S23 Ep5: NoSleep Podcast S23E05

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WNSP.

You're listening to hour three of the darkness of the night, WNSP's overnight programming.

DC at the Mic

You know, when people find out I'm from the Cryptid Valley area, many are willing to share their own experiences with cryptid encounters.

A cousin of mine lives in Braxton County, West Virginia.

He told me he works with an older man who claims to have been one of the boys who saw the infamous Flatwoods monster back in 52.

The man was living near Flatwoods at the time, and one night, he and his friends said they encountered a tall, alien-like figure with a spade-shaped head and glowing eyes, surrounded by a foul-smelling mist.

Making this an even stranger sighting was the fact that the man said the kids had seen a bright light streak across the sky not long before they saw the creature.

Was this a cryptid sighting or an extraterrestrial visitor?

Or Or was it simply a misidentified owl or meteorological phenomenon?

Either way, the folks from that part of West Virginia still talk about this folklore to this day.

And I'm glad the Flatwoods monster has yet to be sighted here in Cryptid Valley.

Think about that while you listen to our regular segment here on the darkness of the night, an episode of 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 of the wild.

Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast.

Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast.

I'm your host, David Cummings.

Thanks for joining us for our creepy tales.

But you're not actually here, are you?

And we're not actually here together at the podcast.

Each episode is made possible by dozens of people from around the world contributing their piece of the the puzzle, and it all gets assembled into what you're listening to right now.

Yet, we talk in a way that makes it seem like we're all together in this same space performing for you, while you, our audience, gathers together to experience our show.

I guess it's just easier to think in terms like that.

But in reality, I'm in my basement recording this.

The audio productions are being worked on separately by our producers, and you're doing whatever you do at this moment, only to be listening to us days, if not weeks, later.

It's a form of virtual reality.

And these days, reality is virtual in so many different ways.

Maybe you're wearing your VR headset, playing games, or watching movies on a virtual huge screen.

Maybe you're wearing your cool shades around town and you're looking through a heads-up display that gives you augmented reality to the things around you.

Or maybe you've taken some sort of drug that expands or enhances or alters your mind, so your senses are experiencing things that aren't really there.

But you're experiencing them, so aren't they real?

I mean, what actually is reality if our minds and...

I fear I'm about to go down an existential rabbit hole.

Better cut this short to stay grounded.

Suffice it to say, we rely on our senses to show us the reality around us.

And we have to trust that what we see, hear, smell, feel, and taste is real, accurate, and basically true.

Because if you think about it, having to live in a manner where you can't trust your senses to be real, you know, to doubt everything you experience, well, I don't know about you, but that sounds like living in a nightmare.

And isn't it perfect that our stories this week feature people who are sensing things that aren't quite right?

Their confusion and discombobulation will bring us very entertaining and disturbing terror, virtually and quite literally.

So, we hope your sense of hearing is quite accurate as you listen.

We wouldn't want you to miss any of the audio horror awaiting you.

Now, tune in, turn on, and brace yourself for our sleepless tales.

In our first tale, we meet a group of young friends enjoying their summer off from school.

No longer confined to the classroom or homes, the kids take full advantage of their time off to play outside.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Connor Isaac, simply playing a classic outdoor kids game might seem innocent enough until the game takes a rather disturbing turn.

Performing this tale are Matthew Bradford and Alante Brequet.

So be careful of what you go looking for.

You might decide to say it's the last time I played hide-and-seek.

When I was 11, my parents started leaving me at home to watch my little brother, George, whenever they were out.

During the school year, this was on occasional Saturday nights when they had a date or some event to attend.

In the summer, it was from about 7 a.m.

until 5 p.m., Monday through Friday.

As a kid, all I wanted to do was play video games or read books.

But George was six years younger than me and at that age where he was equally curious, smart, and ignorant to the fact that his actions had consequences.

If I let him run free for even a few minutes, I'd find him eating ice cream straight out of the carton or trying to color on the TV screen.

And when he did one of those things and either got sick or or ruined the TV, guess who got grounded?

Not him.

So George required pretty much constant attention.

Meaning it was hard for me to find the time to do things that I enjoyed.

It was about halfway through the summer of 2017 when I found some relief to the curse of my little brother, hide and seek.

I'd suggested the game one day when George was complaining non-stop about how bored he was.

For the rest of the summer, it became my go-to game whenever I needed George to shut up.

Sometimes I even had fun.

Most of the times it gave me a few minutes away from him and a day filled with constant annoyances.

It was during the very last week of summer vacation that something happened that made me swear I would never play hide-and-seek again.

It was George's turn to hide, and I could hear him giggling in our shared bedroom upstairs.

I didn't need the sound.

I already knew all of his hiding places.

He'd already used the one where he hid behind my mom's clothes in the back of the closet, the one where he climbed under the sink in the bathroom, and the one where he squeezed into the space behind the couch.

I knew that he was going to be under the covers in the top bunk, but I didn't feel like finding him yet.

I thought about sitting down on the couch and reading for a few minutes before going to tag him.

I'd been hooked on the latest book in the Percy Jackson series, and Annabeth had just gotten kidnapped.

I really wanted to see if Percy could rescue her, but I knew that if George raced for the base, the dining room table adjacent to the living room, he would see me and start throwing a fit over the fact that I wasn't trying hard enough.

So I settled for walking around upstairs calling, I'm gonna find you, which resulted in muffled giggles as he kicked around the sheets and buried his head in the pillow.

I remember being so annoyed about how dumb that was.

I was biding my time, sitting on my parents' bed, when I heard a loud knock, knock, knock on the wall separating the two rooms.

My eyes immediately turned to the door where I could clearly see the stairs.

I hated to let George win, but I wasn't worried.

I knew that if I saw him cross the threshold towards the stairs, I was fast enough to chase him down and tag him before he got to base.

I was watching the stairs for about 15 seconds when I heard George's voice.

Save!

What?

I jogged down the stairs.

How?

I got to the dining room table to see George dancing in one place as he held one hand against the table.

I beat you.

I beat you.

You were just in her room.

How'd you get here?

I was in the pantry.

You weren't in our room at all?

I swear I heard you up there.

Did you really hide in the pantry?

I was in the pantry.

I knew you wouldn't check there.

But I know that I heard you.

I'm too tricky.

My turn to hide again.

I'll start counting to 30 Mississippi and no picking.

I decided to just believe him.

It seemed the house was always making some kind of weird noise and it wasn't like he was teleported downstairs.

I was definitely going to catch him the next round.

When I was finished counting, I checked every room downstairs, then worked my way upstairs calling, here I come and I'm going to get you, until I heard George giggle in our room.

This time I knew he was in there.

As I walked into the room, I heard kicking in the sheets on the top bunk.

I think I even saw them move a little.

Really, so predictable.

I had had one foot on the ladder when George darted out of the closet and out of our bedroom door.

I chased him on instinct and tagged him just as he was reaching the stairs.

It wasn't until then that I realized what had just happened.

While George was pouting about how it was no fair that I caught him, I walked back into the room.

Is someone there?

Nothing.

I have a gun, and I'll shoot you if you don't come out right now.

When whatever was under the sheets didn't listen, I walked up and stood on the edge of the bottom bunk so that I could grip both the blanket and sheets without climbing the ladder and getting too close.

I ripped everything off the bed as I jumped backwards and then screamed,

but nothing was there.

I thought about calling my dad and telling him that something was in the house.

But how many times had I woken him up in the middle of the night, sure that there was a monster under my bed?

Only to get yelled at when he checked to find nothing there.

Surely I was being ridiculous.

Everyone knows that monsters only come out at night.

We played for a little longer, and the more I got bored with the game, the more George seemed to love it.

His laughs only got louder, and his dances only got more ecstatic each time he managed to take me.

It seemed that, if it were up to George, we might play hide-and-go-seek for the rest of our lives.

Growing old as we counted Mississippi's that were never long enough.

I tried in vain several times to get him to do something else, watch TV or draw pictures, anything that would allow me some peace and quiet.

Eventually, I had a great idea.

A hiding spot where George would never find me.

A place where I could read my book uninterrupted, all while keeping him entertained.

Okay,

I said to George when it was my turn to hide.

Count to 30 Mississippis.

I have a really special hiding spot.

You'll never find me once I get there.

You can't go outside, and you can't lock doors, or go in the bathroom.

I won't.

I promised.

Now go count.

When he was counting...

30 Mississippi.

29 Mississippi.

I raced to my bed and grabbed my book.

Then ran out into the hallway under the attic.

I reached up and took the string with both hands.

Then, as quietly as I could, I pulled it until the door was opening and the stairs were coming down.

By the time I was halfway up the stairs, George was counting 25.

And by the time I gently shut the attic door behind me, he was calling, ready or not, here I come.

I tried my best to hold in laughter as George stomped around the house, opening doors and pulling open curtains.

I knew that he was never going to find me.

I mean, what kind of kid would go up to the attic?

It was a place where even adults only ventured once or twice a year and only when absolutely necessary.

It was a a place for darkness and monsters.

And even if George thought I was in the attic, he would never try to come up.

With a proud smile on my face, I opened my book and continued reading.

I knew that I'd have to come down eventually when George started crying or whatever, but in that moment, I was in pure bliss.

I had found my sanctuary.

Over the next 10 minutes or so, occasionally George would scream, under the bed, or, I'm coming.

I was just finishing another chapter of my book when there was a a loud thump thump thump against the attic door, like someone was hitting it with a blunt object.

My heart started beating so hard that I pressed both of my hands to my chest as if I could hold it in place.

I scooted backwards on my butt until I was pressed up against the stack of boxes, still less than an arm's length, if it was a long arm, away from the attic door.

There was no possible way that it could have been George.

I mean, There was no way he could have figured out that I was in the attic.

Even if he did, he wasn't near tall enough to knock on the door.

He'd most certainly have to jump just to reach the rope.

Maybe if he was standing on a chair while holding a broom, but no, I mean, that was ridiculous.

Something else was knocking on the attic door.

I found you.

It was George's voice.

Unmistakable.

What?

No way.

In the closet.

It was George's voice again, this time from much farther away.

I put a hand over my mouth while one stayed on my chest, desperate to contain every decibel of noise.

Maybe whatever it was would just leave.

I found

you.

Time to come out.

This time the voice was deeper.

Still George's, but it was like he was trying to imitate the pitch of a grown man.

I turned to my side as best I could in the small space, then used all my strength to push the boxes forward so that they were on top of the door.

If someone were to open it, the boxes would come crashing down and crush them.

I laid on my back and closed my eyes.

All I had to do was wait for mom and dad to get home and everything would be okay.

Then I heard a voice that shocked me to my core.

A voice that shocked me because it never should have been possible.

It was my voice.

Safe, George, you can come back now.

I beat you.

I should have screamed.

I should have done something, anything, to let George know that I had not beat him and that he could not come back.

I should have screamed as loud as I could for George to lock himself in the bathroom or not come out no matter what he heard, not until mom and dad got home.

But I didn't.

I only sat and listened, too worried about myself to think about the little kid.

barely five years old, my brother, who I was supposed to be protecting.

Dang it, how'd you beat me?

What I didn't think about when I put the boxes over the attic door was how hard they'd make it to get out of the attic quickly.

When George let out a sharp cry of pain and started frantically pushing the boxes away, my love and worry for him finally bringing me back to what was important.

It must have taken me 30 seconds to move the boxes, all while George was shouting.

There was a clatter of dining room chairs falling to the floor.

Finally a growl, loud and animalistic.

Then George was screaming the most piercing sound I'd ever heard.

By the time I got out of the attic, down the stairs, and into the dining room, they were gone.

George and whatever took them.

I ran to the back door to see that it was open.

In the distance, something was moving in the woods.

I couldn't make it out between the branches and the leaves, but it was making no effort to conceal itself.

I ran halfway out to the woods before I heard a mix of low growls and something like the tearing of leather.

I didn't go to check it out.

I turned around and walked back inside, then called my parents.

George was gone.

Something took him.

A monster.

Neither my parents nor the police believed me.

They said someone broke in.

A person, not a monster, ran off with George.

Our whole community came together to search for him, but I knew that he'd never be found.

After a while, I came to believe the police's story.

that it was just a man that could play tricks and he probably would have taken me too if I hadn't been in the attic.

And I believed that for a long time.

Until now, seven years later.

My parents are gone.

I'm home alone and it's nearing midnight.

My door is locked, but outside I can hear the voice of a little boy calling my name.

Come out!

I

found

you.

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You're alone, in police custody, and you're waiting to deal with the consequences of your actions.

Just like Louisa, and she's thinking about what she did.

And in this tale, shared with us by author Charlie Hughes, Louisa isn't feeling much remorse because in her mind, her actions were entirely justified.

Performing this tale are Ash Millman, Penny Scott Andrews, Erica Sanderson, and David Alt.

So remember, a person is more than what they appear, they're more than just faces.

She opens the door and smiles.

The guard in the corner stands as she enters, which is odd because she's not police or security.

I can tell.

There is a spark in her eye entirely absent from those peppering me with questions for the past few months.

Could be a doctor.

A shrink?

She unhooks the single button on her smart business jacket and sits down opposite.

A young, bright-eyed woman, friendly demeanor, just here for a chat.

It won't work.

I don't need to tell them anything.

Hello, Louisa.

My name is Dr.

Zoe Chadett.

I'm a consultant psychologist working with the police.

I've been asked to speak with you to see if we can find out more about your situation.

My situation?

Something about her is instantly likable.

She reminds me of Lizzie.

But I won't speak.

I just look down at the table, hardly even breathing, statuesque.

I'd like to ask you about what the police found in your house.

Is that okay?

She can ask all she likes.

She'll think I'm blanking her, but it's more than that.

I'll go to another place and won't hear a word.

I'll remember my work and feel only pride.

I see the ones who stay too long, who move among us on borrowed time.

There is no memory of a first time, no epiphany.

As a child, three or four years old, I saw them passing my nursery school or walking in the park near our London home, moving, talking, breathing just like everyone else, but marked out with disturbing clarity.

I recall asking Mother and the look of worry in her eyes.

What do you mean, Louisa?

What cuts?

What bruises?

The man with the dog.

His skin is rotten.

Mr.

Ostland?

Yes, he's a bad man.

His face is falling off.

Slowly, I realized these deathly masks were visible only to me.

When mother spoke to Mr.

Oslund in the butcher's, she talked about the weather, the price of pork chops, as if nothing in the world was wrong with him.

No ashen, sagging skin, no gaping pustular holes in his cheeks.

I did not see these faces all the time.

I could go weeks without spotting any.

And then mother would take me shopping on Oxford Street, and there they were.

A man behind us and the queue at John Lewis's, smiling, face drained of colour, soupy liquid dribbling from the corner of his two-wide mouth.

Or a baby in a pushchair waving a teddy at its father.

Its skin turned to papery grey.

Of course, it took years to understand the nature of my perceptions.

Hideous animated cadavers are one thing, but there was no explanation to fall back on.

Sometimes, when mother was unwell, sleeping upstairs, I would go down into the basement and draw secret pictures of them which I hid inside the big big freezer.

I wasn't supposed to open the big freezer.

Mother said it was off limits unless she was there with me, but I put the pictures inside anyway because she didn't come down to the basement anymore.

Once, when I was still very young, I came close to asking for help.

There was a kindly Sunday school teacher who could tell I was unhappy and withdrawn.

Mr.

Tucker told me corny jokes that were funny because they were so bad.

He took me aside one day, just before home time, and asked if everything everything was okay at home.

There was a lump in my throat, tears welling in my eyes.

This was the moment when I could finally unburden myself and tell someone about the dead people.

Mr.

Tucker would understand.

He would get me help.

I often wonder what would have become of me if I'd gotten the words out there and then.

But Mother arrived at just the right moment, and she snatched me away, giving him a withering look in the process.

I was taken to a different, more uncompromising church after that incident, and never saw Mr.

Tucker again.

Mother did not work, but we had resources, the money from father's life insurance, and, I discovered later, a generous endowment from his family.

When I turned 12, she sent me to a prep school near our home in Dulwich.

Cossetted as it was, the school eventually provided the education I needed.

There was a girl in my class called Lizzie.

We got on well, played hopscotch and skipping rope games in the playground.

Where others avoided me, wary of my quiet strangeness, Lizzie took me under her wing.

I was invited to her house for tea one Saturday, a special treat given mother's reluctance to let me out of her sight.

Lizzie's home life was different from mine.

There were posters on her bedroom wall for pop bands I wasn't allowed to listen to.

At the dinner table, her parents invited opinions and engaged with her ideas.

Until then, it had never occurred to me that I might challenge the views or instructions of my own mother.

But there was something wrong with Lizzie's heart, a defect.

She had told me about the hospital visits, the scans, the specialist who spoke gravely and secretly with her parents.

At the end of Whitsun term, Lizzie announced a prolonged leave of absence.

She would travel to America for an operation unavailable in the UK, carried out by the best in the field.

We, her classmates, made good luck cards and promised her a party when she returned, safe and well.

Months later, Lizzie did come back with predictable fanfare.

When she entered the school playground, the others crowded round, screeching with excitement, hugging her.

I hung back, silent, stunned.

Lizzie had turned rotten.

Sallow skin draped over sharp cheekbones like a leathery shroud.

Her eyes were cartoonish obscenities, bulging white orbs empty of life.

After a moment of shock, I collected collected myself and played along, feigning delight at Lizzie's return.

Later, I confected an argument and retreated from her company, thinking I could ignore her, just like all the others.

How wrong I was.

Louisa.

Louisa.

I was in the basement drawing my pictures, hiding from mother who was on the warpath about some imagined slight from my grandparents.

I turned around, looking for the speaker.

You won't find me out there, little one.

I'm tricky.

Where are you?

There was a creak from a floorboard above.

Speak softly, little one.

We don't want your mother to know.

Are you in my head?

In a manner of speaking, I'm everywhere.

By God?

Or Jesus?

Yes, that's better.

Much better.

The voice was male, adult, strangely familiar.

I have something to ask of you.

You know that girl?

Which girl?

The one with the rotten face.

I stayed silent, fearful now.

Do you know why she looks that way?

No.

She was supposed to die.

She had an operation.

The doctors saved her.

My voice was getting louder again, higher-pitched.

Did they?

Have you seen her face?

Do you think it's supposed to look like that?

It's only me who can see.

It's not real.

His voice became raspy, more insistent.

No,

you are special.

You see what was meant to be.

I don't understand.

God's plan, Louisa.

It is more than what is supposed to happen.

It is what must happen.

People who cheat death, people like Lizzie, they turn bad.

You can see it.

That is your gift.

But why me?

I don't want to see those horrible things.

Somebody has to, little one.

Or else who would help them?

Help them?

How am I supposed to help them?

Oh, it's so easy.

There's really nothing to it.

And so...

The voice told me what to do.

Two months later, we embarked on a school trip to Derbyshire, hiking from hostel to hostel across the Dales.

I had to beg mother to allow me to go.

She relented only out of sheer exhaustion from my demands.

Before we left, I wrote Lizzie a letter.

I expressed regret at my behavior and promised to be a true friend.

It worked.

She brought me back into her fold with fervor and relief.

For a few days, I played the part of chastened, attentive companion, holding back a need to vomit every time I looked at her deathly face.

Halfway through the final day of the trip, we hiked along a ridge near to the western edge of Buxton.

Our party of 20 girls and two teachers stretched out into smaller groups of twos and threes.

Lizzie and I walked at the very back, our boots squelching in the heavy clay mud, the track awash with three days of ceaseless rain.

As soon as I saw the rock jutting out from the ridge, like a balcony on a stately home, I knew it must be the place.

I moved over to the edge and cooed at the drop beneath.

Lizzie stopped and walked back to me.

I looked her full in the face.

It seemed melted now, gross, colourless skin beneath the droplets of rain which had evaded her hood.

Lizzie, I said.

She smiled, eyes bulging hideously.

Yes, Louisa?

She enunciated my name with comic formality, as if this were a jokey, light-hearted chat.

He told me to ask you.

He said it was important.

Who?

Ask me what?

Even beneath her death mask, I saw her expression change, a frown contorting her features.

What is it like?

What is what like?

Her weight shifted onto her right leg on the side of the precipice.

Death?

I don't know what you mean.

She realized then, her voice betraying a suspicion arriving milliseconds too late.

God wants it this way.

I grabbed the straps of her backpack, heavy with equipment and rain, shifting her off balance.

Once I had the momentum, there was nothing she could do.

I shoved hard.

Lizzie went over backwards, looking at me as she fell.

Her face was no longer that of a mouldering corpse.

This was the same vibrant, pink-cheeked girl I had met the year before.

I will never forget her expression.

There was a terror, undoubtedly.

Her eyes white and wide, her mouth forming to release a scream.

But there was something else in her eyes.

Confusion.

A question about her strange, quiet friend that would never be answered.

Mother was upstairs in bed, recovering from one of her episodes.

Her outbursts could be so ferocious, so violent, they left her spent of energy for weeks after.

I sat in the basement, doodling another picture, sat between the gardening tools and the big freezer.

Father's belongings were neatly packed around the perimeter of the room, boxes stacked from floor to ceiling.

The voice was always stronger down there.

Their faces always change back once their fate is sealed.

Nothing to worry about.

A job well done.

Really?

You're sure?

Sure.

You made things right.

That's your role in life.

Your mission.

His voice was deep and soft, reassuring.

What happens now?

Nothing.

You were careful, weren't you?

Nobody suspected.

I told them she fainted and fell, held her hands to her heart.

Clever girl.

That's it, though, isn't it?

I won't need to do it again.

For now, sure.

For now,

you can take it easy.

I was pleased, hearing what I wanted to hear.

To reward the voice, I finished off my picture, opened the freezer lid a a few inches, and posted my drawing through the gap.

University should have been my escape.

And for a while, it was.

Away from mother, away from the house, the voice was never so loud.

I was still discovering who I was, who I wanted to be.

Proximity with so many young, intelligent people, all asking the same questions, liberated me.

I came out of my shell, went to parties, even started seeing someone, a guy called Jonathan, who lived in my dorm.

To this day, he's the only person to make me laugh with a simple look, a raised eyebrow.

I smile now, secretly, just thinking about his stupid jokes, his sharp tongue, his obsession with third-rate rock bands.

My perspective was changing.

The idea I could do something rewarding, even enjoyable with my life seemed within reach.

I still saw the rotten people.

On campus, there were several regulars.

A grey-faced politics professor in the habit of visiting the student union bars on a Friday night, staring at girls young enough to be his granddaughter.

His nose hung off at a strange angle, held only by a tendon, and a cleaner missing the entire left side of her face, exposing flesh and bone.

These and others were an unwelcome reminder of my gift.

But so far from home, I no longer heard insistent demands to place them onto the true path.

Then the police called from home.

Mother had been arrested for wandering naked around Peckham Rye Park, screaming obscenities at anyone who looked twice at her.

She became violent with the officers who escorted her home and refused to talk to the social worker sent by the council.

They threatened to section her, take her to one of those hospitals that were more like prisons.

The only person she would talk to, it seemed, was me.

And even then, only in person.

I cancelled my date with Jonathan and caught the next train back to London.

When I got there, the speed of her descent was obvious.

Mother was skeletal and the house was a bombsite.

I stayed for a week, missed lectures and study groups, tidied the place up and secured reassurances from Mother that there would be no repeat.

I went back to my studies, but it was a short reprieve.

The next week, the police called again.

I returned home for good before the end of my first year.

Jonathan promised to call.

He never did.

It's easy to look upon my forced return as a tragedy, as potential and happiness crushed by family responsibility.

But over the years, I have had time to reassess.

We are all more than the sum of our desires.

And in real life, tragedy is never the end of the story.

It is possible that I am unique, that not a single other soul in the universe can see the Walking Dead.

The only one.

Perhaps ever.

Certainly there is no hint of others in the history books.

Trust me, I've searched.

And if, as the voice in the basement so often reminded me, God's will must never be denied, was it realistic that I would waltz through life eating, drinking, working, fucking my way to happiness?

No.

Personal contentedness is a modern, Faddish concept.

The requirement that the rightfully dead no longer walk among us is an indisputable necessity, as old as time.

So, I stopped being selfish and did my duty.

I cared for my mother, listened to the voice in the basement, and began to fulfil my true role in life.

Each night, after mother was fed, calmed and asleep, I fell into the habit of going for long walks.

South London is a sprawling, piggledy-piggled-y place which lends itself to random meanderings.

You could call my walks hunting, but that isn't how I thought about it at the time.

Once I spotted their rotten faces, I did my research, found out where they lived, and of course, consulted with the voice.

Methodically, carefully, and with absolute certainty in my cause, I killed them.

They came in all shapes and sizes.

The first was a wealthy banker, also a husband and father, whom I tempted back to the house with the promise of sex.

I laced his drink with morphine, let him pass out, laid him on plastic sheeting, and stabbed him through the heart with a kitchen knife.

Mother, sleeping upstairs, never stirred.

Others were easier, less risky.

An elderly woman with emphysema, living alone in Dulwich, used an oxygen mask strapped to a canister to keep her alive.

I entered the home under false pretences, yanked the mask off her disgusting face, and stood watching as she gasped for air.

She was dead within minutes.

There was a nurse in Wandsworth, a security consultant in Forest Hill, a student in Newcross.

Sometimes the memory of their faces blur into one continuous whole.

There were so many.

I once followed a lawyer from Crofton Park to a packed platform at Charing Cross Underground Station and pushed him in front of a tube train.

Using mother's car, I did a hit and run in Lewisham.

Closer to home, in Peckham, I laced an alcoholic's final can of special brew with arsenic.

The randomness of my methods prevented any serial killer panic, and the voice advised me on each occasion, providing a method and a plan for escape which kept me safe to continue my work.

For 12 years I searched for them.

I cannot tell you how many I placed back onto the true path, but it was enough.

By the time mother passed away a few years ago, there were no more to find.

I went walking for the final time on the day of her funeral, and have not seen another since.

I have had three years of peace since then, and would have gone to my grave in total anonymity were it not for a fox digging up the femur of that banker.

That one bone led to my garden and all the others I'd been forced to keep close.

A fraction of the total, but enough to cause a storm in the media.

To them, I'm a monster.

They will never appreciate my true purpose.

I could complain about bad luck, but God has a plan for everyone.

Even I must submit.

I've been questioned and poked and prodded.

Eventually, they took me out of the jail and placed me in this secure unit.

Kept me in solitary.

Two weeks of questions, and I have not uttered a word.

This doctor has been talking for so long, but only now does it break through.

You did a good job hiding the door to the basement, didn't you, Louisa?

I'm not sure why this question has breached my defenses.

I glance up from the table.

Dr.

Zoe Chadwick is pleased to get a reaction.

You had builders brick it up and decorators cover it over.

The police only found it because the plasterer came forward.

He recognized your face from the news.

I'm staring at her, aware of a rising tide of hatred moving up through my body.

The heat of it makes my neck and face glow.

I don't want to talk about the basement.

We found him

in the freezer.

There's a pen on the table next to her notebook.

I could reach across and stab her with it.

That would make the words stop.

The officer in the corner of the room has stood up again.

It's like he can read my thoughts.

Instead, I clear my throat and take a sip of water from the plastic cup.

You didn't kill your father, did you?

We checked.

A heart attack in hospital, 1992.

No suggestion of foul play.

Finally, I speak.

My father was a good man.

She exhales, relieved to have something.

A few words.

Yes.

Why was his body in the freezer?

What?

My father was in the freezer.

I have a theory.

I'd like to run it past you.

Your mother put him there, didn't she?

He was supposed to be cremated, but somehow she kept him.

A network of red and black lines is breaking down inside my head.

Structures I hardly knew were there are being dismantled.

The sensation is physical, like ice cracking.

You saw him, didn't you?

As a child.

There are pictures, drawn with a child's hand.

So many pictures.

Faces.

Dead faces.

Something is pouring out of me.

My body is shaking, convulsing.

I cover my face with my hands.

Between heaving sobs, I manage to form words.

She said it would be good for me

to talk to him.

You were three years old, Louisa.

Your mother made you speak to your dead father.

I wrap my arms around my legs, resting my head on the lip of the table, crying, shaking.

How can I tell her about the faces?

About father's voice telling me to do those things.

I look up.

The doctor is tilting her head, biting her lower lip.

She thinks she understands now.

She wants to empathize, to make me feel better.

But she can't see my reflection in the dark glass at the back of the room.

Can't see my face.

Can't see what I can see.

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Ah, kids, these days.

If there's one thing that seems to distinguish the younger and older generations these days, it's whether or not you have fond memories of time spent hanging out at the local mall.

The stores, the food courts, maybe the movie theater.

Either you loved those youthful days, or you think of a mall as merely a place to pick up something on sale and grab a Cinnabon.

But in this tale, Shared with us by author C.B.

Jones, the image of an old abandoned mall evokes memories from the past, and the mall isn't the only thing seemingly haunted by ghosts.

Performing this tale is Mike Delgadio.

So, as more and more malls fade to memories, hold on to the good times you spent there before the upcoming demolition date.

The city is in ruins, the horizon a jagged mountain range of twisted molten steel jutting from foothills of smoldering concrete.

Ash-coated survivors scatter like ants, while godlike beings clash, explosions and laser beams erupting from their fists.

Everything's so blurry and hazy that, at first, you think the smoke is in your eyes.

But soon you realize you're not here amongst the rubble.

This isn't happening right here, or right now, or anywhere, for that matter.

These astonishing images are dancing on a large screen in front of you.

You're in a dark room, waking up.

The rest of your senses follow suit.

There's the faint smell of...

Popcorn and mildewed upholstery.

A stiff chair back numbs the base of your spine.

The soles of your feet are glued to syrup-sticky floors.

A bombastic soundtrack fills your ears as the camera sweeps through the action.

You've fallen asleep in a movie theater.

One that's playing the latest superhero sensation.

Seems like that's all Hollywood makes these days.

You can't stand these things.

But wait.

That's not right.

You actually love these movies.

In fact, you try your best to see every single one on opening weekend.

This one, though, you don't recognize.

And you're trying to remember how you got here, who you came with,

where they are.

Seems like they've left.

Along with everyone else, too.

The theater is empty.

This place, though,

it's so familiar.

Nostalgia-inducing.

You can't help but think of your first kiss.

How it happened in a place like this.

The auditorium with the row of broken seats and a tearnet screen.

Both of you had braces, and you couldn't help but worry about how that was going to work.

If the wires would complicate things.

Remembering a scene from a sitcom where two French kissers' mouths got stuck together.

Awkward fumbling led to soft kisses.

Lips slick, tongue in your mouth, breathing in that familiar scent when you laid your head on a warm shoulder.

You remember tracing fingers up an inner thigh, hearing breath quicken.

Feeling the squirm in the seat beside you.

They were a little older than you, more experienced, and you didn't really understand the attraction to someone like you.

But here you both were.

Maybe you were appealing in your puppy dog devotion.

How you acted so grateful, just happy to be here at all.

When you kissed, lips soft enough to sink into, And you felt yourself getting carried away, sliding your hand under fabric, palm meeting warm skin.

Maybe

you think that's how it happened at least.

Or how you heard it.

Maybe someone else's story perhaps?

These memories pass by in a hazy blur.

You rub your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to focus on the present.

whatever that is.

Rising from your seat, your knees pop and your unsteady legs buckle.

Your feet crackle as they break from their high fructose bonds.

Grogginess enshrouds you.

Your peripheral sensations dulled.

A hearty yawn escapes your core.

One of those full-body ones.

The ones that make you stretch your stomach muscles to their limit.

How long have you been out?

Where is everybody?

One last glance back at the screen.

The always triumphant heroes standing together in front of a wake of necessary destruction, while a rousing musical queue lifts their heads high.

You push through the exit door and out into a dimly lit hallway.

Galaxy-patterned carpet beneath your feet.

Overflowing trash cans sit next to doors of other auditoriums.

An eerie quiet fills the air.

You can't even hear the noise from the other movies that should be playing now.

No soundtracks.

No deep bass rumbles.

Nothing.

Not even from the theater you just exited.

Black checkered tiles and neon light accents greet you in the lobby.

A counter supported by a row of backlit glass bricks.

An unmanned concession stand.

Nothing left but the dregs of half-popped kernels in the popcorn machine and dust on the Formica countertop.

It feels strange to call out into all this emptiness, so you don't.

What if someone is looking for you?

You don't know where the thought comes from, but there it is.

This feeling that you're being followed.

Hunted even.

Just before you shuffle out of the movie theater, you think you hear whispering from down the hall behind you.

You look back for the source.

The lights are shutting off.

Some sort of timer, yeah?

Closing time.

Something tells you to keep moving.

You're in a mall.

The second story.

A night sky reveals itself in the skylights above.

A shuttered Macy's is to your left.

A paper sign reads, this space available, with a phone number listed below.

On either side of the wide corridor lie closed storefronts, their signs still illuminated.

LA Nails, Nine West Shoes, Bilde Bear, Claire's.

You step out onto the empty landing.

Potted ficuses droop.

Their shed leaves strewn about the bases of cylindrical planters.

There's no exit up here.

You have to move move along.

You pass empty benches, empty stores, empty kiosks,

empty space.

You are alone.

Overhead, a muzak tune reverberates through all of that emptiness.

It's a familiar song.

You try to figure it out through its soft jazz disguise.

It hits you by the time the chorus rolls around.

Faithfully, by Journey.

One of your favorite songs.

No,

get it straight.

It's one of your dad's favorites.

You remember how he'd mime holding a cigarette lighter in his fist while the power ballad would play on the radio?

How he'd always explain to you that this is the way they did it at concerts when he was young, when the slow songs came on.

This was before he'd segue into the air guitar solo.

Your mom, she'd be in the background, smiling and shaking her head at this performance.

This joke he thinks never gets old.

You can remember all this, yeah.

But somehow, you can't remember their faces.

The sound of a car door chime rattles you with the ferocity of a tornado siren.

It beeps several times, echoing through the desolate mall.

Lightning strobes through the skylights like a photographer's flashbulb.

There is no thunder that follows.

The alarms fade.

The reverberations of muzak roll on while afterimages of red numbers glint behind your eyelids.

Despite the paranoid voice in the back of your head telling you to keep quiet and not draw attention to yourself, You call out into the vast emptiness of the seemingly abandoned mall.

If someone is following you, they're going to find you sooner or later.

It seems inevitable.

Hello?

Your voice is timid and androgynous.

Does it always sound this way?

So scared and frail?

You come to the startling realization that you don't even remember what it's supposed to sound like.

The thought unnerves you so much you say nothing else.

As if this empty mall wasn't weird enough, it's after you've walked around a bit that you've noticed something odd about the advertisements here, the giant banner displays.

When the ad calls for a woman, it's the same lady's picture on all of them, modeling denim at Express.

The soft lips of her smile painted red at Sephora.

Wearing nothing but her underwear and laughing coquettishly outside Victoria's secret.

When a man is needed, it's always the same guy.

A man with a lightly stubbled jaw, kind eyes, and a hesitant smile.

It's not the perfect straight white teeth of a supermodel smile, but it's a nice smile.

In one advertisement, This man and woman wearing khakis and sweaters from the gap lean happily into each other.

It It fills you with intense longing.

You don't even know who you are, but both of their photos evoke the same yearning,

a warmth you can't quantify.

Near the food court, you detect the pleasant intermingling of smells taking you back.

Teriyaki and the sweet smell of baked dough.

pretzels and cookies.

The scent of basil and oregano and garlic from the sabarrows.

They say that out of the five senses, smell is the most evocative, and you have images of an impromptu lunch here with someone new and exciting, something like an unofficial first date, where it all began.

But there you go, getting all mixed up again.

Because you aren't sure where these memories even come from, or why you're on the outside of them, looking in.

Even with the smells, though, everything's abandoned.

You think you hear laughter, the din of a crowd.

But no, it's a whisper on the wind, just like the pleasant odors.

How long can a smell linger?

How long can a ghost, for that matter?

Are you a ghost?

Is this what it's like to haunt a place, catching faint faint wisps of the living?

The remnants of their smells and sounds?

The thought seems preposterous.

Could a ghost do this?

You kick one of the food court chairs and it clatters across the floor.

You toss a napkin dispenser across the room.

Still,

you wonder if somewhere in the land of the living, A bunch of shoppers just witnessed a poltergeist.

You continue on.

You need to get to the first floor.

Find the exit.

Get the hell out of here.

The food court sits just off a large atrium, overlooking an open space bordered by benches and planter beds filled with shrubs and shade-tolerant plants.

There's the squeaky gerbil-wheel rattle of the escalator.

You take it down to the open area.

Exit.

Exit.

Exit.

It's all you can think of.

Above the escalator hangs a large sign that reads, Become an organ donor today.

And the smooth jazz music has transitioned to another familiar tune.

You feel a dropping in your guts.

The sensation of your stomach plummeting down to your toes.

Your hands are slippery on the escalator guardrail, slick with sweat.

Your mouth goes dry.

You feel the urge to dash down the moving escalator two steps at a time, but you're rooted in place.

It's only after the moving stairs flatten out and usher you to the fixed floor that your legs start working again.

At the bottom, several yards away from you, a freestanding mall directory displays a sign.

that reads,

Are you figuring it out yet?

And that cursed song keeps playing, and you don't know why this soft rock staple is making you feel this way.

You can't even remember the words or what it's called, but your heart is racing, and you don't feel good about any of this.

And that sign on the display feels like it's mocking you, and you just want to get out of here, but you don't know where you're going.

And behind you, the escalator shuts off, and more lights dim.

This whole place dying in real time,

while a trapped scream dies in your throat.

You pass a window display of mannequins.

Two adults overlooking a child-sized mannequin in a bed.

Their arms behind their backs, blank faces tilted in concern.

The mannequin child draws the covers up to its plastic chin.

Slowly, one one of the adult mannequins slides its arm around, places its hand on the child, and if it wasn't time to leave before, it sure as hell is now.

All three heads turn and watch you pass.

You're running now.

Concentrate.

Concentrate.

It's coming back.

This section of the mall, the memories.

There will be a GNC on your right, a bath and bodyworks on your left.

Another clearing is coming up.

And that's where you see it.

The artifact of amusement that brings it all crashing back.

By the time they brought you here, most of these stores were no longer open.

The movie theater was hanging on by a thread.

Your dad, he couldn't get enough of this place and its dated aesthetic.

Besides, the popcorn was cheaper here.

There were fewer crowds.

So many superhero movies seen here, or damn superhero movies, as he'd say.

Mom, she'd come sometimes.

She never got the appeal, the attachment to a shopping mall, of all places.

Even if she had fond memories of it, All this nostalgia did nothing for her.

But Dad?

He was different.

But, Dad, who's that?

You can hear him saying it right now, clear as day.

He was prone to always looking back, dwelling on the past.

Now,

you suddenly realize that's all you have.

The past.

You're like one of your dad's jokes, how neither of you will ever get old.

Because coming up in this second atrium is the thing that ties it all together.

What you're doing here.

Who you are.

Because now you know.

You are a ghost.

You are haunting this mall.

This is what it's like to die.

You simply haunt your favorite place.

When the malls started dying, The management group looked for ways to utilize any space they could.

A model railroad group took up residence in an empty Walden Books.

A table tennis club appeared in another vacant store.

A glow-in-the-dark putt-putt course used to haunt the corner, always empty.

There was a store that sold katanas and broadswords and snakes.

And right here, in this big open atrium, because why not?

is a carousel.

Lights on and with calliope music playing, it spins around and around.

Dolphins and tigers and elephants and unicorns and horses make never-ending laps, shimmying up and down their poles.

Your mom and dad would let you ride just about every time.

It was only a couple of bucks, a bored teenager manning the controls.

How this venture could ever survive was beyond you.

But that wasn't your problem.

You seldom seldom went to the fair, never went to carnivals or circuses.

This is the carousel of your memories.

It brings you peace.

The fear and urgency are gone.

On your way over to the carousel, you pass one last banner.

It's emblazoned over the glass of a storefront.

An ad for the Make-A-Wish Foundation.

The man and woman from the ads throughout the mall point to something off in the distance, feigned awe in their eyes.

Standing between them is an emaciated child wearing a superhero cape.

But the face is blank and washed out.

You lean in closer to get a better look at the child, realizing the face has been rubbed off to reveal the reflective glass underneath.

Your face looks back.

Are you figuring it out yet?

And now you know what that song is, why it upset you so.

You know he probably hummed it to you, counted your breaths, shared tears with your mom as she stroked your forehead.

The man and the woman from all the advertisements?

Mom and dad.

The song is a sad tune about a dad missing his dead child, wondering if his kid will still remember his name.

You think,

well about that, I might be iffy on the first name.

Is dad good enough?

You were old enough to miss out on your first middle school dance.

Try as you might, you just felt too sick to go.

Didn't want everyone to see you in this pitiful state.

Even though you knew they were all pulling for you.

You were kinda, maybe sorta interested in the opposite sex.

Before you got sick enough to miss school all the time, there was someone in your class you always hoped to sit by.

And you wondered what kissing was like.

You asked your parents about all those firsts you knew in your heart of hearts that you would never get to experience.

First cars.

First jobs.

First kisses.

Incidentally, both the first jobs and the first kisses had occurred at this very mall.

It's where they met after all.

Even though the kisses involved different people at different times in their lives.

On one of the last days you felt healthy enough to do anything, you came for one final visit.

Your mom asked you if you were sure that that was what you wanted to do.

You said yes.

You wanted to ride the carousel, see the model trains, see if the movie theater was still open.

You pulled up in your dad's car on a gray February day, circled the empty parking lot.

Even though the evidence was clear, the three of you tugged on the locked doors of the south entrance.

The mall was closed.

The place was set to be demolished next month, your dad said, reading an article on his phone.

Developed into something else.

Bits of remaining debris to form the foundation of the next thing to be built here.

Everything changes.

Everything has a part of something else in it.

Now,

you're back here.

Haunting it.

But that's still not right, you think, sidling up to the moving carousel.

Your dad wasn't humming that song to you in the past.

He's humming it to you right now

as you lie in a hospital bed close to the end.

Because

you're not a ghost haunting this mall.

You are the mall.

This is the architecture of your mind

and it's shutting down.

The north wing has blackened and closed.

The south wing, it's next.

You've simply retreated to the core of this place.

The core of what's left of your memories.

Nothing to do now,

but wait for closing time.

You step onto the carousel and straddle a lion.

Grip the pole embedded in his back.

Ride up and down.

Up and down.

You rode between them, mom on one side and dad on the other.

And it felt like nothing, not even time, could ever catch you.

Like you could be in this loop forever.

And right now you think that's what you'll do.

You loosen your grip from the brass pole, hold them out free at your side.

Feel their hands in yours.

Hear the alarm bells echo throughout the mall.

The sound of the vitals monitor ringing out until the nurse silences it.

Around you, the lights dim and the shadows encroach.

Neon signs flicker and buzz before fading to black.

Soon, The only lights left are the rows and rows of exposed carousel bulbs, casting your face in a warm amber glow.

Next, the animals wear distorted faces.

A tiger's bared lips and black gums slowly melt to the floor.

A dolphin's fiberglass snout goes all rubbery, bending downwards.

The glittery white paint of a unicorn sweats away, oozing down its haunches.

Light bulbs pop like fireworks, glass and sparks flying.

Calliope music drowns out everything,

except your dad's voice in your ear, him singing a tearful, whispered rendition of tears in heaven.

And now...

Your mom is telling you she loves you, and you're holding both their hands tight.

Holding with all you have

as you ride around

for one

last

lap.

Our tales may be 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 Michulski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornette, and Claudius Moore.

Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McInelly, Ollie A.

White, and Kristen Samito.

To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us, just visit sleepless.thenosleeppodcast.com to learn about the sleepless sanctuary.

Add free extended episodes each week and lots of bonus content for the dark hours, all 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 without the written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc.

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