby-Doo on it. Everyone knew he was there. What were they supposed to do about it? He seemed harmless enough, only wanting to be close to his home and parents. He never went inside. It was only after a couple of years

that people realized that Tommy was getting older. Mary and a couple of the other neighbors tried to talk to Anna, but Anna looked blank, as if she hardly understood who Tommy was. The children on the street avoided playing outside Anna and Mark's house, not exactly scared of Tommy's ghost, but certainly creeped out by the growing child who still restlessly peddled his tricycle with legs growing far too long.

By the time Tommy would have been ten, it was a common side on that street, a boy peddling furiously on a tricycle with his knees bent up to his ears, and Anna and Mark still did nothing. It was Mary, of course, who brought it up at a local meeting. She was Anna and Mark's next-door neighbor with three kids of her own. Something has to be done. The boy is harmless for now, but he's growing bigger almost every day.

How is this possible? Someone will get hurt. The others looked at her, upset and polite, and nothing was done. More years passed. Anna and Mark aged almost. most shockingly. By the time they were in their mid-30s, they looked as if they were in their 50s. They had mostly cut off contact with their family, living quiet alone. And Tommy was becoming a man. A young, handsome man with a shock of bright hair and a fierce smile, peddling around chasing

sparrows on the stretch of road outside their house. Drivers who didn't know would break to a sharp stop before him and jump out, only to see nothing. It would have been his 18th birthday. Anna stood on the pavement, the exact spot she had been standing so many years ago. One of Mary's kids came out and stood next to her. Together, they watched Tommy kick his Scooby ball. A tall, lean young man on the cusp of life. He ignored them.

Mary's kid turned to Anna. I saw you. You pushed him, and it was his dad's car. Anna gasped. but she had been waiting for this moment when someone would tell her what they had done out loud. Tommy stopped kicking the ball and looked at his mom. Fire burned in his eyes.

The sunlight made it look like his hair was on fire. He smiled that fierce toddler smile, crooked on a young man. Anna shook her head. I couldn't. I couldn't be a mom. I hated every second. I wanted my own life back, and so did Mark. Tommy held out his hand to Anna, and she stepped on the street.

The sudden squealing of brakes and her scream ripped through the calm street. This time, Mark didn't speed away. He came out of the car and looked down silently at his wife's broken body. Tommy was nowhere to be seen. For most of us, part of growing up, included learning about life on the playground. Whether it was interacting with other kids, dealing with the inevitable cuts and scrapes, or just learning how to use the equipment, the playground taught us a lot. But in this tale, shared with us by author Adrian Stravers,

you return to the days of the playground, only this time your adventures aren't so fun. Performing this tale is Kristen Di Maccurio. So perhaps you should stick to the swings or the fort. The last thing you should do is go down the slide. It's a cool spring day, and your mom decides to take you to the park. You know she's been stressed out from work and your dad not being around anymore. You don't really like the park, but you decide that instead of fighting her on it, you'll try to be civil and go with her.

She needs it more than you. Once you get to the small, partially run-down playground, she notices one of her friends sitting on a park bench, watching her own child. You take your cue and play with the other boy for a bit. You go your separate ways, as he wants to swing on the single remaining swing, and you decide to go down the slide.

As you get to the top of the playground, the mouth of the slide right at your feet, you wave to your mother, still entrenched in conversation about grown-up things with her friend. She doesn't notice you, but that doesn't bother you. You sit down and move yourself forward, feeling the slide take you. You slide and slide and slide. By the time you realize you should be out the other end by now, it's been minutes.

The multicolored rings become nearly hypnotic as you continue, down, down, down. You continue to slide for what feels like hours. With no concept of time, you have no idea how long you've been here. What's going on? Why hasn't your mom noticed you're trapped? Where are you? You notice the slide becoming darker, slightly at first, but now at a much faster pace. You also become aware of a very loud noise, like screaming, pleading, yelling.

It gets louder and louder, and finally, when you think you can't take it anymore, it's completely silent. Just as the silence takes over, you come out the other end of the slide. You're no longer outside. You notice three walls and a ceiling, no windows, no doors, only an empty room with a single, buzzing light on in the corner, and a hallway facing you. With no other options, you decide to see what's down that way. As you walk along the dark hallway, scarcely lit and extremely long, you continue to question your situation.

Where are you? How did you get here? Where is your mom? Finally, you emerge in another nearly empty room. This room has a small ball pit in one corner, a flickering, buzzing fluorescent light in the other, and in the middle of the far wall, the entrance to a slide.

You decide to look at the ball pit first, but there's nothing of note in there. After a moment of contemplation, you decide to go into the slide entrance. Another far too long slide. Another eternity going down. You're getting more and more anxious as you descend. Why is this happening to you? How is this possible? As you see the slide begin to darken once again, you emerge at the end, back in the same empty room.

This time, however, a blur of movement in your periphery catches your eye, as if something very quickly, jerkily, moved out of your line of sight. You want to get out of there. You want to go home. You want your mom. You decide to go down the dark foreboding hallway once again. As before, it's far too long and you're getting very tired. The silence is only broken by the sound of your footsteps against the tile floor. As you reach the end of the hallway, you can see. See the ball pit room once again, the entrance to the slide across from you.

Again, you see a slight movement out of the corner of your eye. You've come this far. You don't want to stick around to see what's causing the movement, so you enter the slide. As you fall this time, you drop into a fitful, dreamless sleep. When you next wake up, you're still sliding down. You see the telling darkness once again, and this time it is accompanied by whispers. You can't make out what they're saying. As you emerge into the dim light,

you see another jerk of movement, this time from every corner, every crevice, every hiding spot you hadn't noticed before, as if dozens of figures have just hidden from you. However, upon inspection, nothing is there. Nothing is ever there. No noise, no footsteps, just you, and the deafening silence.

As you become increasingly paranoid, you begin your trek down the long, dark hallway. Every time you turn around, you see a blur of movement, a flicker, as if you just missed something running out of your sight. As you continue down the hallway, you become aware that you are being followed, as if someone is trying to copy your footsteps. But sometimes they don't copy them exactly, and you can hear the footfalls that are not your own.

Every time you turn around, there is nothing there. As you once again see the flickering light ahead, it feels somewhat cathartic. The footsteps behind you grow quiet. As you approach the same slide opening, you steal one last glance behind you as you cross the threshold. There is a figure there. A formless black thing. You don't know what it is. You don't want to.

You don't waste any more time. You get back into the slide. This time as you doze and fall, the motion sloth. slightly therapeutic and comforting. You're awakened by bumps, nudges, vibrations coming from outside of your relatively safe confinement. You tell yourself it's just you bumping yourself awake. You don't believe that. Finally, you're awoken with another loud bang, and you see the familiar darkness begin to encroach. This time, however, you hear the same loud noises as you did your first time, only this time it seems worse, more frenzied, more scornseyed, more scoach.

Scared, panicked even. As you leave the confines of your downward spiral, you're nearly blinded. Lights like headlights on a car are all around you, looking straight at you. You think it can make out vaguely humanoid shapes behind them, but the lights are so bright you can't tell. All at once, the lights are gone, with a slight shuffling movement and almost no noise. You can't see where any of them went, but you can feel them. just vestiges maybe, but you can feel them.

Their want, their longing, their burning hatred. You enter the dark hallway, moving faster than before. As you continue down the nondescript walkway, you slow down. You're tired. You're so hungry. Above all else, though, you want your mom. You want her to hold you, to make you feel safe. You want her to save you from whatever monster.

lurk in the darkness all around you. She doesn't. As you walk down the hall, you become aware that you're being followed again. It started as occasional footsteps like last time, but now it's not even trying to mimic you. You turn around every so often, but there's nothing there.

There never is. As you turn around to check once again, you see a silhouette in the blackness. Something darker than the pitch surrounding you both, It's way behind you, unmoving. But it's there. Every few steps, you steal another glance back. It's always there now.

Barely able to be made out against the darkness. You pick up the pace a bit. Every time you look back, it's there, always just a little closer. It never moves when you look at it. But it continues to get closer. Closer. You break into a light jog. It's still there.

You run. It's still there. You break into the fastest sprint you can. Your legs screaming at you to stop. It's still there. As you run, you realize that the hallway should have ended by now. It's never been this long. It's almost on you now.

Closer. Closer still. You keep running. Your body is slowing down despite your brain screaming at it to continue. Just as you feel like you'll be caught. You see the hallway open into a room. You throw yourself into the room with the last of your strength, and to your surprise and joy, the thing following you does not enter. You look back into the hallway, but you can't see it anymore.

This room is different. There is only a rusted old swing set, with a lone swing hanging from it. It appears someone must have just been on it as it is still rocking back and forth. You watch it gradually slow down until it is still. The slide opening is there, as always. You sit down in the far corner to rest. You can still see down the hallway. There is nothing.

Though your brain tries to protest, your body wins the battle with drowsiness, and you once again drift off. This sleep is different. You dream endlessly. You dream terrible things, horrible monsters, shadows reaching out for you, faceless figures watching you, screaming.

You dream things worse than your own imagination could ever think of. You have dreamed for so long. Once you wake up, you're in a different room. There is nothing in this room aside from the slide entrance. Everything is red. You can't tell if it's your eyes. The light itself or some sort of red material over everything. You don't care.

You go down the slide again. You stay awake the entire time, feeling yourself go down, down, down. An eternity of falling. Again. How long will this last? Will you ever get out? Where does your mom think you are? As you slowly fall, spiraling, instead of seeing the usual darkness that signifies the other end, you see light. You tumble out of the slide, landing on your back. You can hear the birds. You can see the sun. You can feel the cool breeze on your face and the hard wood chips on your back. You look over and see your mom, still in conversation with her friend.

You sit up and look at the slide. You can see the top where you went in and the bottom where you've just come out. You don't understand. You look over at the swing set where your friend was last. He's not there anymore. But he must have just left, you think. The lone rusted swing is still rocking back and forth. When you're young, you're in a stage of life where it feels like you can do anything

and discover lots of new experiences, harmless things that shouldn't torment you for the rest of your life. But in this tale, shared with us by author Haley Harper, we meet a man haunted by a boy he spent a summer with in his youth, a tragedy born out of hatred and intolerance that continues to ripple into present day. Performing this tale are Jeff Clement, Reagan Tacker, and Jesse Cornett. so we'll never know what might have become of the young man known as Walter. Walter stared at me as he'd been doing for 16 years straight. Water dripped from the 12-year-old with a continuous plink, plink, plink,

ash-gray skin stretched over bones and dark bags, cradled piercing eyes. What used to be a honey-brown but turned milky white stared intently at my back, never looking away, even as the dirt from my shovel flies through him. I tried to ignore it as I shoveled, but the weight of his gaze settled into the back of my mind. I shoveled faster. Finally, I tossed the shovel to the side and pried my fingers under the lid of the coffin. The muscles of my arm burned as I pulled up, wood splintering around my fingers. With a grunt, the nails were ripped off and the lid.

lid opened. The awkward scent of rotten meat hit my nose. I swallowed the bile that shot up my throat. The skeleton still had a few strips of rotting tendons on it. Just the sight would have made me gag if I wasn't used to it by now. Besides, I wasn't here for the body anyways. I pushed it to the side with the tip of my shovel to look under. I placed the lid back on the coffin and shoveled the dirt back onto the grave. Another waste of time. Punning it down neatly, I turned to go to the next spot. Walter stood in the way, his gaze more scathing than it was before. He was getting impatient. Look, I'm trying. Do you know how hard it is to find the grave of a woman you've never met, only based on what's inside the coffin? Maybe if you gave me a name or a description or

anything, I'd be able to find her. Walter remained silent, as always. Well, not always. He spoke for the first and only time last week. Just two words. Mom, and lock it. I sighed, grabbed the bag on the ground next to me, and continued walking. He followed me, always a step behind, though I never heard footsteps.

just the dripping. Always the dripping. And the stare. Some days it was easy to ignore. It was just the background in my everyday life, and no one else seemed to notice it, so I might as well pretend I didn't either. It was easy when I was in public.

When I'm lecturing to my class about a wrinkle in time, he blends in with the other 12- to 14-year-old students. If I don't look too closely at him. He always liked when we got to that part of the curriculum, though you wouldn't tell it from his face. Fantasy was his favorite genre, and he showed up for this lecture consistently every year. He'll be disappointed that I cut it from the curriculum this year in exchange for the outsiders. You know, some days it was even comforting. When I get back to my empty apartment and the silence weighs down on me,

when I come back from another failed date because they lean too. too close to me and I panicked over the thought of them kissing me when I get the call that my mom and dad, the last of my family, died in a car crash, and I'm relieved, they're gone, and guilty, I even thought that, and hit with a sudden realization that I'm utterly alone in this world. Walter was there with his gaze and rhythmic drips, reminding me that I never will be. But some days it was too much. The world was too loud and the water was louder and the gaze turned judgmental and cruel.

The past weighed down on me and I couldn't escape because Walter was always there, always watching me. Today was one of those days and I had been in the damp heat all night digging up bones, all for some thing that followed me around and never said anything, except for the one time he said two words, and... Would you leave me alone for a fucking minute?

In a blink, Walter disappeared, but I knew he was still there. His eyes always watched me. A breeze blew through the trees, rattling loud, but not loud enough to cover the plain. Plink, Plink, Plink. The sky was clear, so nothing blocked my view of the full moon. The cemetery was diffused in silvery moonlight, making the graves glow. The air was heavy with the post-rain dew.

My lungs ached from breathing through the humidity. Stupid Georgia summers, stupid graveyard, stupid unhelpful ghosts. How did he expect me to find a random, locket in a random grave. I'd been at it for three days already, and it's not cheap to bribe the groundskeeper to look away so many times. Surprisingly, middle school teachers don't get paid much, so I had to dip into my savings.

At least it was summer break, but it was easy for me to start searching the second he said those two words. The sound continued to follow me. It was loud enough to almost drown out the gurgling I heard in the back. of my mind, the plea of a young voice crying for help, the cruel shouts of my dad. I approached the next target. Margaret Sawyer, May 12, 1976, to June 15, 23. She died a few weeks ago. At least this grave would be easier to dig up. I placed the bag on the ground next to me, gripped the shovel and spirited into the dirt. The dripping grew louder, and I didn't have to look up to know Walter

made his reappearance. I got lost in the rhythm of the shoveling, unconsciously moving to the beat of the dripping. I tried to focus on digging, but the gurgling in my mind got louder and the shouts harsher. My voice, about a decade younger, whimpered, as I watched. Dad, hold down the kid's head in the lake. It was just a kiss. I was just curious. I didn't mean anything. I don't even know him.

I'm sorry. Please stop, Dad. I wanted to say it, but the words died in my mouth. I couldn't even run. All I could do was watch and let the guilt corrode me. The splashing got more and more frantic.

The old son of mine is going to be a faggot. The thrashing slowed and then stopped. Then a deafening silence. I put weight on the shovel as I leaned over and reched. I could still remember the look on Dad's face when he realized what he did. I didn't mean... His face paled and his eyes. eyes looked anywhere but at the boy whose head was still underwater.

I saw what you were doing, and I got so angry. I couldn't control myself. You know how I get. He rubbed his hand through his hair and took some exaggerated breaths. I flinched as he suddenly gripped my shoulders. His eyes were wild. Listen to me, boy. No one can find out about this.

No one. Do you understand me? I nodded. Together, we picked up the body and threw it into the lake as far in as we could. We snuck into the cabin so Mom didn't see and changed her clothes. Dad quickly threw them in the wash while I took a shower, hoping the soap would wash away the musty lake smell. It didn't. That night, I sleeplessly lay in bed.

Hearing the pleads and the thrashing and the shouting, imagining the mom and dad or siblings or friends who were missing him, wondering how long it would take to find the body, imagining a funeral I would never go to, wishing I'd never met him. I fell asleep to the ghost of a kiss. And when I woke up, there Walter was, staring at me as he would for six years.

years. My stomach emptied itself again, and I wiped the taste away. Get a hold of yourself. Straightening up, I scoop the last of the dirt off the coffin and pried it open. I'd like to say that after days of smelling decomposing flesh, the odor doesn't get to me, but I'm once again swallowing bile. The body was mostly intact. It was bloated and its skin turned red. On its right cheek, I could see something squirming underneath the flesh, and I had to look away. A glint of silver caught my eye. Tangled in the fingers was a chain. Could it be?

Quickly, almost as if it would disappear any second, I snatched the chain and held it close. Attached to the chain was a locket. With shaking hands, I gently pried it open. There were two pictures, one on each side. One was a man with curly dark hair and familiar honey-brown eyes. On the other was the ghost that haunted me. I closed the locket and flipped it around. Inscribed into the medal was a message.

Happy birthday, Maggie. love both your boys finally i'd found it soyer was his name walter sawyer turning around i jumped back as walter's decomposed face appeared inches from me he wasn't looking at me his milky gaze focused on the locket in my hand i held it up waiting for him to take it he stood frozen for a few moments he stood frozen for a few moments just staring at the locket. I didn't mind the waiting because for the first time, his eyes weren't on me. In fact, I felt pity. He looked lost like he didn't know what to do.

I understand that. If I were a ghost who made it his mission to haunt someone for 16 years, just to have them find a special locket, how would I feel once it was accomplished? Now that after all this time, I could go to the afterlife. Then I noticed he wasn't looking at the locket at all. He took a step forward and then another, getting closer to me. I backed up.

What was he going to do to me? I did what he wanted. Why wasn't he leaving? My foot hit the air. and I whirled my arms to stop myself from falling into the grave. Walter still moved forward. What are you doing? Stop!

He stepped for a second. My body froze. My blood stopped pumping. My heart stopped beating. My lungs stopped breathing. A deathly chill slithered down my spine. I choked on the scent of rotting flesh. and lake water.

Then, in the next second, I could move again. I put my hands on my knees and gasped for air. What the hell was that? Did he just walk through me? I looked over my shoulder for him, but he was gone. No, not gone. He lay in the coffin, holding the decomposing corpse. He placed his head on the stern.

and gently moved one of the body's arms around his own waist. He closed his eyes and smiled. I'd never seen him smile. Not since that summer day. My parents took me to my uncle's cabin in Georgia one summer when I was 12 to spend some quality time together. But the fighting followed us. I don't know what my parents were arguing about at the time, but I didn't want to stay for the aftermath.

I wanted to escape mom's cries and dad's rage. I didn't want to risk him using me to let off steam, so I grabbed a book and explored the forest in search of a good reading spot. I found a lake with a big tree near the waterfront. I sat in the shade and entered the world of Harry Potter. Or was it Percy Jackson? Either way, I was sucked in, until Walter ran through the tree line covered in dirt and leaves.

A compass was in one hand and a notebook in the other. He turned to me in surprise and asked what I was doing in his spot. I apologized, telling him I didn't know it was anyone's spot. I was just there for the summer, so would he mind sharing for a few months? He didn't answer the question, just sat down beside me and grabbed my book. He said it was his favorite series, and we got talking. We chatted for hours, not stopping until the sun started setting. Oh, shit.

I scrambled to my feet. I have to go. Dad'll kill me if I'm not back soon. Walter stood with me and held my book out. Can you come by tomorrow? I paused. I don't know. I never knew what my parents' mood would be.

They could demand the family time they came for, and I would suffer hours of fake smiles and forced pleasantries. Or they could hate each other's guts, and mom would go paint while dad left the cabin to do who knew what and come back drunk, leaving me to entertain myself. Well, I'll be here anyways. It is my spot after all, but I don't mind you borrowing it.

He pushed the book into my hands, and I fumbled not to drop it. My face heated up as Walter laughed at my clumsiness. What? Say ya. We went our separate ways, but we met up the next day, and the day after that, and after that. Anytime I could, I snuck out to see him, and we talked about everything and anything.

but never family. We both avoided that. When he wasn't there, I read my book in the peaceful atmosphere of the lake. When my parents demanded my presence, when mom pissed dad off and he took it out on me, when I had a black eye or bruise somewhere I couldn't hide from Walter, I laid in bed with my eyes closed, imagining I was with him at the lake.

I thought the summer wouldn't be so bad. But Dad got suspicious about me disappearing so often. I should have told him about my friend, but I didn't want to mix my two worlds. What if Dad came home angry and Walter was there? No, I had to keep him away. I was doing a good job, too, and I thought I would get away with it as the summer was ending. It was my last week, and we both knew it. We met up earlier and left as late as we dared.

We sat side by side under the tree, so close our legs were touching. I don't remember all we talked about that day, but somehow we got to talking about how Walter had heard about someone's uncle who had a husband. I didn't know two guys could marry each other. And Walter said only in the same. some places. I could never live somewhere like that. Why not?

My dad hates people like that. He says it's disgusting how men like that can go against God. How could they be against God if he made them that way? But he didn't make them that way. How do you know? It's in the Bible. Where does it say that? I paused.

I'm not sure. But my dad said so Maybe your dad doesn't know dick Walter Walter laughed as I pushed him I couldn't hold back a chuckle myself What does your dad think Walter's laugh immediately cut out

I don't know He had a faraway look in his eyes As he said that He never did talk about his dad Maybe his was like mine Before I could change the subject, he continued. Mama doesn't understand people like that. They creep her out, but she doesn't hate them.

What about your mom? I don't know. I looked at my fiddling fingers in my lap. We don't talk about serious stuff. Oh. We fell into silence. Walter leaned back against the tree and stared out into the lake. I wondered what he was.

thinking about now. His parents? Those married men? Or had he already moved on from the subject? That was very like him, hopping from topic to topic with no rhyme or reason. He said his mind was like a hummingbird. He would hover around one thought and then zoom to another quick as a flash. Who knew what would come out of his mouth next? I wonder what it would be like to kiss a boy. As always. He kept me on my toes. What?

Do you think it's any different than kissing a girl? You've kissed a girl? Duh. Have you? No. I scratched the back of my neck, my face heating up. Walter waved a hand. You're not missing much. It's actually a little gross.

A lot of spit is involved. He sat up straighter and leaned down. But maybe it's different with a boy. I leaned it back. Or maybe it's grosser? There's only one way to find out. You want to try? What?

You... We can't... Oh, come on. It'll be quick. But my dad... Who cares what your dad thinks? He'll never have to know about this. The thought of dad finding out sent ice through my veins,

but there was no one here. Mom and dad didn't even know about this spot. And I would be lying if I said I wasn't curious what a kiss with a boy or girl felt like. So I gave a hesitant nod. I felt nothing with the kiss. It was actually kind of weird, but I didn't know if that was because I was kissing another boy or if all kisses were like.

that. Walter, though, I could tell he felt something. When we leaned back, he had the biggest smile. I bet he was going to tell me exactly how he felt, but I never got a chance to hear it. That was when my dad grabbed Walter and dragged him to the lake. The smile he wore now wasn't nearly as big or as bright, but it was peaceful. At that moment, he didn't look like a ghost. He looked like a kid. I'm sorry, Walter. Tears streaked my cheeks.

Walter looked up at me. I didn't mind his stare this time. When I imagined a ghost moving to the afterlife, I imagined a bright, blinding light, and then bam, he's gone. Or maybe death or God would show up and lead him away. Or maybe he would float to the sky like an angel or something. In reality, he slowly started to fade.

He was gone. I placed the locket back into the coffin, shoveled the dirt back on, gathered my stuff, and left. The sun's rays started to peak above the horizon. I couldn't wait to sleep the day away after three days of research, digging in very little sleep. With my mission done, the world felt different. The air felt a bit lighter, and the trees stopped rattling. It was quiet.

My ears strained to hear the plink, plink, plink, plink of water. But there was only silence. I searched for the ever-present eyes staring into me, but the only eyes were those of a bird perched in a tree. For the first time, in 16 years, I was alone. I got back to the empty hotel room that was waiting for me and thought about the empty apartment I would be coming home to in a few days. And the empty life, now that I was waiting for me, and thought about the empty apartment I would be coming home to in a few days.

and the empty life now that all my family was gone. Searing tears streaked down my face, and I didn't bother to wipe them away. Instead, I rifled through my suitcase for my pajamas until I bumped into a book. I pulled it out. My hand flew to my mouth to stifle the sobs, punching out of my chest.

A wrinkle in time. Forgetting about it. sleep. I sat on the bed, not caring about the mud and dirt smearing the sheets, and open to the first page. It was a dark and stormy night. Maybe I'll switch out holes for the outsiders instead. Walter. 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 no sleeppysleeppodcast.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. All rights reserved.

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