The NoSleep Podcast - S23 Ep19: NoSleep Podcast S23E19

Episode Date: November 16, 2025

It's Episode 19 of Season 23. Tune in to WNSP for tales about weathering sinister storms."The Rain" written by Caleb Greenfield (Story starts around 00:06:15)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Kyle Akers, Shadow - Jesse Cornett"Takeout" written by Barry Pirro (Story starts around 00:15:40)Produced by: Claudius MooreCast: Jason - Matthew Bradford, Weatherman - Mike DelGaudio, Pizzaman - Dan Zappulla, Loren - Nichole Goodnight, Deliveryman - Graham Rowat, 911 Dispatcher - Wafiyyah White, Old Woman - Erin Lillis, Police Officer - Jesse Cornett"The Shithouse Exorcist" written by Anthony D. Herrera (Story starts around 00:35:25)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Narrator - Atticus Jackson, Greñas - Giancarlo Herrera, Old Woman - Ivy Savage, Cast: Phil Michalski"Goat Valley Campgrounds Season 2 - Chapter 9" written and adapted for audio by Bonnie Quinn (Story starts around 01:06:40)Produced by: Phil MichalskiStarring Kate - Linsay Rousseau, Russell - Jesse Cornett, Tyler - Jeff Clement, The Man with No Shadow - Graham Rowat, The Man with the Skull Cup - Mick Wingert, Camper - Oli. A. White, Buyer - Joel Blackwell"Mummy Bag" written by R.D. Davidson (Story starts around 01:02:40)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator - Jeff Clement"Best Impression" written by Eleanor Greenleaf (Story starts around 01:17:30)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator - Erin LillisThis episode is sponsored by:Betterhelp - This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. Take a step towards a better you. Our listeners get 10% off their first month at betterhelp.com/nosleep.GhostBed - Get ready for the coolest beds in the world! GhostBed provides high-quality & super comfortable award-winning mattresses crafted in the United States and Canada. For a limited time, Get 25% off your purchase by going to GhostBed.com/nosleepClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about the new podcast, "Burned By a Paper Sun"Click here to learn more about the new podcast, "Conversations With Ghosts"Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"The Rain" illustration courtesy of Hasani WalkerThe NoSleep Podcast is Human-made for Human Minds. No generative AI is used in any aspect of work.Audio program ©2025 - 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.

WNSP Welcome back to the darkness of the night, WNSP's overnight programming. D.C. here with you as we enter our three of our program. And yes, it's still raining out there. And as much as we're used to our fair share of rain here in Crypted Valley, this storm has been torrential. And looking at the radar, are, it doesn't look like it's going to let up anytime soon.

I just hope this storm drains can handle it. And I also hope there's no rat man living in them. Oh, surely you know about the rat man? He was spotted in the main rainwater runoff tunnel. Nibbuth brothers saw a creature, they say was large, covered in black fur, and with huge hands it used to pull itself through the tunnel towards them. The brothers ran off, but returned the next night better equipped for another encounter,

but the rat man was never seen again. Let's hope he hasn't made his way to Crypted Valley. We don't need anything blocking our storm drains. And as the water keeps flowing, I think it's time to get some horror flowing for you. So enjoy this new episode. episode of horror stories from our friends at the No Sleep Podcast. A rustle of the leaves. A fleeting movement at the edge of your vision. How often have you walked a forest trail at dusk only to feel the unmistakable sensation that something unseen is

watching you? For centuries, humans have populated the darkness with creatures of legend, whose existence remains unproven, yet whose presence is undeniable in the whispered tales of those who dare venture too deep into the wild and wild. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. How about this weather, huh?

Hmm, you're thinking after 15 years, Cummings has run out of things to talk about. No, no, it's not that. But recently, a lot of people in our audience have dealt with some unusual weather. Snow down south, lots of wind and rain in other places, somewhat strange weather for this time of the year. So I was just curious if you've been weathering some storms lately. And if you're looking for a deluge of podcast recommendations, I have a couple for you.

The first will be featured on November 19th. We're going to do a feed drop in our free feed with an episode from the new podcast, Conversations with Ghosts. It's from the same team that brought you Archive 81. It's all about loss, history, and the things we leave behind. So check the show out now, and be sure to check out the episode we'll share with you on Wednesday. The other podcast recommendation is from the team behind Mail Topia and Gentleman from Hell. It's called Burned by a Paper Sun. A horror anthology podcast featuring stories that can be stand alone or interconnected,

often involving unsettling characters and situations. Here's a short trailer for Burned by a Paper Sun. After the great darkness of 1999, shadows tore free from their castors, and the night began to walk. Humanity, broken, trembling, and half mad, clings to the last scraps of light as cosmic horrors whisper their soul-shattering truths. Across the wasteland of a ruined world,

relics of nightmares linger, a tower of teeth piercing a bruised sky, forests forever trapped in autumn, murmuring in their sleep, and stars that no longer burn, but stare, hungry, wicked, and waiting. This is the post-Nockdom world Where nightmares survive sleep

In madness runs like rivers Check out Burned by a Paper Sun A new horror anthology Wherever you get your podcasts Enter the Darkness Be sure to find conversations with ghosts And burned by a paper sun now Wherever you get your podcasts

Or check the show notes for links Both shows are highly recommended And so, as I was saying, storms can whip up in our lives in many different forms. From bad weather to the maelstroms of life's rough waters, we all have to deal with these dark times. And the episode this week features tales about people who are looking for refuge from the storms, both real and metaphorical. So grab that umbrella and put on your boots. You'll want to be as warm and dry as you can as you do. Tune in, turn on, and brace yourself for our sleepless tales.

In our first tale, we meet a man who is lamenting the rain. So much rain. Not the cozy romantic rain, but the incessant kind. And in this tale, shared with us by author Caleb Greenfield, the man soon reaches his limit on that never-ending rain. He's ready to go outside and deal with it once and for all. Performing this tale are Kyle Acres and Jesse Cornett. So the old song might ask, who stops it?

But we have no answers when it comes to the rain. It is always raining. I don't know how many days it's been now. Or maybe it's been a matter of hours. Minutes, even? I don't know. All I know is that the deep, mind-numbingly repetitive tass Tap, tap, tap of the rain against every surface has drilled its way into my skull.

It will never, ever leave me. Sometimes I can escape it, steal a few hours of sleep, but even in my dreams, it's there. To the point I can no longer tell whether I'm awake. I don't know what I did to deserve this. The power's been out since the first time I woke up. My phone must not have charged very long. before it went out, because it's been dead the entire time. I can't hear any of my neighbors,

not even the man above me who has a revolving door of sexual partners, or the couple below me whose young child cries incessantly throughout the night. I am completely alone in the world. There is only the rain. Sometimes I can hear the distant rumble of thunder, but in the end, the only constant is the tap. When I first woke up, I assumed it was, before dawn. So I laid back down after doing my business and tried to focus on stealing a few more hours

of sleep. The constant slap and patter of the rain made my heart race more than I'd like to admit. The fear closing like vice around me. But eventually I did manage to drift off. It was still dark when I woke up again. Okay, I thought. Maybe I just didn't sleep that long. After a few more repeats, I realized something wasn't right. There was no way it could still be night time. I thought about knocking on Mrs. Hendricks' door, asking her if her power was out too. Surely it had to be,

since every apartment in the building was hooked up to the same grid, you see, but decided against it. This was my off weekend at work, and damn it, I wasn't leaving my apartment unless I absolutely had to. And so, with nothing else to do, I went back to sleep. I don't know how many times I've woken up now to the goddamn rain pounding against the building.

It's there. It's there. It's there. And it won't leave me alone. No matter where I go in my home, the rain follows. Sounding for all the world like it's about to break through my ceiling. Even in the rooms without windows, I can hear it. And I swear to God it sounds louder, like it's angry that I try to slip away from it.

I've started trying to count the seconds, wars, but I always lose track. The steady assault of the rain always breaks through. Always, always, it is always raining. I tried to leave once. I stepped outside my door, expecting to find myself in the dark, familiar hallway of my apartment building, but found myself in an almost pitch-black meadow.

Ice-cold rain lashed against me and stung my skin. And I was soaked to the bone in second. I turned to go back inside, but there was nothing around me but mud and grass, and the trees circling me, bowing and creaking in the wind, and the sound of the rain, still tap, tap, tapping away. The wind hit me in gusts that threatened to knock me over, driving the rain hungrily towards my flesh, and I felt like, I don't know how long I stood there in that half-drowned the meadow.

The never-ending rain pelting against me with a ferocity, and malice that almost made it feel alive, predatory. After a while, I forced my stiff legs awake and started walking. The only sound was the spattering of the rain and the squish of my bare feet through the mud. Despite the fact that the tree line couldn't have been more than minutes walk ahead of me, I saw I walked for hours and it never got closer. I started running, sprinting, until my legs ached and my lungs burned, and I stumbled over my feet and still the tree line seemed no closer.

Shadows began to emerge, peaking around the corners of the trunks and giggling to each other. I couldn't hear their taunts over the sound of the rain, but I had the idea that they were talking to me. I don't know what planted the idea, but I was convinced they must have put me here. They must have started the rain. I must have screamed to myself hoarse, hurling pleas and then insults and eventually threats. set them. At first they showed no sign that they had heard me, although I swear their shapes began to swell and bulge, as if they were feeding on my words. Eventually, though, they turned those ever-shifting faces towards me. They had no eyes or mouths or noses to speak of, but I got the distinct

crawling feeling they were looking at me, and that they hated me. They crossed the clearing in their lumbering sort of way. Not quite walking, but giving the impression of doing so. I realized out of nowhere that I had stopped walking. Had I even been walking in the first place? I couldn't move. Some combination of fear and awe paralyzing me as they drew nearer. One of them at last reaching out a not quite hand.

Its fingers dug into my jaw, cold and clammy. And still the rain pelted the both of us. but it didn't seem to feel the assault. It leaned in close. Its voice, the hiss of rain through a drain bite. It was still raining. If the weather's turning bad and you don't want to go out, you can always order in some food for delivery.

Well, you could, but try to have some sympathy for the poor delivery person. And as we'll learn in this tale, shared with us by author Barry Piro, Jason's desire for food in the midst of a blizzard doesn't seem quite right. especially to all the people asking him to let them in. Performing this tale are Matthew Bradford, Mike Delgadoio, Dan Zapula, Nicole Goodnight, Graham Rowett, Wafia White, Aaron Lillis, and Jesse Cornett. So throw some pizza pockets in the micro if you're hungry.

When it's storming out, don't try to get takeout. And we can expect some heavy winds and up to a foot of snow overnight in part of of Bayfield, with the heaviest snow coming in tomorrow. The state police are advising everyone to stay indoors tonight, as driving will be treacherous. As you know, in this part of the world, we're just not equipped for this kind of snow, so we don't have the apparatus to keep... Pizza. Hey, yeah, I was wondering if you guys are still taking orders for delivery tonight.

Yeah, but just for the next hour, the snow's going to start in a minute. It's supposed to be a hell of a storm. Yeah, I hear it's supposed to be really bad tonight. Thanks for still taking orders. No problem. What can I get for you? Okay, I'll have an eggplant Parmesan hero and a side of garlic nuts. That comes with a salad. What kind of dressing?

Do you have blue cheese? Yeah, we can do that for you. So we got one eggplant parm hero, one order of our delectable garlic knots, and a side salad with blue cheese. Anything else? No, that's it. You want to drink with that? We got Orange Crush, 7-Up, Pepsi, die Pepsi, you name it. No, I am all good.

And just your first name, phone number. Number and address, please? First name is Jason. My cell number is 425-6670. The address is 37 Ridgewood Place. There's a call box in the lobby, so just tell your delivery guy to ring Apartment 3C, and I'll buzz him in.

You got it, boss. Give us about 45 minutes, maybe a little longer. It'll be soon, but everyone's out there ordering because of the snow. There's a lot of hungry people out there tonight. Believe you, me. Yeah, I'm sure there is. I guess nobody wants to go out to dinner on a night like this, right? And I'm one of them.

Anyway, thanks, and I'll keep an ear out for your delivery guy. Yeah, and good luck with the storm. Yeah, thanks, butt. Take care. Okay, thanks, bye. Hey, sweetie. How's my honey doing? Jason, I didn't think I'd given me this early. Did you get out of work with me? Yeah, this storm's supposed to be really bad, so they sent everybody home at four.

I ran out to the grocery store to pick up a few things, but stupid me forgot to get something for dinner. Oh, but the place was a zoo, too. I mean, why the hell do people buy bottled water during snowstorms anyways? I never get that. Yeah, the water thing is a mystery to me, too. How's the snow there? Well, I'm looking at the window. It's pretty dark out, but the parking lights are on,

and I don't see much coming down yet. Just a few flakes, but it's really windy. I just ordered takeout, and the pizza guy told me it's supposed to start pretty soon here. Yeah, how's it by you? Any snow yet? My God, yeah, it's really coming down, and the window's crazy. I think we're supposed to... to get about a foot tonight, then another two feet tomorrow? I wish you'd live closer.

Hey, maybe I'll come over tonight and we can keep each other nice and warm during the storm. Snuggle up under the blankets as nature intended, you know, ring in the storm in style. It'd be a lot of fun. Yeah, that would be amazing. And you know I'd love nothing more than to spend the night naked with you riding out the snowstorm. No pun intended. But as tempting as a proposition it is, no. I don't want you making the hour drive over here tonight in this weather.

It'd probably take you double that to get here on a night like this, even if you don't slide off the road and land in a ditch. Are you saying I'm a bad driver? No, no, no, no. Well, yeah, but... Listen. Come on, you know, I'm only joking. You're a great driver.

Every time I get in the car with you and speed around those hairpin turns, I think it'll be my last day on earth, but no, you always prove me wrong. I survived the trip every time, and I emerged very shaken, slightly more religious, and grateful that I'll live to see another day, in spite of your driving. Oh, you. Okay. No, but seriously, though, not only will the roads be shit tonight, but if you did come over, you'd have to drive back early tomorrow morning and take care of your grandma. Murna, right? Is that her name? Yeah, Merno Lloyd.

Hey, wasn't that an old movie actress? That's Mirono Boy, my great-grandparents. were big movie fans, so they gave my grandmother that name because it sounded like the movie stars. That's so funny. How's she doing, by the way? Grandma? Oh, she's as good as she is. That's the best I can say about her. She forgets where she is sometimes. She's always singing these old songs she used to know from her childhood. Moonlight Bay is her favorite, and sometimes she thinks I'm her sister who died 30 years ago, but it's okay. She's pretty loose at half the time. Luckily, someone's there with her during the week. I just have to stay with her on Saturday.

days to make sure she doesn't wander off. Poor grandma. She's really sweet. Hey, maybe you can stop by tomorrow. My sister's supposed to give me a break at around noon. We could go out and grab some lunch or something? I'd love to. You know that, but I can't.

You know how shitty my car is in the snow? Besides, I gotta go into work for a while tomorrow afternoon. I just hope the roads are plowed by that. I can't believe they're asking you to work on a Saturday. Well, I guess that's why they pay me, the big bucks. Yeah, right. Oh, I wanted to tell you. My parents asked us over for lunch next weekend.

Do you think you can come? They're having a party for my sister because her birthday's the following Wednesday, but... Yo, hold on a minute. There's somebody at the door. Who is it? I don't know. I didn't check the lobby camera yet. Hold on a minute. I wish they'd put in a bigger screen for the lobby monitor. This thing is about the size of my iPhone.

It always takes a second for it to come on. Yo, okay. There it goes. Okay, it's just some guy I wonder what he wants Hello, can I help you? Zabellis take out delivery Zabellis, for real I just called a few minutes ago

Yeah, well, with the snow on the way They're rushing all the deliveries Dude, no, that's impossible Zabellis is at least a 30 minute drive from here They couldn't have even made the food yet, man I literally just got off the phone with a place Like two minutes ago And the guy who took my order said my delivery

would take at least 45 minutes. Are you sure you have the right address? Are you Jason? 37 Ridgewood Place, apartment 3C? Yeah, yeah, that's right. But no, that can't be my food, dude. It must be somebody else's order. You can't have driven all that way over here in that little time.

Phone numbers 425-6670? Yes, but I'm telling you, that can't be my food, man. They must have given you the wrong information or something. Listen, the order has your name and address. I have an order here for an eggplant hero and garlic knots, plus a side salad with blue cheese dressing. Come on, man, I'm freezing my ass off down here. Just buzz me in and take your food. I got to get back.

Okay, okay, okay, where's the bag? What do you mean? What bag? The bag of food, man. If you're from Cebelis, where's the food? I got it right here. Listen, I don't know what kind of shit you're trying to pull, but I have you on the lobby camera, and I can see you're not holding a bed.

mega food. I put it down, all right? But it's here. Come on, open the door. I have a bunch of other deliveries to get to before the snow starts. Buddy, I can see all the way down to your feet, and there's no bag of food there. And also, who's that standing behind you? Behind me? There's nobody behind me. And I have your food right here. Now, just buzz me in. Geez. I can see a woman standing behind you by the door with her back to the kid. Look, hold on. I'm going to call Zabellies and straighten this out. Lauren, are you hearing this? I'll call you back in a minute.

I gotta call the pizza place. What's going on? Nothing. Just some joker at the door who says he's from Zabellis. I gotta go. I have to call them and see what's going on. Okay, call me back. All right.

Bye, hon. I guess they are getting a lot of orders tonight. Must be a lot of hungry people, just like you said. Damn snowstorm. Hey man, I just called Zabellys, but the number is busy. I'll try them in a few minutes. Why don't you just go back with the food? And, hey, what?

the, where the hell did he go? Huh. I guess he just gave up and left. Thank God for that. Oh, I almost forgot. I better call Lauren back. Who is it? Zabelli's take out delivery.

Hey, how did you get in the building? What do you mean? How did I get in? This is apartment 3C, right? Jason? You ordered an eggplant, Parm Hero, and garlic nuts? Side salad with blue cheese?

How the hell did you get in the building? Did someone buzz you in? Listen, pal, I don't know what you. you're talking about. I just got here. I got to drop off this food and get going. And your bill comes to 2498. I'll take cash or Venmo. Now, would you please open the door? Shit, now what? Lauren. Lauren, is that you? Jason, of course it's me. Let me in. I drove all the way over to see you. The roads are shit, but I didn't want you to be alone tonight. But, no, you couldn't have driven here, Lauren. I just talk to you. You live an hour away. What are you talking about? Just let you. Just let you.

Let me in. I told you I wanted to come over and keep you warm. Why don't you buzz me in, then get undressed and get into bed? I'll be right up to snuggle up next to you after I get all these wet clothes off. Come on, buzz me in. Hey, Jason, it's the belly's delivery. Listen, if you don't open the door, I'm going to get in a lot of trouble. I have your order here, and I have to drop it off and collect the money or I'm screwed, okay?

You want to get me fired? I'm not letting you in. Take the food back, okay? Tell them to call me and I'll pay for it over the phone, but I'm not opening this door. You hear? Jason, let me in. Look at me. I'm soaked from the snow.

Buzz me in so I can come up and take these wet clothes off and get in bed with you. I came all the way to see you. Why won't you let me in? Lauren, or whoever you are, no, I'm not letting you in. Just go away. Jason, it's the belly's pizza I have your goddamn delivery here. Egg plant palm hero, garlic nuts, salad with blue cheese pressing. Come on, open the door and take your food for Christ's sake.

God, this is fucked. What the hell is going on here? It's just too weird. One, what's your emergency? My name is Jason Lang. I'm at 37 Ridgewood Place apartment 3C. Look, someone is trying to break into my apartment. I need you to send someone over right away.

You said someone broke into your apartment, sir? Are you in a safe place? No, no, they're not in my apartment. They're trying to get in. How are they trying to get into your apartment, sir? There's this guy. First, he was in the lobby, now he keeps banging on my apartment door, telling me to let him in.

He says he's the pizza delivery guy, but I know he isn't. I mean, it can't be him. Now, just please send someone over. What? No, no, I'm telling you, there's this guy, and he's pounding on the door trying to get in. There, there, there it is. Can you hear it? He won't go away, and there's this girl in the,

lobby trying to get into. She looks like my girlfriend, but she isn't. I mean, it's not really her. I think they're in on this together. You have to send someone over right away, please. Send an officer over as soon as we can. Uh, that right? Anything else? You want to drink with that? We got

Orange Crush, 7-Up, Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, you name it. What the fuck is going on here? Jason, it's the Belly's takeout delivery. Let me in and take your goddamn food. I have to get back and make More deliveries. You think you're the only one who wants to eat tonight? Jason, buzz me up. I came all this way. I have to get out of these clothes and snuggle up next to your naked body.

Come on, buzz me in. We'd be there sooner, but everyone's order and takeout because of the snow. There's a lot of hungry people out there tonight, pal. A lot of hungry people. I, let's see, we got one egg plant, bomb hero, garlic knots, and a side salad with... What's that sound? What's that tapping sound at the window? Jason? Open the window. It's Myrna.

Merna Lloyd, Lauren's grandma. It's awfully cold out here. Let me in. I lord, the snow is mighty heavy tonight. And this wind. Open the windows so I can come in and get out of these clothes. Then the two of us can snuggle up to each other naked in bed. We were saving a loan.

And we'd be that sooner, but everyone's ordering takeout because of the snow. On the room, like, babe. I got a good money for this floor or unscooked to open the damn door. You know, you could hear the voices ringing. It's so cold out. They seem to save. Let's see, we got one X-Lamp Farm hero. Carlinnoy, come on.

We have stolen our attention. And we need that sooner, but everyone was going to take outside because of the smell. You want the salad. You want the salad. people up down tonight. You look the law. Come on, man. I see, we got one ex-lib, farm,

your own, garlic, and a nice cell is with her. It's just and open the window. Open the window. Mr. Lang. Mr. Lang, it's the Bayfield Police.

Are you okay, Mr. Lang? Open the door, please. We know you said there was someone trying to get in your apartment, but you're safe now. There's no one in the hallway. I have another officer down here in the lobby, keeping an eye on the entrance just in case they try to come back. Open the door, please.

Oh, thank God. We were sailing along on Moonlight Bay. We could hear the voices ringing. They seem to say, you have stolen her. Now don't go away. I know you're all hungry on a night like this, but save some for me. Oh, what a nice, juicy young man. Scoop out some of the giblets for me, will you, honey?

Oh, thank you, dear. Mmm, my favorite part. When it comes to dealing with well, Sometimes it's the oppressive heat that makes it a challenge, especially if you want to do some exercise outside in South Texas, just like the man will meet in this tale. Shared with us by author Anthony D. Herrera. He's trying to lose some weight by walking laps at a local park. But strange circumstances make the endeavor more than just hot. It becomes townright shitty. Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson and special guest voice actors

Giancarlo Herrera and Ivy Savage. So make sure you choose the right kind of exercising. You don't want to become the shit house exorcist. The local toilet in McCarran Park was a four-by-four plastic cuboid affair with an oatmeal gray roof and apple-red walls. Upon entering, you would immediately find yourself assaulted by an odor that, though the finer notes may vary depending on previous occupants, was a tangible miasma which groped your flesh with sweaty hands and pooled like an

oil slick at the back of your throat. In the left corner was the toilet proper, whose seat was invariably soiled, ensuring that only the desperate or depraved ever sat on it. The rest of the interior was taken up by a concrete floor that was completely bare, save for a dark, dried splatter stain in the upper right corner. The door was kept shut by a flimsy lock that could only have stopped the polite and would offer no safety from the motivated. The interior walls were covered in graffiti, about which I will expand upon later. Unlike the weathered benches, rusting swing sets and cracker,

basketball courts that populated the rest of the park, the chemical toilet had no plaque planted nearby or affixed to its structure. These plaques were there to remind you that the monkey bars that drew blood and the water fountain that hasn't worked since 1987 were built in honor of some long-forgotten city councilor or state senator. Though it would have been a far more fitting tribute to the likes of such public servants, the chemical toilet was not generally considered by most to be a memorial to anyone. But then again, most people didn't know about Grenas, or how he turned that festering shithouse into a monument of pain. The road to my enlightenment concerning that cursed toilet began with a fish. I had recently started coming

to McCarron Park to walk the mile-long track which makes up its perimeter. At that point, a spate of personal disasters and a lifetime of poor decisions had found me at the age of 35, living with my mother and weighing 397 pounds. With my life seemingly out of control, I chose weight loss as the key to curing my depression. And I chose McCarran Park because it was close to my mother's house, which would save on gas money. My first attempt to circumnavigate the track was on a Saturday in early October, which in South Texas terms, functionally meant late summer. I began to sweat and gasped for breath well before the quarter mile mark. It would eventually puke on myself from heat exhaustion just after the half-mile point. But I kept to it, mainly because I had nothing else.

And by November, I could walk one complete circuit before having to stay. sit and rest. That was around the time that I first saw. The fish appeared one day, lying on the grass next to the trash cans, which sat six feet in front of the chemical toilet. It was a foot-long largemouth bass with greenish-gray scales. It had no grill marks or chunks taken out of it, even though one would assume it was barbecue detritus. In fact, the fish was perfectly intact and looked quite tasty. Being as cash-strapped as I was, I nearly picked it up on that first day to take home to eat.

Some part of me realized that consuming a dead fish that had been lying near garbage cans situated in front of a public toilet would more than likely be detrimental to my weight loss, depression, and immune system in general. So I passed the fish by on that day. The next day, the fish still lay there. And again, I passed it on by and would do so again on the third day.

But on the fourth day, I got to thinking. I thought about how strange it was that after four days, the fish had remained untouched. It had been ignored not only by the city workers who had recently emptied the trash cans, but also by the swarms of flies that regularly attacked all scraps of food, left behind in the wake of cash-strapped cookouts and birthday parties. Even the packs of stray dogs that plagued the park had shown absolutely no interest in the fish. There was also the fact that after nearly a week of exposure to high temperatures in the low 80s, the fish showed no signs of decay. Well, I became fascinated.

I sometimes spent up to 20 minutes just staring at the fish, contemplating an explanation. Were the microplastics keeping the fish unspoiled? Was the fish a delusion brought on by a particularly pathetic nervous breakdown? Or had the fish somehow achieved a kind of sainthood where the degradations of the grave could not touch it? During the two weeks of this fish vigil, I came to realize that I was being watched. She lived in one of the houses directly across the street from the park, which afforded her a lovely view of the trash cans and toilet. A Mexican woman of about 80.

She was skeleton thin with white hair and a toothless mouth. She mostly wore an aquamarine house dress and would add or subtract clothing depending on the weather. She sat on her porch every day watching the park. She didn't move a muscle, and no expression ever crossed her face. But I could feel her gaze on me while I was deep and thought about such things as the possible of fish petification. Despite never speaking to her, it felt as though we were sharing the mystery. The last day I ever saw the fish was also the first day I heard the whispering.

I was deep in contemplation, my skin itching under the old woman's stare. I was looking into the empty, upturned eye of the fish, when the usual weekday morning silence was suddenly shattered by a drawn out coming from my ride. When I looked up, I saw the door of the chemical toilet slowly opening. Once fully ajar, I could see the toilet was empty. Figuring that it had to bend the wind, I was about to return my attention to the fish when I heard it. A slithery whisper. It was clearly coming from inside that fact.

factory of filth, which was clearly unoccupied. Had my mind not been scrambled for the past fortnight by constant musings about a miracle fish, I probably would have recognized the danger and fled. But at that juncture of my life, I found the whispering alluring, rather than alarming. Slowly I crept to the toilet. The smell was already unbearable, but it didn't stop me. I realized, that the whispering was getting clearer as I got closer. It was four words being repeated over and over, but it remained distant, like a radio in another room. That was the first time I entered the toilet.

Public facilities on my side of town were never worth bothering with, and the side of the stain in the corner, and the streaks on the toilet seat only confirmed this. The smell was so thick I could take. taste it. My mouth had gone dry, as if my tongue were trying to kill itself rather than process this sensory information. I saw the graffiti on the walls. It was a mix of street gang tags, swear words and childish sprawl, crude sketches of genitalia, and a phrase that was written six times by six different hands. Gryneas Veve. But I took all this in peripherally.

for I can now clearly hear what the whispering was saying. The soft hiss was coming from inside the toilet well. Against all reason, I lint over to look. The mountain of human waste sitting atop a pool of dark chemical blue had me gagging almost immediately. But it was the sudden appearance of furious air bubbles rising from that putrid sea that broke me out of whatever transatl, I was under. I tore out of the toilet, gulping as much fresh air as I could, barely holding down

the contents of my stomach. When I finally got myself under control, I looked up to see the old woman staring impassively as ever. And when I looked over to the trash cans, the fish was gone. It would be a little over a week before I returned to the park. Sanity would dictate that my absence would stretch far longer, preferably into eternity, but events would soon make that impossible. First, there were the dreams. They all revolved around what I had seen in the toilet. Sometimes the dream centered on an albino hand reaching out of the blue liquid, the white skin unblemished by the chemicals in filth. In others, the dream would focus on the mound of shit which would begin to convulse, and dozens of jaundiced eyes would suddenly spring open across the rancid mass.

But even worse was the fact that I could still hear the whispering. It dug into my brain like a noxious melody, constantly repeating. Its meanings seemed to alternate with every revolution, from threat to plea to promise. I had to hum loudly and stomp my feet to drown it out. The only peace I ever got were the few blissful seconds after screaming into a pillow where the whispering seemed to vanish. But soon returned, stronger than ever. I was losing it so completely that my mother started hiding in her room and locking her door.

By the fourth day, my need to stop the whispering had turned suicide from an option, into an inevitability when I received a text from one of my few friends who stayed in contact with me. Is this the park you go to? Read the text, along with a link to a local news story.

As soon as I clicked it, the whispering seemed to fade into the background until it was as distant as the first time I heard it. The report was about a murder that occurred the previous evening. A 14-year-old boy who had run away from home, was believed to have sought shelter in the chemical toilet when a thunderstorm moved in during the night.

At some point in the early hours of the morning, he was attacked by an assailant inside the chemical toilet. He had been stabbed several times. His face mutilated. He wasn't discovered until the afternoon when city workers had come to clean the facility. They did briefly mention the fact that the door had to be forced because it was locked from the inside.

But that was quickly glossed over. Stunned, I got on my laptop and went to YouTube to search for any video reports posted by local news stations. They all provided essentially the same information, save for the fact that during the live broadcast by the local CBS affiliate, you could clearly hear a passerby screen. Grenas, Five! As the on-scene reporter was wrapping up her story, I hadn't given much thought. to the phrase Grenas Vivae when I first saw it on the walls of the toilet. At its most literal, Grenius meant tangle, but was often used as slang for pubic hair. So I took the phrase to mean something like,

pubic hair lives, or long-lived pubes, which made about as much sense as anything else sprawled on those walls. But I started to have the feeling there was much of, more to it than that. By this point, the whispering had come back full volume. It was obvious to me that my future held only two options.

Insanity and suicide. Or face whatever killed that boy. Though both options meant death, the second one would at least bring enlightenment. But if I was to die, I didn't want to face my

murderer in total ignorance. I needed to know exactly what I was dealing with. Unlike crumbling mansions or abandoned hospitals, there was no dusty tomes or city records detailing the macabre history of park toilets. So I would have to go to the only person I knew who would have any expertise on this matter. The old woman, as soon as I made the decision to return to the park, the whispering stopped. Though it was initially a relief, I knew that if I reneged on my I promise it would soon return and never cease until I did. I waited four more days just to be sure there was no longer a police presence.

I arrived around 5 p.m. I parked the ancient Toyota Tursal that had once been my little brothers decades ago and walked out into the first cold and blustery day of the season. I tried not to look at the chemical toilet as I passed it, but in the periphery of my vision I could see the remains, of caution tape flittering in the wind all around its red walls. The woman sat on her porch as usual. There was a heavy quilt covering her legs, but her arms remained bare, the brown, paper-thin

skin covered in liver spots. As I approached, I lowered the hood of my jacket and became self-conscious of the food stains on my sweatpants. She seemed to stare right past me as I stood before her in silence. After several torturously long seconds, I finally managed to blurt out. Uh, hello, um, ma'am? There was no response. She simply continued staring.

And I tried a few more half-hearted greetings before finally concluding that she hadn't been watching me at all. Her eyes may have been open, but she couldn't comprehend a thing. I was about to turn and go when suddenly she spoke. Grenas. Grenas? Yes. What is Grenius? Grenias.

A soul of sorrow. A heart of violence. A stranger, he came one day, lived in the ditches, slept on the benches, ate from the trash. He could hear the earth. angels cry and the demons sing. He screamed. He screamed. He screamed. His hair a jungle, not covered in bugs. He had no name. We chrissing him, Greneas. Pets disappeared. Blood on the trees. Jesus forgives.

She paused to swallow and smack her lips absently. The freeze came. No power. Deep gold. Texas hell. We were lost. Grenas went to the toilet to escape the wind and the snow. It would not save him. Death was coming. He took a knife.

Stabbed himself. Kidneys, lungs, heart. He died by his hand, not God's plan. Frozen. Snow melted. Body taken. But he remained. That is he's house. That is he's pain.

Very slowly, her head began to move. And she looked right at me. Give him your pain, fat man. Then she went back to staring into space. Now that I knew who my killer was, I returned to my car and waited. The only thing that kept me company was the whispering, which had returned. At 11 p.m., when the parker was... I made my way to the chemical toilet.

It felt so much colder than the 45 degrees that my phone was claiming. The wind ripped straight through my jacket and sweatpants. Even my layers of fat couldn't hold the sting of the icy night at bay. I began to run. Some foolish part of me certain that it would be warmer once I was inside the toilet. When I opened the door, I could see the boy's bloodstains dry to the concrete. They were the same color as the stain in the corner, and I realized that Grenas' suicide had been its source. The facilities were as disgusting as my last visit, so I chose the least offensive corner near the door and sat.

When I leaned against the wall, the whole structure seemed to shift, but soon settled. I locked the door just to be safe, though I had expected something to happen by mid-term. night. It was already 1 a.m. when I started to get sleepy. The whispering had taken on a soothing quality, almost like a lullaby. Those four words were stretched and softened until they were like silk gently caressing my brain. I nodded a few times before finally succumbing. I dreamt of a garbage dump blanketed in snow beneath the sunless cobalt blue sky. All around me, the discarded remnants of human existence seemed to shiver before shattering into pieces. Half buried in the snow, thousands of rats cried out in pain before they too shattered into pulpy red shards.

The ground began to shake and then split as a cloud of crimson gas erupted. When the cloud hit me, it was the worst thing I had ever smelled. It was pure decay. The decay of everything. Body, mind, and soul. It shredded my nostrils so violently that it woke me up. But I quickly found that I had not escaped it. The smell was all around me.

Suddenly, a sin. A sickening gurgle erupted from within the toilet well. I was frozen with fear as a kitchen knife with a four-inch blade covered in the brown rust of dried blood slowly began to rise out of the well. It was gripped in a hand that was the same blue as the chemicals within. There was an ear-piercing screech as another blue hand appeared and gripped the edge of the seat. the thing within began to pull itself out. At that moment, all convictions about meeting my fate disappeared.

I quickly rose and furiously tried opening the door, but the lock wouldn't give. As my screams mixed with the shrieks coming from the being pulling itself from the pit, I began throwing myself against the wall. But each blow was like ramming my body into granite. and some force was holding the structure firm. Despite the pain, I clamped my eyes shut and continued hammering against the unyielding wall. My cries for help not drowning out the sickly squelch of that inhuman form, birthing itself from an obscene womb.

I was on the verge of shattering my left shoulder with another futile collision when an icy chuckle stopped me dead. Seemingly against my will, I slowly opened my eyes and beheld Grenas. It was squatting atop the toilet well, knife in his right hand. The skin wasn't blue as I had initially thought, but transparent, like plastic. There was a thin sheet that held within it a dark blue liquid. Inside the liquid floated large gobs of human efflastic. Fluent, toilet paper, used tampons, cigarette butts, and other trash.

The body was naked, thin, and wiry. The skeletal face smiled at me, a thick cloud of waist floating inside the transparent skull. A wild and filthy tangle of human hair sat atop his head like a crown. I stared at him in awe and terror for a few seconds. A fat man, give. He launched from the toilet and had his legs wrapped around my midsection in an instant. I didn't have time to react before he brought the knife down three times in my left shoulder. I was so shocked that I didn't feel it until the dull knife got stuck in my flesh on the third stab.

I screamed in agony. as he wiggled the knife back and forth, trying to wrench it out. His frustration bubbled over as he reared his head back, and, with a vicious snarl, lunged forward and snapped his teeth around my left ear, almost ripping it off in one bite. As he tore at the left side of my head with his mouth, his free hand clawed at my face, tearing flesh with each swipe. Desperately, I tried to dislodge him.

but his legs were like iron bars around my waist. As the clawing continued, his thumb found its way into my mouth, and on instinct I bit down. The clear flesh ripped like a water balloon, and my mouth was filled with the dark liquid. I could feel little chunks of awfulness dance around my tongue. Despite the bloody carnage being done to my face, at that moment. All my energy was devoted to keeping that putrid slush from going down my throat.

In that, I failed. As the liquid snaked its way down my gullet, it felt like a river of ice flowing through my body. It seemed to inundate my cells until my flesh, organs, and bones were assaulted with the deep knowledge of physical death. I could feel. feel what it meant to rot. My senses panicked as I came to the conclusion that I was now nothing more than a mass of putrefying, oozing, meat. While the liquid was teaching my body these lessons, it was also filling my mind with visions. No, not visions. Memories.

Memories of a life indistinct from hell. violence. Violence at every turn. Never once compassion, never once pity. The childhood that would break any mind. And at the center of that nightmare was one figure. A towering, shirtless man with an extension cord wrapped around his fist. His eyes were wide and glowing with rage above a whole black beard. He rained down blows relentlessly. And with each strike came his refrain. This is my pain, Miguelito. This is my pain. Every time the figure repeated the phrase, the fear grew stronger and stronger. But I realized that the fear wasn't mine. It was borrowed. The fear belonged to someone else.

All of this took mere seconds to absorb. But it was time enough for Grenas to wrench the knife from my shoulder. As he raised the blade, screeching, ready to bring it down into my left eye, I quickly shouted, This is my pain, Miguelito. This is my pain. The effect was like a shotgun blast. Grignas was launched into the wall opposite and crumpled to the floor.

Not wasting any time, I shouted again. This is my pain, Migolito! He writhed and screamed on the concrete as the refrain tortured him like his whisper had tortured me. He was thrown into such violent spasms that his joints bent and snapped at sickening angles. His lower jaw twisted to the back of his head, while his hateful eyes remained on me. Finally, when he could take no more, he dug the knife into his chest and split his body open. The liquid gushing out and flooding the concrete. Praying the spell was now broken.

I threw my body against the door. It flew open, and I ran for my car. I thought not at all about my bloody ruined face or the wounds in my shoulder. I simply got in the tersel and did the only thing I could think to do. Drive my car through the park and rammed straight into the chemical toilet. The walls of the toilet exploded in all directions. And my back-right tire sunk into the well. I got out of the car and satisfied with the destruction.

quickly passed out. It was a video taken by a neighborhood woman that would lead to my infamy. She ran from her house and excitedly narrated the footage she captured of my bloated body lying in front of the wreckage of the car and toilet. A screen capture from the video soon became a viral meme template used for instances of personal disaster. And when I finally told my story, I was dubbed the Shithouse Exhibit. exorcist by the internet. I'm facing prison time, of course. My face is permanently disfigured, but it was never much to begin with. I spent a month in the hospital from the bacterial infection caused by my wounds, which led me to losing 60 pounds. I've also gained several new followers

online, and their well-wishes have really buoyed by spirits. I must admit, I haven't felt as good in a long time. As for the fish, I still have no idea what was behind that. Most likely it was God. It usually is. Welcome to Goat Valley

Campgrounds. Looking for a place to escape your busy life and reconnect with nature? Goat Valley Campgrounds features 300 acres of quiet forest and peaceful scenery for you to enjoy. Come meet Kate.

She runs the place, like her parents before her. We know you'll enjoy your stay as long as you behave yourself and follow the rules. Your survival depends on it. The No Sleep Podcast presents Goat Valley Campgrounds Season 2 by Bonnie Quinn. Chapter 9. My family has a strategy for dealing with the inhuman. We don't confront them directly. Okay, we don't confront them directly with a few exceptions.

Those exceptions are usually the creatures that can be effectively shot with a gun or set on fire. Everything else? Off limits. It's a survival strategy. I know that's rather ironic considering that the prior generation isn't making it to see their 60s, but hey, I'm here, right? It's sort of working for us. Because the creatures we can't shoot or burn also tend to be the ones. with rules. You follow along with what they want, you generally turn out okay. Most of the long-term

creatures on this campground are like that, and my family knows how to handle that. We don't attack them directly because it doesn't work. But a creature that has plans, has schemes that go back generations, that's a new sort of danger and one that we don't have any history dealing with. There's no playbook. This time, I have to write the rules, so that's what I'm going to do. And we're not going to to be playing the man with no shadows game anymore. I'm bad at seeing through his deceit and I don't like it. We're going to play my game instead and that game is just good old-fashioned violence, the family specialty. My name is Kate and this is Goat Valley Campgrounds. It is an obvious witch house is mine on the campground. It's tucked away in a corner separated from the rest of the grassy field by a

wooden fence. The family graveyard is back here as well. Just around the corner, screened by a thick clump of trees are the other houses belonging to people that make their residents here. My aunt and uncle are among them. Campers don't have a reason to come to this part of the campground, and those that stumble across it tend to respect the private property signs posted at the fence. There are sometimes exceptions, though. Yeah, what is it? The man with no shadow wants to see you.

Rule number 17. Don't talk to the man with no shadow. How is this so hard to comprehend? He's at his grove. He swears he. won't harm you. It's meant to be a peaceful conversation. He abruptly turned and walked away. His task done and the message delivered. I watched him turn down the road leading back to the camping areas and then he stopped. He looked confused, but after a moment he shook himself and began walking

off, clearly satisfied with whatever excuse his brain had invented for him being in a place he didn't remember walking to. I looked hard at his shadow, searching for the second shadow that I knew had to be there. It was a mere sliver, but I saw it turn and looked back at me for a brief moment. Just how many ponds do this asshole have? At least he was one of the inhumans that would keep his word. If he said I'd be safe visiting him in his grove, then I would be. The other creatures in the deep woods wouldn't even harass me until our business was concluded. There was etiquette to be respected.

I didn't even bother to bring my shotgun along. It's a lovely little grove. The trees are thin enough that grass grows in the clearing and flowers crowd around the base of a large boulder resting in the middle. It feels inviting, like an angler fish luring the prey into its mouth. I hope you don't mind, but I'm not going to set foot in there. But I gave you my word. It's the principle of it. Fine, but I hope you don't mind if I stay within the boundaries of my grove. Humans are nearly as honest as we, inhumans. What did you call me out here for? You owe me something.

Like hell I do Pity I thought you were smarter than this Think hard Kate You have all those rules Floating around in that head of yours How do they apply to you To your family

To your childhood You is this About when you took my friends My mother knew you left the campground Wait How did she get you to release my friends We had a bar Your mother and I.

She let you leave. She gave you permission. Three times I could ask. That was our agreement. I used it twice before she died. Well, she's dead now, so sucks for you, I guess. Oh, that's not how this works. You know that's not how this works.

I'm aware. I don't honor my mother's bargain and you get all offended. But I think the relationship between us went bad a long time ago, and I don't give a shit if I insult you by refusing to uphold an agreement. I'm human. I'm not bound to these agreements the way you are. I get to choose. Yes, you do get to choose,

and I'm fully aware of your feelings towards me. Your mother hated me just as much as you do, so I built some leverage into the agreement. Do you remember your friends? You let them go. Mom said you let them go. And I did. And no mind control there.

Well, except for the one that started the whole mess. I claimed her mind long before your mother came to rescue everyone. But the rest went free, except for one tiny thread. One weak and useless little tie that'll dissolve once our business is concluded. Unless you break the agreement, that is. Then that tie is no longer so small. and I can do whatever I want with them. Feel like killing your friends with your own hands again, Kate?

I don't doubt you could. Your mother raised you well. They're not my friends anymore. I haven't seen them in a long time. Except when you go into town, of course. When you see them with their families, whispering about you behind your back, look, that's Kate, they say to their children.

Stay away from her. She's dangerous. She gets people killed. Shut up! Ultimately, it's your choice. You can refuse my request, of course. I think some part of you wants to kill them, if only to remove yet another reminder of how alone you are.

Damn it! Damn you! Take a moment to think it over if you need to, but I will need a decision before you walk off. You want to leave? Fine. What day do you want to leave on? I'm going to need a window. No. Humans are treacherous after all, and I'd rather not discover this a pack of black dogs waiting for me just outside the gate. Two weeks. I can leave for 24 hours at any time with the next two weeks.

You have my permission. Exact wording, if you don't mind. You can leave for 24 hours at any time in the next two weeks. Are you satisfied now? I am. That your family's debt is fulfilled. You made the right choice. Part of me is a little disappointed. I won't get to see you destroy yourself by killing your childhood friends. But I'm glad to see you aren't so far gone that hostages won't work on you.

Your father would be proud. Don't you dare mention my parents again. See, this is why I wanted to have the conversation at my grove. You're itching to have another go at me, aren't you? Well, I'm safe in here and you're safe out there. Works well for both of us. I'm starting to think the lady with extra eyes didn't help me after all. I liked it better when I couldn't have a conversation with you.

Well, I'm done here, so you don't have to tolerate my presence any longer. Run along, Kate. I got what I wanted. I flipped him off as I walked away. Petty, but it was about all I could do, and the frustration of it all ate at me. A two-week window. The rally of the town was planned. planning fell within that time frame. Since I wasn't meant to find out about it, I had no doubt that

the man with no shadow intended to be there. I also figured that if he got even a slight hint that I'd figured out what was happening, he'd change tactics. If I wanted a shot at him, then I had to make him think everything was working the way he intended. I worked with Russell on our plan. We communicated via text so that he wouldn't be seen at my house too much and so neither of us could be overheard on the phone. This is one advantage we have over the man with no shadow. technology. For the first step, we needed to convince the man with no shadow that he had me cornered, that I was too afraid to leave my campground and that my fear was causing me to drive people away. The sheriff's idea was to stage a highly visible blow-up at one of my staff, yell at them over

something trivial, make it look like I was stressed to the point that any little thing would set off a collapse. I was still considering which staff member to target, who would be the most resilient to being unexpectedly yelled at, when my brother presented himself as a target instead. It wasn't an intentional change of plans. We were meeting in town for lunch, and it just sort of happened. I'm not even sure how the conversation turned towards selling my campground. But it did, and things just escalated from there. You wanting me to sell the campground like everyone else?

No, why would you think that? Because if this place isn't owned by the family anymore, then you're not on the hook for it. You don't have to worry anymore that someday something will kill me, and then you'll be the one listening to the little girl crying outside your window. Yes, I don't want the campground. I never did. But that doesn't mean I'd try to take it away from you. I know how important this place is to you.

And I know what will happen to the town if it ever stops being old land. Really? Is that more important than your family? Your wife hates me and I know it because she's afraid whatever child you have someday will end up inheriting the campground. You can't deal with this right now. Go home, Kate. I think the stress is making you say things you don't mean.

I'm ashamed to say that wasn't part of the plan. It was an honest fear, one that finally broke free under the weight of all the paranoia I was carrying. My brother has certainly been the target of my anger before. I've said a lot of apologies over the years. But as I watched him walk away, I wondered if this would be the last time he'd tolerate it. If maybe sorry wouldn't be enough this time,

and there was no one left to hate but myself. At least it set the scene nicely for our final act. We played it out at the sheriff's office where Russell was filling in until the election, and there were plenty of prying ears around. Small towns are especially efficient at distributing gossip. Damn it, Kate. You keep doing this. Your parents are gone, and your brother is all that's left.

Oh, sure. That's easy for you to say when you don't have to deal with this crop every single day. It wasn't entirely an act either. Russell hadn't warned me in advance what our argument. would be over. He went straight for the open wound. Oh, look at me. I'm Kate, the campground manager, and everyone hates me. I better make sure it stays that way so I can keep the tough girl act going. It'd be awful if people realized how scared I am.

I'm not scared. Kate, you've been scared since the day your parents died. I closed my eyes. He wasn't wrong. but I couldn't say that, at least not in a way that the eavesdroppers in the other room would hear. I had to let my anger take the reins instead. Fuck you, Russell. You don't have the right to tell me how I feel.

Fine. Go hide it in your house. If you want to be alone so badly, we'll all be happy to oblige. Even when you know they don't mean it and that you'll be able to reconcile when it's all over, it still hurts when someone turns on you like that.

I wasn't in the best state of mind when I went to complete the fight, final step of the plan, but honestly, it was better that way. It helped me sell it. I hadn't told Russell about this. He'd find it too risky. He might have tried to stop me. We would have fought for real if that happened. I will sometimes listen to suggestions, but I do not take kindly to being told what to do. I went to see the man with no shadow. The weather was mild that day, so I wore a shirt with a low collar so that the discoloration on my neck and face was clearly visible. The bruises given to me in the courthouse basement were taking their time to vanish.

Purple and yellow blotches covered the entirety of one side of my neck down onto my collarbones with lingering patches on my jaw. It was still very tender. With those visible and with my shotgun in hand, I went to the grove where the man with no shadow lives. He watched me approach, sitting on a large stone, one barefoot tucked up close to his body. The other stretched out to touch the grass. He conspicuously eyed my gun a moment and then lazily glanced up to meet my gaze. I thought we'd already reached an agreement. Surely you don't want to go back on your word. No, I've got a different offer. You want off this land? I'll release you if you promised to leave. Go somewhere far away. Another state would work for me. I thought you were smarter than this.

He hopped off the stone and walked towards me. I hoisted my shotgun. letting my hands shake, and he hesitated only briefly at the edge of his grove. Then slowly, deliberately, he stepped out of his territory and continued to advance towards me. I pointed the gun at him, and he paused, barely a foot away from the barrel. That's not what I want. Then he jerked a hand up so quickly I might not have been able to react if I weren't expecting it. It was an effort to not squeeze the trigger. I almost did. My hand twitched reflexively, but I fought the urge down and let him grab the gun.

and rip it out of my hands. He tossed it aside onto the forest floor. I cried out in surprise and stepped backwards, but he wasn't letting me escape. He lunged forwards, grabbed the front of my shirt, twisting the fabric between his fingers, and he pulled me close. I was forced to tilt my head back to look up into his eyes,

and the bruises on my neck were clearly visible. He traced them with one finger of his free hand, and I didn't have to pretend as I trembled in fear. Or maybe you're not being stupid. Maybe you're desperate. Poor thing. Humans aren't really cut out for this. Wouldn't it be a relief to let it all go?

Is your family's legacy worth this? He gently brushed a lock of my hair behind my ear. The tenderness of the gesture offset by how tightly he still held my shirt, pinning me in place. I have some authority over the town. I can tell them to stop trying to kill you, give you a little peace in which to make your decision. Wait too long, and I may not be able to restrain them entirely. That hatred you see in their eyes is not entirely of my making.

They won't kill you, but neither will they leave you intact. The threat was not unexpected. Even though I'd mentally prepared myself for this, on the walk to the grove, I still felt sick hearing the words and understanding their full implication. My words stuck in my throat and I was unable to reply. I'll give you some more time, a gesture of kindness. I don't actually want you dead, after all. I just want you to sign the campground over.

It all sounded very convincing, and without the lady's tea, I would have believed every word. I still don't understand why you want to make the campground no longer be old land. You don't have to understand. You just have to do what I want. He smiled broadly and patted me on the cheek. Then he let go of my shirt and briskly walked away, casually putting his back to me. I eyed the distance between myself and the shotgun. I admit it was very tempting. I wasn't sure I wanted to gamble all of this on having better reflexes than him, though. This was a good talk. It's nice to have actual conversation.

Maybe I'll visit the lady in the woods and give her my thanks for supplying you with the tea. And then I'll kill her, of course. My pride was shattered, and I was trembling in frustrated anger. But it was done. I'd offered him escape because I knew he wouldn't take it. He didn't know that I'd discovered the buyer's identity. I knew what he wanted was control. The rally announcement had stirred up the town enough to ensure a good turnout at the meeting.

It was likely that almost everyone was. would be there. All the man with no shadow had to do was go out in front of them and introduce himself and they would all be his. Everyone in town that was undecided or still on my side, they would be his. Unless, of course, someone killed him. Not a shame that would be. Since I was without a car, the plan was that Brian would pick me up shortly before the meeting was scheduled to start. The old sheriff was already in position. I'm not sure what it says about him that he knows how to get a good angle on the town hall with a scoped rifle, but I'm glad he's on our side. I was armed with a pistol and a shotgun. There was a knock at my door as I sat waiting. Stardled, I grabbed my shotgun

and hurried to answer, surprised that I hadn't heard Brian's truck pull up. The man with the skull cap was on my doorstep. This is a bad time. Can we talk about that kiss some other day? What makes you think I came here to talk about that? Perhaps I am here because of how you tried refuse my offer of a drink. I froze, like every muscle in my body was shot through with ice, locked up in terror. Some part of my brain gibbered that I was going to die horribly, and while I heard what he said next, I didn't register the words.

Not until he said my name to get my attention and repeated himself. I am not going to kill you. Not after all I've done to keep you alive. But you will have to atone for your mistakes, and there have been many as of late. He sighed and traced the rim of his cup with one finger. His eyes half closed. When you went to the vanishing house,

I told you not to empty the cup. It is easy enough to refill when it runs low. Refilling it when it is emptied is another matter. I honestly would have preferred you return it empty and let me refill it as I could have managed it properly. Instead, you returned to me something for. flawed, and a flawed vessel can only hold together for so long. But what's done is done, and now you need to finish what you started.

What was wrong with how I refilled it? Blood that was already there, blood freely given, and blood forcibly taken. He looked me dead in the eyes, and with a flat, emotionless stare that never wavered from my face, he turned the cup sideways until the liquid spilled out and puddled on the porch. He tilted the cup upright before the last few. drops fell. Blood from what was already there. Then he lifted his hand to his mouth and bit carefully down on a knuckle. The skin split open and brilliant drops of blood beat it up. He tipped his hand so that they collected together and spilled out and into the cup. Blood freely given. The man with the skull cup

handed it to me, along with his knife. The requirements are when it has been emptied. Blood of an enemy forcibly taken. That's where you went wrong. Don't screw it up this time. Blood of an enemy. The sheriff was forced into his role. He was never my enemy. But the man with no shadow sure as hell is. Brian and I arrived at the town hall fashionably late. I took a shallow breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm myself, and then gave up on that. Screw it. I didn't need to be calm. I needed to be angry. Anger had carried me through every hard thing I'd done, whether it was just or not, and it would carry me through this as well. I slammed the door of the pickup truck behind me. Brian's dogs watched me go, lined up at the edge of the pickup's bed with their tongues hanging out.

I walked alone to the closed doors of the town hall, took a breath, and then shouldered them boldly open. kicking them open would have made a more impressive entrance, sure, but I didn't want to risk spilling the contents of the cup I carried. The man with no shadows, stood behind the podium at the fore of the room. Beside him was the buyer. My unwitting cousin looked nervous. His eyes wide and his forehead shining with sweat. He seemed ready to bolt at any moment.

And for a brief second, he looked relieved for the interruption. Then he saw the knife in my hand and he went pale. Opened his mouth to say something, perhaps to yell for someone to call the police. And then that died when he realized that no one else was moving. Like this was normal. It kind of is around here. I stopped halfway to the man with no shadow who had not moved from the podium. He stared at me in

fury and shock. Clearly, our gamble had paid off, for he did not expect me to be here. I raised the knife and pointed the tip at him. That is not your friend. That is an abomination no different from all the other monsters that I keep trapped on my land so that you can all sleep safely in your beds at night. Kate, didn't you get a concussion recently? Maybe you should see your daughter. her about these outbursts you've been having lately. Is your brother speaking to you again yet? The old sheriff had picked up some things during his tenure, things about surveillance, and he'd wired up the podium so that he could listen into what was being said while he was

in his sniper position. At the moment when the man with no shadow paused, before anyone in the room could react, a bullet came through the window and into the side of his head. The force of it knocked him over. My cousin, the buyer, shrieked and threw. himself to the ground. The rest of the room stirred. Some stood, but before real panic could set in, the man with no shadow slowly picked himself up. The assembled townsfolk went still and quiet. Fine. Fine. This plan was annoying anyways. I don't like being around humans. I don't like pretending

to be your friend. I just want to feed. He knocked the podium aside with one sweep of his arm. It smashed sideways to the floor. People were on their feet now. Someone screamed, and they bolted to the edges of the room, crowding near the walls, desperate to get away from the creature that was stalking down the aisle to where I stood.

I saw raw hunger in his eyes. They all saw him for what he was, standing there, bleeding freely from a bullet hole that would have killed a normal human instantly cursing their humanity. And it didn't matter. Come, come to me! They went.

They turned over chairs in their haste, eyes maddened and empty. I saw the intention in their mindless stairs as they rolled across the room in a wave of human flesh. They would tear me apart and feed me to their master, whose words poisoned their minds and overrode their senses and turned them into monsters. I've dealt with plenty of monsters on my land. We have a simple strategy. Guns and dogs. and Brian's hounds came in through the door,

ripping it off the hinges with the impact of their body weight, and they rolled past me in a black, angry pack of fur and fangs. They hit the line of people closing in on me, a heavy collision of muscle and fur into flesh, and they all went down, a veritable barricade of flailing and fighting. There were screams, I couldn't tell if it was rage or pain, for the dogs had cleared a pathway between me and the man with no shadow,

and I was running forward. The man with no shadow came to meet me, stretching greedy fingers towards my shadow, ready to rip it to pieces and devour it. I gripped the knife tight. And just before we collided, the old sheriff took his second shot. And the man with no shadow's knee exploded into red ruin. I reached for him. I'd hold his head and slit his shadow's throat and it would be all over.

I had the full weight of my anger pushing me forward and nothing, not even my own doubts, could stop me. And someone grabbed me from behind, wrapped their arms around my torso, pinning my arms to my side. What are you doing? Let go! I'm not letting you just murder someone. He's a monster, damn it!

I'll see you at my grove, Kate. His body collapsed into shadows. They flitted like moths across the ground, past the townspeople, past the dogs, and out into the night. The room went quiet. Even the people that were on the ground. pinned under the weight of the dogs, subsided into muffled whimpering. They stopped trying to get to me.

They just stared, wide-eyed, breathing fast, and no one dared to speak. I told you he was a monster! It was the fact he survived to bullet to the head not enough for you? Now, let... This time, I was able to throw the buyer off of me. He landed hard on the ground, but I ignored him. The man with no shadow had blood plenty, and I wasn't going to waste it. I crouched and carefully scooped up in my hand some of the blood pooled.

on the ground from Russell's gunshots. I poured what little I'd collected into the cup, hoping it would be enough. Blood of my enemy, forcibly taken. I left. No one tried to stop me. Valley Camp Grounds Season 2 was written and adapted for audio by Bonnie Quinn. Produced for the No Sleep podcast by Phil Mikulski.

Musical score composed by Brandon Boone. Starring Lindsay Rousseau as Kate, Jesse Cornett as Russell, Jeff Clement as Tyler, Graham Rowett as The Man with No Shadow, Mick Wingert as the Man with the Skull Cup, Olly A. White as the camper, and Joel Blackwell as the buyer. Join us next week for Chapter 10 of Goat Valley Campgrounds, Season 2. over, but they are still out there. Be sure to join us next week so you can stay safe, stay secure, and stay sleepless. 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, Jesse Cornett, and Claudius Moore. Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McAnally, Ollie A. White, and Kristen Samito. To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us, just visit sleepless.com to learn about the sleepless sanctuary. Add free extended episodes each week and lots of bonus content for the dark hours. for one low monthly price.

On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for joining us and seeking safety from the things that stalk us in the night. This audio program is copyright 2025 by Creative Reason Media Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted.

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