The NoSleep Podcast - S24 Ep2: NoSleep Podcast S24E02

Episode Date: February 8, 2026

It's Episode 02 of Season 24. Enter the dark waters of the Cape Fear River as we present tales about the occult."The House of Flies" written by Sam Riding (Story starts around 00:03:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Reagan Tacker, Girl - Mary Murphy, Old Woman - Erin Lillis"Musical Souls" written by Liam Hogan (Story starts around 00:11:25)Produced by: Claudius MooreCast: Doctor Knox - Erika Sanderson, Jack Beresford - Guy Woodward"Ferals" written by A.T. Blackwater (Story starts around 00:33:50)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Bryan - Matthew Bradford, Sadie - Linsay Rousseau, Wayne - Graham Rowat"Cast Iron Clot" written by Travis Walters (Story starts around 00:55:00)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Andy - Jeff Clement, Gus - David Cummings"In the Neighbor's Corn" written by K.L. Gergen (Story starts around 01:20:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Liam - David Cummings, Adrian - Dan Zappulla, Rusty - Atticus Jackson, Scarecrow - Graham Rowat, Old Man Martin - Jesse CornettThis episode is sponsored by:Home Chef - Home Chef's meal kits are rated #1 in quality, convenience, value, taste, and recipe ease. Head to homechef.com/nosleep to get 50% off and free shipping for your first box plus free dessert for life!DripDrop - Take hydration seriously with DripDrop's award-winning taste and doctor-developed electrolyte powder. Trusted by the best! Get 20% off your first order by using promo code NOSLEEP at dripdrop.comBetterhelp - 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.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about the Crimewave at Sea 2.0 Cruise!Click here to get your Crimewave at Sea discount code and bonus event!Click here for the trailer for "Mother of Flies"Click here to learn more about Sam RidingClick here to learn more about Liam HoganClick here to learn more about A.T. BlackwaterClick here to learn more about Travis WaltersExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"In the Neighbor's Corn" illustration courtesy of MiggeaThe NoSleep Podcast is Human-made for Human Minds. No generative AI is used in any aspect of work.Audio program ©2026 - Creative Reason Media - The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media. No part of this audio program may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. All rights reserved.

Water. It gives us life. We are drawn to it. Yet it holds immense power over us. It can bring unspeakable horror to the most familiar places. Your morning shower, a tranquil riverbank, or the endless ocean. It's time to dive deep into the abyss. from the dark waters of the Cape Fear River. Immerse yourself in horror as you. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. I want to thank all the fans who shared their excitement

about the upcoming Crime Wave at Sea 2.0 Cruise. I'm glad so many of you are starting to make plans. for it. Just a reminder that the tickets officially go on sale this coming Friday the 13th of February. Check the links in the show notes for more details about the crews and how to get your code for a $100 discount and special bonus gifts. Now, in the world of horror, there has always been a dark spot for the occult. If we think of horror movies, we have classics like The Evil Dead and Rosemary's Baby. More modern occult classics are films like The Witch and Hereditary.

And I'd like to shout out friends of the show, The Adams Family. That's the filmmaking family of John Adams, Toby Pozer, and their daughters. They recently released an excellent occult film called Mother of Flies. Make sure you check it out if you have the shutter streaming platform or find it where you can. Highly recommended. The world of the occult is such a ripe source of horror. Strangers performing strange rituals and rites which draw upon dark sources and evil energies. I dare say it's a good idea to steer clear of those practitioners.

Not all occultists sell sanctuary. On the show this week, we have tales about strangers and strange things which seem to possess strange powers. and when unexpected encounters take place with them, I think it's safe to say the outcomes will be rather unsettling. Now it's time to plunge into the horror of our sleepless tales. In our first tale, we meet a man and a sick little girl. Her illness is in desperate need of a cure. So when the man seeks out an old woman who might be able to help,

there is nothing but desperation left. But in this tale, shared with us by author Sam Riding, we learn that healing comes in many forms, sometimes in the most unexpected ways. Performing this tale are Reagan Tacker, Mary Murphy, and Aaron Lillis. So when there's nothing but pain left, you might have to visit The House of Flies. She was four years old now, not out of the baby talk phase.

I gave her little hand the gentle squeeze. Mommy's at home, sweetie. Me again. I know, you're sick, sweetie, but it won't hurt much longer, I promise. Okay, but how much longer? Only 15 minutes more, not long. We continued along a dusty dirt road. I felt awful making her walk so far.

The cancer was eaten up her inside by now. It was amazing she could even walk at all. Then I saw it, a small cottage set among the trees. We're here, me too. I walked her up the cracked paving slabs of the garden path. It was then I saw the flies, hundreds of them, their faint buzzing building to a crescendo hum as they crawled all over the structure. Shouldn't we knock?

She looked up at me so innocently as we reached the front door. No, we don't have to, not here. Inside, sitting in front of a roaring hearth was an old woman. A roaring fire, yet I saw no smoke billowing from the chimney on her approach. I know why are you here. She took out a small leather-bound wallet. It contained surgical equipment. I winced as I heard the small voice next to me.

I shot her a look silently chastising her rudeness. She groaned before speaking again. I told you, sweetie, mommy's at home. I shuddered. No more questions now. It's time. We took a few steps towards the old woman. Such innocence. Needlessly afflicted. I couldn't see her face, but I could hear the smile in her voice. She doesn't have long left. Please help me. Then give her here.

The girl looked up at her with pleading eyes, but still I put her. pushed her towards the old woman. She took the little girl by the hand, whispered a few words over her, then reached into the wallet of surgical tools. Then with one swift motion, she brought the blade of a scalpel across the girl's throat. I couldn't watch,

not as she held the girl as the blood drained from her tiny body, not as she cut off the parts she needed and ground them into mush in an old pestil and mortar. When she was done, she clicked her fingers. Drink. I took the stone bowl in my hands, brought it to my lips, and did as I was told. I don't feel anything anymore. Not the pain of childhood abuse, nor the longing for the family I lost to the gun-obsessed

loner who decided to go out with a bang. Not even the guilt of abducting a little girl from a family that loved her, even if she was doomed to die young. I don't feel a fucking thing anymore. And I love it. Medical science has a history in which some rather unsavory things were done in the name of progress. The forbidden acts of performing experiments on corpses brought much-needed insight for physicians. And in this tale, shared with us by author Liam Hogan, we meet a doctor who has brought a delivery intended for her brother,

but the mix-up still yielded some positive results. Performing this tale are Erica Sanders. and Guy Woodward. So some things are interchangeable. Some aren't. You might think of it like a game of musical souls. It's well after curfew when I hear the rap, rap, wrapping at my door. Any other doctor would ignore it,

even as the knocking gets louder and louder. They'd douse their lanterns and retreat to the seclusion of their curtained bedchambers, swearing blind they heard nothing at all. And besides, what would a respectable citizen be doing out at such an hour or on such a night? I am not any other doctor. Even so, I open the heavy wooden door the merest of cracks, tentatively peer into the gloom and drizzle beyond.

A tall man, darkly clad, squints back at me, his face mostly hidden beneath his brimmed hat and his woolen scarf mask, a handcart to his rear. Dr Knox Yes, I am she He looks doubtful Perhaps having mistaken me for a housekeeper Or a dutiful wife

The anatomist Ah, no I am most definitely not he That's my younger brother, Robert Over on the other side of town Newington place His shoulders slump And I catch the mutter of a truncated curse

I don't envy him traversing Edinburgh on a foul night, dragging his burden up those endless rain-slicked granite stairs. Happens all the time. Sometimes he gets my stuff and sometimes I get his. Good thing we're on good terms. On which note? What do you have?

I raise my lantern higher, trying to look behind or through him and into the covered cart. His hooded eyes narrow, darting from wall to wall of the alleyway, before returning front and centre, but no less wary. That's for your brother and not you... He won't be interested.

Hardly fresh, is it? He or she? I wrinkle my nose. The graveyard stench is not kept at bay by the sleeting rain, nor by the mournful wind howling through the gap in the door, fluttering the candles by which I had been up late reading. I contemplate for a moment, feeling the burden of possibility.

But I might be. I watch and wait as he does his own crude calculations, weighs up the temptations of an unexpected deal, with no need to cut the cadaver any further against the constant fear of discovery by the redcoats of the town guard, especially with a lengthy journey still ahead of him, against abandoning his hard-owned prize on my doorstep and legging it, which would be handing his knight's work to me for free, he realises.

He skewers me with a hostile glare, as if I had already robbed him blind. I thought you weren't an anatomist. I'm not. My interests lie in the ethereal rather than the corporeal. He regards me with a blank stare. The spirit world? Ghosts and ghouls?

I find grave robbers on the whole to be men with little imagination, but I suspect this is by self-selecting necessity. No man prone to deep contemplation would dig up another's body purely for profit. Certainly no man of God. But religious or not, superstition still lurks within their blunt, heavy-browed skulls, ready and waiting to trip them up. This one shudders at my reminder that the grave is perhaps not always the final resting place, especially with men like this to dig you up.

His gaze slides from mine. Whatever you want them for, it'll be ten pounds. I shake my head in sorrow. Burk and hair prices, for a still warm body delivered to the cross. correct address, perhaps, but this is neither, and £10 is more than I can afford. Well, good luck avoiding the patrols. Eight pounds. I make to close the door.

A more intelligent man might wonder why I close it so slowly. No, no, it was foolish of me to even consider it. Best stick to your original. Five! Really, I've gone quite off the idea. Three pounds and no lower. I pause. with the thinnest sliver of night between us,

before I ease the door open a smidgen wider. I suppose I'd be doing you a favour. You would, ma'am. Madam Doctor. You would indeed. And what would be the name of the man for whom I was doing such a boon? He blinks, his fawning quick-frozen, realises, and it has a bitter taste,

that he needs to reveal more of himself than he would like to, to seal the deal. Enough information to hang a man. He doesn't have the wit to give me a made-up name. He mutters towards the cobblestones, raindrops falling from the brim of his hat. Uh, Jack Beresford. I wouldn't have been at all surprised if he'd added his address.

Hmm. Well, Mr Beresford, I hate to see a man out on such a drake night. Come in, come in, come in, and bring a cargo with you. The wheels of the cart creek as it leaves twin lines of wet mud across the flagstones. Thankfully my workshop is inured to such abuse. The man stands nervously by as I turn my back on him, busy with drinks, pouring gin into a mug

and a far smaller glass of port for me, just to be sociable. Aren't you going to inspect the body? Beresford remains eager, I am sure, to be gone. Is it intact? Um, yes. Then it'll do, for my purposes. I hand him the mug and he takes a hefty gulp, tears filling his eyes until he blinks them away. Easy now. Why not warm yourself by the fire as I prepare the specimen, and then perhaps you can assist?

He looks startled, wary and green. Odd how squeamish this resurrectionist is. don't worry there are no knives involved and no blood even if it was still flowing i hand him his three pounds and he stuffs them beneath his shirt he would i think have fled then and there if i hadn't poured such a generous measure into his mug no doubt his ill-gotten gains will be squandered on similarly cheap spirits a vain attempt to blot out the memory of what he has done to earn them for the moment the warmth in turn of and external from both fire and liquor must make the thought of venturing back out into the cold somewhat less attractive. Plus my new friend is evidently an opportunist. A secondary market for older, less well-guarded corpses?

He is, at the very least, intrigued. He sees future profit. After peeling back and discarding the horsehair blanket, itself as guilty as that which it conceals for the myasmer of foul odors, I carefully tease apart the sodden muddy burial shroud, the theft of which is more incriminating than that of the body contained within. Ample evidence that Mr Beresford is new to these nighttime misdeeds.

A head, pale and greenish tinge emerged from the cocoon, a man in his late 40s, with an emphasis on late. Five days? I hazard a professional opinion, almost laughing at the thought of, of what my brother would say confronted with such a specimen. He is not known to tolerate fools. Four? No. Definitely five.

He makes no further attempt to argue the point, having been paid already. I give him a broad smile. Well, you work with what you're given. Help me lower the body to the ground. The ground? You want your cart back, do you not? He grumbles. But between us we lay the cadaver on stones that are as cold as the dead flesh.

Some insect, some many-legged creature of the night, takes the opportunity to scuttle into the darkened corners of the room, and good riddance. So what are you a doctor of? Beresford returns to the chair by the fire, and to his second mug of gin. More relax now that he has the measure of the place. His coat rests by the fire, gently steaming,

and his gaze wanders to the books on the shells. into the workbench is cluttered with scientific apparatus, glass retorts and voltaic piles. Just as I was beginning to warm to the fellow, he wants to check my credentials. I spent three years in Stuttgart, wearing breeches and being teased for my boyish looks, all before you were born.

So please don't tell me I didn't earn my doctoral papers, Mr Beresford. Unfortunately, the Scottish Medical Board are not keen on breaking with tradition, Even as medicine makes leaps and bounds into new territories. The fools wouldn't let me practice, not even under the cover of my brother's name. For all that, I would have made a better surgeon than the lot of them. I was forced to turn my attention to other areas of study, ones less jealously guarded by male white-haired gatekeepers.

They are cult? Some might call it that. But there are no pentagrams here. No arcane rituals, no deals with the dells scribed him, blood. I look up from my work, ignore the fact that the web of cables that now surrounds the corpse does, as it happens, resemble a summoning circle. I am a scientist, Mr Beresford. My interest is in the animus, the life force, what you might call the soul. He picks up a skull, dislodges the pages on which I had been making my notes, peers into its sightless eye sockets. People are always drawn to skulls,

to the thought that everything a person once was could be imprisoned within the now empty bone cage. How do you? There are three ways to reanimate, or resurrect, if you like, a corpse. I lecture as I continue my preparations. None of them involve harnessing lightning or reassembling a body from a patchwork of disparate parts. I realise I am enjoying myself. He may not be, he certainly isn't. the most educated or appreciative of audiences,

but any audience at all is such a rare delight. Sometimes I envy my show-off brother, with his eager students attending his every word and paying for the privilege. I force myself to speak plainly, for Beresvod's sake. The first and certainly the easiest is to encourage the body's soul to return to it.

I lift the limp hand of the deceased lying on my workshop floor. The rigor mortis of early death is a distant memory. But that particular boat has long since sailed. The soul has either vacated this earthly sphere entirely or merely evaporated into the ether. It is unclear and still an area of active research. The second, I say watching him carefully, is to give something of myself to the body, to, in effect, high. hive off a portion of my soul, and by such means gain control of a puppet corpse. He looks interested at that. No doubt he is imagining a workforce of bodies, an army, all under his control.

As indeed am I. I shake my head. But that can be tricky and fraught with danger. By enriching this hollow vessel, I make myself lesser. And should the puppet be destroyed, By overzealous god-fearing citizens of this town, see, armed with pitchfork and torch, then that part of my soul will be lost forever. Crestfallen, he gulps his gin.

From the angle he tilts the mug, it must be nearly empty again. The light of dull thought blooms across his craggy countenance, now ruddy red. And the thought? Ah, well now. Isn't that obvious? I make the final connections, sit back on my haunches and slowly stand, my knees stiffer than they once were. The third method is to encourage another's soul to take possession of the vacant corpse.

He looks confused, wondering, no doubt, how this is any different from the second method. All of it, the entirety of a soul transferred to another's body. He stares at the five-day-old dead thing on the floor, repulsed. Why would anyone want to do that? Well, they might not want to, but needs must if their own body becomes inhospitable. Inhospitable? Unresponsive. No longer in their control. If something makes the body incapable of hosting the soul,

is anything but the diarist of prisons. Like what? Like poison. I wave at the body sitting slumped in the chair by the fire. As if on cue, the empty pewter mug slips from his lifeless fingers, clattering against the hearth. The shade hovering by my side leaps towards it, but his body won't let him back in, no matter what angle he approaches from, no matter how hard he throws himself at it. And each time he fails, he has drawn back towards me, as if he is rolling back downhill.

I watch as his soul exhausts itself, and the ethereal form begins to thin. My cage of wires is not perfect. It leaks a little, especially around the edges, and that is all to the good. Mr Beresford will be more subservient if he is somewhat weakened. A most interesting poison, I say with a curt nod as he seethes, trying to gather his strength for another attempt. It leaves the body intact and is even painless, the transition from life to death happening as it did for you, without an unseemly struggle.

It severs the nerves, the connection between mind and body, so that you don't feel a thing. But once cut, all senses, all control is lost, and even a five-day corpse makes a better home for the soul. He snarls and plunges, not for the body, on the floor, but for me. I laugh as my own soul, far stronger than my physical form suggests, fends him off easily enough. Watches as he regathers his tattered form, considers a second attempt that will leave him even more diminished. Watch him realise that this too will fail. It helps that

I've been ready for this all along, helps that he was too absorbed with returning to his own body to try anything sooner. This body is occupied, and it would take a far more powerful soul, than yours to force me out, to take possession against my will. Brute strength is no advantage to you anymore, Mr Beresford. This is a game of musical souls, and there is only one chair left. Best take it quickly. The music has already stopped. He wails.

Tries his own body one final time, but then, as I knew he would, as he must, with the carefully laid network of wires pulling and guiding him, he slinks to the body on the floor and moulds himself to its crumpled form. He gasps, lips cracked, lungs and agony to fill. It's so cold. Yes, well, it'll warm up a little, but don't get too close to the fire.

Your new body isn't very good at repairing itself. best look after it, hmm? He levels his eyes, the dead man's sunken, cloudy eyes at me. Be polite, Mr Beresford. Like it or not, you now rely on me. Only I can transfer you to another body, a fresher body, and I will only do that if you serve me well. I shrug, dismissive.

Of course, if you truly want to complete your life's journey, I will not stand in your way, though I think we both know where your final destination is, don't we? He shudders. The movement jerky and unnatural. The newly donned copse is a different length than weight. Plus there's the effects of it having lain in a grave for five days. A poor fit, all in all.

Hardly surprising if he's a little stiff. But he'll get used to it. Eventually. Which only leaves what to do. with Beresford's former body. It strings cut, useless to me. Beresford's decidedly fresh body. I snap out orders,

retrieving my three pounds as the corpses exchange clothes. Deliver this cadaver to my brother at the dissecting rooms in Surgeon Square. But you'd best be quick, I say, glancing towards the clock. The night is well advanced. He glows at me,

a look of impotent hatred. I'll have to watch him. Though I have the means of his destruction at my fingertips, sometimes even that isn't enough to control the resurrected. Sometimes vengeance trumps self-preservation. I toy with the lantern, half tempted at even this late stage to change my mind, but I don't really want a fire in my workshop. No. I'll make hard use of him for a while

and not to be sorry when the borrowed body fails as it surely must. The rot having already set in. And then, who will miss a grave robber? Oh, and Beresford? Yes. His voice is thick and slurred and stinking of decay, but hiding nothing of his loathing. Yes, Doctor.

I give him the sweetest of smiles, as I open the door for him in his loaded cart, sending him out into the cruel night. Don't forget to tell that brother of mine, he owes me another tenor. When you're out in the snowy woods, it's possible to feel the peaceful, serene surroundings. But it's also a place where you can feel alone and watched. And in this tale, shared with us by author, A.T. Blackwater, we meet Brian, a man doing a favor for his girlfriend. You see, her dad meets help with his trap lines in the woods.

Brian is willing to help, but not without receiving a strange warning about what else might be out there. Performing this tale are Matthew Bradford, Lindsay Russo, and Graham Rowett. So understand this. The forest is a wild place. And the creatures out there very well could be feralds. I was on my way home from work when Sadie texted me. I pulled off the road and called her, glancing in the rear view at the day. dark hulking mountains of the North Woods behind me. What's up? Well, I need some help with something, a big favor, but it feels weird to ask. I smiled at her polite hesitation. Why? I don't mind.

I don't know. My dad needs help, and it kind of feels a little too soon to ask you. I could hear the reluctance in her voice. Hold on. Let me check. Check what? Yeah, it says right here in the Relationships for Dummies Handbook, we are squarely in the Ask's favor stage. As long as you bake me another one of those pot pies. Deal, thanks. You met him before, right? I knew that I'd met Sadie's dad when we were dating in high school,

but I didn't really remember much about him, other than that he was a big, heavy man. Wayne, yeah, the first time you brought me over, he liked me so much he gave me a tour of his gun save. Totally didn't scare me. What's he need help with? Well, he's still running a few children. trap lines out in the North Woods, but his health sucks. He got diagnosed with diabetes a few years ago.

Anyway, yesterday he was out pulling all his traps early. I guess it's a bad season. He got most of them, but then his feet started really hurting, so he cut the trips short, and I forced him to go to the doctor. He almost got frostbite, and now the doctor says he could lose his feet if he goes out again. Damn, good thing he caught it. You need a hand picking up the rest of his traps? Yeah, I hate to ask, but all his friends are in worse shape than he is. I thought back to the days when my brother and I would venture out into the woods this time of year and hunt snowshoe hairs. I'd never been into trapping, but I knew enough about it. I'd be happy to help.

In a while since I was out in those woods anyway. I could do it tomorrow, if that works. I've got to work all day, but he'll be home. You don't mind going over without me, do you? Not at all. Tell him I'll be over about it. The light snow was falling as I parked in front of Sadie's childhood home. I walked up the concrete path to the front door.

It opened. Wayne stepped out. Ryan, come on in. I followed him into the kitchen. Long time, no see. How are you, son? He looked the same, a little grayer, a little heavier, camouflage pants and flannel shirt,

just like I remembered. He extended his hand and I took it, and received the obligatory bone-crushing handshake that I'd become reacquainted with after moving back. Oh, you know, living the dream. It's nice being back in town. Yeah. Sadie says you was down south for a bit?

I gave him the quick version of my disastrous attempt at college and marriage that had occupied the last 15 years of my life. Wayne poured me a cup of coffee and we sat at the kitchen table. He pulled out a pouch of tobacco and began rolling a cigarette. There was a Forest Service map spread out on the table. I tapped a squiggly red loop that had been drawn on the map. Is that Cole Lake? That's right. Sadie said you spent a lot of time in the Northwoods when you was wrong.

a kid. She wasn't kidding. You've been up there? Oh, yeah. My brother and I used to catch Tiger Trout up there. That where your trap lane is? Wayne held their old cigarette to his mouth and licked the rolling paper, sealing it. Yep, I'll run a few lines up there. She told you, about my feet. She said the doctor won't let you go back out there. Sounds like a bad season if you're pulling your traps this early. He nodded, then leaned over and slid the window open. The snowed. The was falling harder outside. He lit a cigarette and took a drag. Roughly every 14 years we get a bad season. This is the worst season I've ever seen. I only run Martin set these days. Too old to mess with cats. Funny, I remember my old man talking about being too old to mess with cats. His friend

Freddie got chewed up pretty bad by one years ago. Oh yeah? Who was that? Freddy Gray? I was mid-sip of coffee and almost spit it out. How'd you know? Oh, I knew Freddy, too. That business was big news. He almost died. Didn't happen too far from Cold Lake, actually. There was a comfortable silence as we sipped our coffee

and watched the snow come down outside the window. Wayne took another drag on his cigarette. After a moment, he cleared his throat. Anyways, I got ten Martin sets in boxes on that loop around Coal Lake. Well, let me take care of it for you. You should probably try to keep off your feet. I'm looking forward to getting out there anyway. Been a while.

I could tell that Wayne was uncomfortable with someone else handling his business. He chatted for a bit and he finally gave in. He took me out into the garage where he had a plastic utility shed laid out on the floor. It had a bridle of rope attached to the front so it could be dragged behind either a snow machine or someone walking.

There was a hammer in the sled. Wayne walked over to the wall and pressed the button on the garage door opener. The door rolled up, letting a gust of cool air in. Wayne took a last drag on a cigarette, then flipped the bud out into the bed of his truck. All right. Sadie said you ain't got a snow machine yet.

You can borrow mine. You got a toe ball on your truck? I nodded. Good. Machine's already on the trailer. You can take this pole sled too. You can't take the machine into the actual loop. All the logings finished up there,

so the Forest Service put up a gate. You'll have to take your truck out to that turnout at the bottom of Norton Road. Take the snow machine from there up to the gate, then you'll have to walk in with the sled and do the loop on foot. Sounds good. What's the hammer for? Oh, getting old as hell.

The traps are in boxes, nailed the trees. Just one 16-penny nail on the left side. I don't drive the nail all the way, so you can just pop it out with the claw hammer. Got it. We walked back over to the open garage door and looked up with the falling snow. Shouldn't need snow shoes in this. Too wet. Just wear some good boots. You got a 22? Yeah, but all my rifles are still in storage. You can take mine. Sometimes the Martin gets in the trap, but he don't die. I doubt there'll be any, but you never know.

I haven't trapped a single one up there this year. Something's messing with my stuff. sets. Every time the traps are ripped out of the box and the bait is gone. Bring the rifle just in case and bring a pistol. The wolves getting bad up there. No, the wolves are fine for the ferrels. The ferals. At first, I thought he was joking. I had completely forgotten about the legendary ferrels of the North Woods. It was an old local folklore that got passed from generation to generation, I mean, mostly in the halls of the elementary school or at the town barbecue. The story was that in the early 1800s, a fur trapper was passing through the area when he ran into a party of surveyors and mistook them for poachers.

He confronted them, but they explained that they were just mapping the region and had no intention of trapping. As the trapper turned to leave, one of the surveyors shot him in cold blood. The rest of the survey party eventually decided to turn their companion in for murder, but that night he escaped and killed several. of the surveyors before disappearing. The remaining surveyors made it back to town, which was basically just an army fort at the time. The army sent out several parties to capture the insane man, but were never able to find them. As the town grew around the army fort, the story was used as sort of a boogie man to keep kids in line. Then a young woman was missing and was never found, but the lore

said that the mad surveyor had kidnapped her. Well, then the legend changed. There were reports that hunters would occasionally find camps in the North Woods. There were supposed sightings of a growing family of wild people over the years, and the legend of the Farrells was born. Wayne looked at me, serious. Yeah, the Farrells. Like I said, about every 14 years my traps get messed with. I know a lot of you young folk think it's bullshit,

but you can ask anyone else who spends time out there. As a matter of fact, if Freddy were still alive, he'd show you his scars. It wasn't no bobcat that bit him. And he ain't the only one ever been hurt by them. I wasn't sure what to say. My friends and I had always believed the stories when we were young. Then we grew up and started to feel like it was just the old timers trying to keep us out of the woods, you know, to keep the hunting and trapping to themselves.

Well, if anyone was going to have a run in with Farrells, I guess it would have been Freddy. Yeah, he was a character. His ex-wife swears he did something bad to them, and that's why they attacked him. Who knows? Did Sadie tell you about the fingers? The fingers. Wayne went over to the workbench and took an old tin coffee can off of the shelf above it. He waved me over and took the lid off the can.

It looked to be full of dirty, clumpy salt, and there was a faint whiff of decay. Wayne took a screwdriver off the wall and dug around the salt. Two brown and shriveled objects rose to the top. They were about the size of large peanut. It's black and shriveled. 28 years ago, I was still trapping cats then. I just got up there to check the line when I heard the most god-awful scream. I know it wasn't no fox.

It was one of them. I get to the set and there's blood everywhere, but nothing in the trap. Right next to the trap, I find these two fingers and a man's tooth. The bastard got his hand in the trap and had to chew the last two knuckles off. The two objects could have been dried up pieces of human fingers, but they could have been dried apricots too. Wayne must have sensed my skepticism. All right, young man, I get it. Here, look at this.

He dumped a can out on the workbench. He took some needle-nosed pliers off the wall and picked one of the objects up. He held it under the light and leaned in to look. I could clearly see the yellowed shape of a ragged fingernail at one end of it. It smelled faintly of rot and dried meat. My stomach turned. Then Wayne sorted through the pile of salt and pulled something else out, holding it up for me to see.

Grasping the flyers were a gleaming white tooth. It looked like it could have been a human incisor. So I'll never go out there without a pistol. Yeah, I'll bring my pistol. Wayne oversaw me hooking a snow machine trailer up to my truck. I threw the pole sled into the bed and put his 22 rifle. in the back seat. We went back into the house and he showed me on the map where each of the 10 traps were on the coal lake loop. I showed him my handheld GPS unit, which he smirked at. I put a wait

point on the map for each of his traps and he begrudgingly admitted the unit might be useful. When I left, the snow had turned to heavy, wet sleet. I went back to my house on the other side of town and brewed a thermos of coffee and packed a lunch to bring along. I was getting to my cold weather gear when Sadie called. So how to go? Good, we chatted for a bit. I gave her the rundown on what he needed for me. If you didn't do this, he would have gone out there on his own.

He would never let his trap sit out there unattended. You're literally saving his feet. You know, I didn't think about it like that, but it's like I'm a hero or something. I think this is worth two potpies. Oh, don't push it, city boy. As I talked, I grabbed my lunchbox and thermos and headed out to the truck.

So he showed me. me the fingers. I could practically hear her palm hitting her face. Not the damn fingers. I swear he's not crazy. I mean, they do look like fingers and, well, the tooth. I got into my truck and started it. Yeah, I just can't. I mean, either he made fake fingers or all that shit about the ferrels is real. And I really can't go with either, you know? The wet snow had completely glazed over my windshield.

Yeah, well, I'm sitting in the truck. I want to get going before it refreezes out there. I'll call you when to get back? Sounds good, and thanks again. I guess I've got a pot pie to make. I headed out north from town on Levy Road, through the snow-covered canola and alfalfa fields that were sleeping the winter away.

As I came to the end of the valley, I pulled into the turnout where Norton Road climbed up into the mountain in the north woods. There was another truck with a snow machine trailer parked there. I fired up Wayne's snow machine and backed it off the trailer. I put Wayne's rifle into the, mounts on the front rack of the machine. Then I rigged up the toe sled behind the machine and put my lunch and thermos in it. I went back to the truck to grab my phone and GPS. As I was locking it,

I thought of my pistol. I had forgotten to get it from my house. I looked at what was rapidly turning from sleet to just plain freezing rain and thought about the hour would take me to go back and get it. I decided that I would make do with Wayne's 22 rifle and the ten rounds it carried. The snow machine easily traverse the snowy road. Judging from the tracks, it looked like the only other person out there was the driver of the other truck which I'd seen parked at the bottom. I reached the turn off for Cole Lake in about an hour and pulled out in front of the green metal gate that Wayne had mentioned. I poured a cup of coffee from the thermos and enjoyed the scenery for a moment. The stark white of snow and leafless birch contrasted sharply with a dark canopy of conifer trees.

Furboughs drooped towards the ground, laden with wet snow. Occasionally the sun, the snow on the limb would let go and fall to the ground, sending the branch springing back to the sky amidst a cloud of white powder. Sometimes this would set off a chain reaction to limbs being freed and it would sound like a large animal tromping through the wood. I felt the quiet of the forest pressed in on my eardrums. In winter was a bit of a quiet time in the north, but you could always count on the chickadees gossiping in the trees. However, there was no sign of the friendly little bird. I finished my coffee and put the thermos back in the toe sled. I unhooked the sled from the snow machine, then I took Wayne's rifle and slung it over my shoulder.

I dragged the tow sled around the gate and set off on Coal Lake Loop, pulling the sled behind me. It slid easily over the snow. I looked at the GPS and started looking for Wayne's first set. I came to the Y in the road where the road looped back on itself. I followed the road right, estimating that I should be coming down the other side of the Y in about an hour. As I neared the first waypoint on the GPS, I easily spotted the set. It looked like a wooden shoe box nailed to the trunk of a tree about four feet off the ground. A thick tree lamb ran up to the box from the ground at an angle that was not so steep that a male Martin couldn't climb up and get into the box.

Normally, the body grip trap would sit inside the open end of the box with bait in the rear. As the Martin moved into the box to get at the bait, the trap would spring closed on its body. It was an almost full-proof way to target Martins and eliminate trapping any other species. I didn't have a lot of experience trapping, but I knew how it worked. So I was surprised to find the trap hanging from the box and the bait completely removed. It wasn't impossible that a martin could spring a trap, somehow get out of it, then returned to the box, and remove the bait, but it had to be rare. I looked in the snow for any tracks, but there were none.

I shrugged and took the claw hammer from the sled. I popped out the single nail on the left side of the box, which held it to the tree. I tucked the trap in the box and put it in the sled, then sat out for the next one. I grew warm as I trekked along the snowy road. I could see blue sky through the trees above me, judging by the amount of melted snow dripping down off their limbs. It was a few degrees above freezing. Nice weather was good, but I knew that all the snow that melted in the day would freeze again as soon as the sunset. The thought of the steep ride down on my truck made me pick up the pace.

strangely, the next three traps were in the same condition as the first. As I was removing the fourth one from the tree, I thought I heard something scream from nearby. Between my beard scratching against my collar and the drops of melted snow wrapping on my hood, I couldn't hear very well. The noise echoed in my ears as a human scream, though. I held my breath and scanned the woods around me. Nothing moved. My heart started to get chumpy as I thought of Wayne's preserved.

fingers. Don't flip out now. After a few more moments of silence, I started dragging the sled along the road to the next side. The sled sounded incredibly loud to me, and I found myself constantly hearing things over its roar as I pulled it along. I stopped frequently, hearing just the tap of water on my hood and the dull booming of my heart. I had started to sweat, and each time I stopped, I felt chills crawling along my spine. The next set was missing. I could clearly see the bright, yellow scar and the bark of a small fir tree where the nail had been. I checked for tracks in the snow again, but yeah, found nothing. The sled began to roar along as I pulled it, and I thought I heard the scream again. The skin of the back of my neck bunched up and I became a statue. I realized that I was

holding my breath. I thought my eyes wander back and forth, searching the dimness of the woods for any movement, afraid to move my head for the noise it would create. I heard a branch crack, high up in the tree canopy behind me. I could hear snow crumped to the ground from the disturbed branch. I slowly turned to the waist, trying to get to where my eyes could see where the sound had come from. There, far above me in the crooked jumble of a leafless birch tree, I could see a small branch bouncing. It looked no different than a branch after a bird takes flight from it, but I hadn't seen a single bird on my track. I couldn't help but wonder if something was following me.

I looked down at the road behind me. There were just my prints from the boots in the sled. I decided that I was being silly, but that there was nothing wrong with hurrying along. I started up the road again, this time adopting almost a cross-country skiing movement, letting my momentum carry me sliding forward at the top of each step. I was panting and sweating when I reached the sixth set. It was laying beside the tree. The wooden box smashed.

I scooped the mess up and threw it into the sled and it kept going. I heard something thumped. the plastic sled behind me, and it rung out like a drum. As my feet skidded to a halt, I went down to my knees and swung the rifle up towards the trees behind me, but there was nothing. I looked at the sled. I counted six wooden boxes, five intact and the smashed one. I looked at my GPS and verified that I just left the location of the sixth trap. The fifth set had been missing. Now something had thrown the fifth set into my sleigh. My heart kicked into overdrive, and I saw it. I saw a started off as fast as I could in the direction of the next set. The sled was noisy and slowed me

quite a bit, but I still couldn't give over completely to the thought that some feral being was playing with me. I had to finish the job. I knew how blue-collar men were, and if I went back to town without all of Wayne's traps, I would never live it down. At least in my own head, I wouldn't. The seventh and eighth traps were intact with the bait missing. I got them both quickly into the shed and set out for the ninth. The loop of the road got close to Cole Lake, and I could see through the trees the large white expanse of the frozen water.

And the sun shone down on it, and I wanted so bad to be out of the dark woods on that ice where I could see if anything was coming after me. I forced my panic down and continued. The ninth set was smashed on the ground. All that was left was the smashed wood of the box and the metal body grip trap was missing. As I threw the smashed wood into the sled,

I heard the scream again. It sounded like it came from the trees right above my head. I looked up, shouldering my rifle, my eyes aching as they tried to see every angle. A massive birch loomed over me, but nothing moved. Then another ungodly scream echoed through the woods from the direction of the lake. And then another scream, louder and deeper, but from much further away. Whatever it was, there was more than one of them, and they were talking to each other. I tried to match the sound to anything I'd ever heard out there, came up with nothing.

Fear clawed at me and I felt incredibly exposed. I fired around from the rifle into a tree trunk, the sharp rapport bouncing off the trees. Come any closer and I'll kill you. My finger tightened on the trigger to let loose another warning shot, but I got a hold to myself. My ears rung in the silence. I spun around and jogged up the road. One left, one more, and I'm out of here.

I started to pant and sweat again as I trudged along, the sled following dutifully behind me. I couldn't help but glance fearfully behind me every few seconds. The GPS said I was close to the last set. I started looking around and then I saw it up ahead. I slid to a stop next to a little trail down the set and listened. All I could hear was my ragged breathing tearing through my chest. I stepped down to the set with a hammer and pried at the nail. Something crashed into the side of my head.

I threw my hands up and spun to the... There was nothing there. My ear got hot and my face started stinging. Yeah, my feet was the missing trap from the ninth set in its rusty chain. I held my gloved hand to my numb lips and it came away with a smear of blood. I got in one knee as I shouldered the rifle again. I waved it wildly back and forth, searching the trees for anything. There was nothing to shoot.

I felt a little more blood trickled down my face. I wrenched the tenth set off the trees and sprinted back up the road. I threw the ninth and tenth traps into the sled along with a hammer. amazed that I'd gotten every piece of Wayne's gear, even if some of it was smashed up. I grabbed the bridle with one hand and kept the rifle handy in the other. Scanning ahead of me for threats, I took off. It wasn't more than a few seconds later when I saw that I was coming up to the Y in the road, and I knew I was almost safe. As I rejoined my previous track, something stopped me dead.

I could clearly see the big prints that my snow boots had left. Right next to them was the wide continuous swath that the sled had left in the snow. And clearly on top of that swath, I saw prints in the snow, and I fought the urge to drop everything and flee. The tracks came in a line from the base of a nearby tree, meandered along my own tracks for a few feet, then disappeared at the base of another tree. The sight of those tracks has seared into my memory, and to this day I can see them like a picture of my mind. There were two distinct set of tracks, but I knew they'd come from the same creature. One was clearly left by bare human feet, but what almost pushed me over the edge was the second set.

Moving in unison with the footprints was a perfect set of prints from human hands, as though someone had been walking through the snow on old forests. And then I noticed something that shook me to my core. The impressions left in the snow by the right hand were missing. the first two fingers. My frantic journey back to my truck was a blur. I vaguely remember firing the rest of the rounds from the rifle blindly into the trees, but after that I have a few flashes of the snow machine ride,

frantically trying to look behind me to see if I was being followed. Somehow I didn't wreck and found myself at my truck. I calmed down and started to question myself. I felt like a fool. I had I just lost my mind and made the whole thing up. I hadn't taken any photos of anything. I loaded the snow machine on the trailer and started the truck for home. My phone rang as I drove back to Wayne's house.

I pulled over and answered. I looked closely in the rear view mirror at the dark, hulking mountains of the North Woods behind me. I let out an involuntary sigh, almost like I was about to cry. I swallowed hard. It was fine. I'm all done. Sink beneath the waves. We claw our way back onto dry land.

Join us again next time when we plunge into the chilling depths where water hides its darkest secrets. The No Sleep podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical scores are 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, Olly A. White, and Kristen Samito. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us, just visit sleepless.com to learn about the sleepless universe. Add free extended episodes each week

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