S22 Ep23: NoSleep Podcast S22E23

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They're calling.

The phone is ringing.

A message from an unknown caller.

A voice unrecognizable

audio messages from the shadows

But one message is clear

and it says

brace yourself for the no sleep podcast

Come one, come all.

See our array of freaks and oddities, prepared to be terrified and amazed.

The Cyclone Sisters' traveling circus of wonders in town for one night only must be seen to be believed.

Welcome to your final destination at the No Sleep Podcast.

I'm your host, David Cummings.

And no, I'm not suggesting that you're going to die in a horrible logging truck accident.

Not yet, anyway.

No, I'm referring to the time of year when people consider doing some traveling, often with their families.

And I'm sure some of us can relate to the horror inherent in traveling with family members.

But it can't be all bad, can it?

If you've ever traveled in a car or a plane with your family, you might have fond memories of those adventures.

Or you might be like the people we'll meet on this episode.

People who discover that family and travel don't land you in the happiest place on earth.

And since we're speaking about family members traveling, I want to let you know about a new audio project that has launched a Kickstarter campaign.

And some of the cast of that show are members of our sleepless family who have traveled over there to share their talents.

From the creators of The Grotto and The Seller Letters, Redacted is an upcoming procedural horror audio drama following Jacob Kane's descent into a treacherous web of paranormal forces, secret agendas, and moral compromise.

This multi-season Monster of the Week series blends procedural horror with sharp humor, all wrapped in a nostalgic 2000s aesthetic.

Each episode follows Jacob as he struggles to maintain his deception while the team tackles a new paranormal threat.

The show is set to come out in October.

To learn more about this exciting new project, check the show notes for a link to the Kickstarter campaign.

But be quick about it before it gets redacted.

And so, let's hit the road and find where adventure will take us.

Just make sure you stay safe out there.

Plenty of gas, snacks, and fully charged phones, right?

Because your phones might start ringing.

Now, do you dare pick up your phone and listen to the voices calling to you?

In our first tale, we join a family as they stop for some gas in a rustic mountain town.

Only the people working at the gas station are making the family uncomfortable.

And in this tale, shared with us by author M.

C.

Shale, The father wants to get back on the road as soon as possible, and his family just wants to feel safe.

Performing this tale with me are Dan Zapula, Jesse Cornette, Aaron Lillis, and Sarah Thomas.

So don't worry, I'm sure everything will be all right when a happy family goes into the woods.

Ted and his family, running on fumes, pulled into the old filling station on the side of the dirt road.

There, a tall hillbilly in saggy overalls stood waiting by two corroded gas pumps.

The rusted sign beside him read, Full service.

Eyeing the man, Ted tossed his hunting knife up on the dash as a warning,

then turned to his wife and daughter.

Keep the doors locked.

As Ted rolled down the window,

the hillbilly leaned over and whistled.

Mighty fine automobile.

He grinned yellow, his breath reeking of rot and tobacco.

Fiddle her up.

Yep.

Lucky dokey.

Name's Clyde.

Ted popped the cap.

Thanks.

The station building was little more than a dusty windowed shack the Appalachian woodlands seemed eager to reclaim.

Nailed to the exterior was an eerie variety of license plates.

Virginia, New York, Kentucky, Georgia.

On the porch, more hillbillies rocked in rickety chairs.

A big fella got up and ducked inside.

The rusty pump nozzles scraped into the car.

Sure is Bertie.

Sorry?

Well, your daughter.

How old?

Ted glanced in the rearview mirror.

In the back seat, his daughter was doing her best to avoid eye contact.

She's 11?

Clyde spat a brown glob into the dirt and grinned.

Reckon she'll grow into a real beautiful woman.

The mechanical counter on the pump couldn't go fast enough.

Out here, even the machines were stuck in history.

No respect for the passage of time.

$40.

$41.

$42.

Ted flinched as a torrent of soapy water splashed across the windshield.

It was the big hillbilly from the porch who set down a bucket.

and began scrubbing the glass,

working the rag in circular strokes.

He peered into the car and gave a gummy, cross-eyed smile.

I don't mind, Lonnie.

Good lad, hard worker.

Besides, your windows got skeeter guts all over.

Ain't that right, Lon

Lonnie?

He hawed and squeegeed enthusiastically.

Don't give many outsiders

Clyde pointed towards the back of the station wagon, stuffed with baggage and a lumpy blue tarp

Y'all uh camping

staying at a friend's cabin.

Ah, you don't say.

Well, that'll be sixty two forty-five

Ted handed him the cash.

Keep the change.

Much appreciated.

Yeah, I'll take care now.

Folks go missing around these parts sometimes.

Don't let the little one stray too far.

I won't let her out of my sight.

As he pulled back onto the mountain road, Ted laughed.

Oh, fucking inbred freaks.

His wife dared to speak.

Where are you taking us?

Like I said, cabin in the woods.

Please, please just let us go.

Don't talk like that, wife.

But

Ted jerked his thumb back at the mutilated body under the tarp.

Want to join your ex?

Say one more word.

That shut her up.

We're a happy family now, right, daughter?

The girl in the back seat nodded, terrified.

Say yes, dad.

Yes,

Dad.

Ted smiled.

That's better.

He always wanted to be a father.

Ted and his family drove around a bend

and disappeared.

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If you've gone on a long road trip, you know what it's like.

You're hungry, but you don't want to waste time pulling far off the the highway.

So that leaves you nothing but fast food options.

And in this tale, shared with us by author K.G.

Lewis, we meet a couple who decide to eat at a place that offers, well, let's just say, not so happy meals.

Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson, Catabelle Ansari, Graham Rowett, and Matthew Bradford.

So don't worry, no copyright infringement takes place here because you're only going to Mickey D's.

I'm hungry.

Samantha was sitting in the passenger seat, staring at me with an apologetic look in her eyes.

I knew this was gonna happen.

That is why I told you to eat something before we left.

I'd warned her that the route we were taking to my parents' house was through a lot of small rural towns, and nothing was likely going to be open because of how late we were driving.

I would have preferred to have left earlier, but I couldn't get anyone to take my shift at the grocery store.

You know, but I wasn't hungry then.

I hooked my thumb over my shoulder.

There's some chips and granola bars in that plastic bag in the back seat.

I always packed a bag of snacks whenever I went on a road trip.

I'd picked up the habit from my mom, who didn't like stopping to eat while we were traveling.

I don't want junk food.

I want real food, like a cheeseburger.

I don't think cheeseburgers qualify as real food.

They do to me.

It's only two more hours until we get to my parents' house.

If you can wait until then, there's a Denny's right up the road from their place.

I don't think I can wait.

You might not have a choice.

She pulled down her phone.

Okay, what's the next town we're gonna pass through?

Salt Mill.

Why?

I'm gonna see if I can find something to eat there.

Salt Mill was a small farming town.

I doubted she was gonna find anything open this late, but I didn't tell her that.

She would soon find out herself.

I heard her sigh in frustration a few moments later.

That's annoying.

Couldn't find anything?

No, I I can't even search.

I don't have any service out here.

That was another problem with driving through the country.

Cell service was spotty.

Look, it's only about 20 miles to Salt Mill.

We'll be there soon.

Hopefully we can find something for you.

Samantha's stomach growled in response.

Hopefully.

That's Salt Mill.

I pointed at the lights in the distance.

Keep your eyes open.

Let me know if you see anything.

I didn't expect Samantha to find anything.

I was just trying to be nice.

Hoping she'd figure it out on her own and just eat some snacks until we got to my parents' house.

That's it?

It looks so tiny.

It just looks small because everything's closed for the night.

If we'd gotten here a few hours earlier, there'd be a lot more lights on.

It's actually a decent-sized town.

It's only 11 o'clock.

Why does everything close so early around here?

Most of the people who live here are farmers.

They tend to start their days a lot earlier than the rest of us.

I assume that means they also go to bed earlier.

There's no sense in businesses staying open late if all their customers are asleep.

I'd hate to live in a town like this.

Having lived in small towns most of my life, I didn't share her sentiment.

But I wasn't going to argue the point with her.

Samantha didn't say anything else until we reached the center of town.

What's that?

She pointed down one of the side streets.

What's what?

I looked in the indicated direction, but couldn't tell what Samantha was pointing at.

That sign, it looks like a McDonald's.

See the two arches over that building?

Are you sure?

I thought the McDonald's arches were supposed to be yellow.

The two arches visible above the building were red.

Let's go find out.

When the restaurant came into view, it was clear that it was not a McDonald's, but obviously had been at one point before the new owners redecorated it.

Samantha read the name on the sign beneath the red arches.

Mickey Dee's.

Looks like a knockoff.

With that name, they weren't even trying to hide it.

I don't care.

She pointed at the neon open sign hanging in the window.

That's the only thing that I care about.

It doesn't look open.

The restaurant appeared empty.

I could see the dining area and front counter through the window, but I didn't see anybody inside.

Maybe they forgot to turn off the sign before they left for the night.

Maybe, but I doubt they'd forget to take their cars with them.

She looked over at the four cars parked on the opposite side of the parking lot from the restaurant.

Let's go inside and find out.

Go inside?

Why do you want to go inside when we can could just go through the drive-through?

We were already going to be getting to my parents' house later than I wanted to, and I didn't want us to be any later than necessary.

Because I have to pee.

After I pulled into the nearest parking spot, I turned to Samantha and said,

I'm not really hungry, so I'm just going to stay here and wait for you.

You're seriously going to make me go inside myself?

I guess not.

I turned off the car.

We got out and approached the door.

When I reached for the handle, a part of me hoped it would be locked so we can get back in the car and leave.

Samantha smiled when she saw that the door opened without resistance.

Looks like they're open.

She rushed inside and hurried across the dining room to the women's room to go pee.

As I stepped into the restaurant, a teenage boy came running out of the men's room.

Don't shut the door.

He held out his arm as if he could prevent it from happening.

By the time I turned around, it was too late.

The doors were already shut.

The teenager, whose name tag identified him as Brent, ran up and started pushing on the door.

Frustrated that he couldn't get it open, he turned around and threw his arms into the air.

Great, now we're all stuck here.

What?

It shouldn't be locked.

I brushed past Brent and pushed against the door, trying to open it.

But it wouldn't budge.

Brent opened his mouth to say something, but stopped when he heard a clatter from the kitchen.

He suddenly looked frightened.

Hide.

He ran back to the men's room as Samantha was coming out of the women's room.

Once he was inside, he locked the door, changing the colored indicator on the outside of the lock from available to occupied.

Uh, what the heck is his problem?

I shrugged.

I have no idea, but it seems to have something to do with the doors being locked.

What do you mean they're locked?

We wouldn't have been able to come inside if they were locked.

She walked over and tested the doors herself.

That's weird.

Welcome to Mickey D's.

How can I help you?

I turned to address the man who had spoken.

Well, for starters, you can unlock.

But it wasn't a man.

It was.

a creature of some sort.

Seeing it standing there behind the counter made me forget the rest of what I was going to say.

The creature stood seven feet tall, and it was wearing a blood-stained fast-food uniform.

The name tag pinned to its shirt said its name was Mickey.

Its hairless skin was dark brown and wrinkled like overcooked meat.

On top of its bald head were two curved horns.

What the hell was that?

Samantha clutched my arm, moving to stand behind me.

I'm afraid I can't unknown the doors.

Mickey smiled, showing his pointy yellow teeth.

Not until the end of my shift.

When's that?

Mickey turned to look at the clock on the wall beside him.

45 minutes.

In 45 minutes, it would be midnight.

So if we just wait until then, you'll unlock the doors and we can go.

Mickey held up one long finger tipped with a black nail.

One of you can go.

The other has to come with me.

I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Samantha was apparently feeling a lot bolder than I was.

Why do either of us have to go with you?

We're not a part of whatever's going on here.

She made a circular motion with her hand.

You became a part of it the moment you walked through that door.

A part of what?

If there was any hope of us escaping the restaurant with our lives, we needed to know exactly what was going on.

The sacrificial circle.

The geniuses who work here thought it would be fun to summon a demon using frozen beef patties and chicken tenders.

You should have seen the look on their faces when it worked.

But we had nothing to do with that.

Samantha stepped out from behind me.

Mickey spread his hands in a mock apology.

I don't make the rules.

What are the rules?

If there were rules, there could be loopholes we could exploit.

You'll have to read them for yourself.

Mickey suddenly turned and started walking to the back of the restaurant.

Where's he going?

How should I know?

Do you think those are locked?

She pointed at the doors on the other side of the restaurant, opposite the ones we entered through.

I doubt it, but we should check just to be sure.

Samantha and I rushed over to the doors.

When we were about halfway there, we heard Mickey call out behind us,

They're locked and will remain that way until I am paid what is owed them.

We stopped and turned to face him.

He was standing behind the counter, holding a large leather-bound book in his left hand.

He gestured at the doors.

Go ahead and try.

Samantha walked up and pushed on both doors.

They rattled in their frame, but didn't open.

You wanted to know what the rules are.

Here they are.

He set the book down on the counter, opened it, and flipped through the pages.

When he found the one that he wanted, he turned the book around so I could read it.

Cautiously, I approached the counter.

The closer I got to Mickey, the more I could smell him.

He reeked of rancid meat and sulfur.

By the time I reached the counter, my eyes were watering from the overpowering stench wafting from him.

Something wrong?

No, no, no.

I was about to tell him that he stanks so bad it was making it hard for me to focus on the book.

Can I

take this over there?

I motioned over to the dining area of the restaurant.

Knock yourself out.

I have some things to take care of in the back.

When I return, we can discuss which one of you is going with me.

I picked up the book and carried it over to the nearest table, ignoring his last comment.

Samantha came over to the table and sat across from me.

Why does it have to be one of us?

Why can't he take the kid in the restroom instead?

I completely forgot about Brent.

The employee we'd encountered when we first walked into the restaurant.

That's a good question.

It's like Mickey doesn't even know he's here.

I'm gonna go talk to him.

Samantha abruptly pushed herself up from the table.

What if he doesn't want to talk to you?

Then I'm going to drag his ass out of that bathroom.

If he's responsible for what happened here, then it should be his ass on the line, not ours.

She was right, but I didn't think we were going to get out of here that easily.

I watched Samantha storm off toward the restrooms before turning my attention to the book on the table in front of me.

Maybe something in here will help us.

As I sat there reading the book, Samantha was pounding on the men's room door, threatening Brent in every way imaginable, trying to get him to talk to her.

After she realized there was no way she was going to be able to force her way into the bathroom, she gave up and returned to the table, plopping herself down into the seat across from me.

Any luck?

Maybe, but I don't think you're going to like it.

I'd read the pages indicated by Mickey and learned that the restaurant employees had performed something called the Ritual of Request.

The ritual required five people to perform.

Four of them were to be unwitting sacrifices, and the fifth, the ritual leader, was the person whose request would be granted by the demon that was summoned.

If...

I'm reading this correctly.

I think Brent is the one who summoned the demon, offering up his co-workers as sacrifices.

That's why Mickey isn't messing with him.

He's the ritual leader.

If he's the ritual leader, why'd he try and leave when we got here?

Because Brent didn't have enough sacrifices to pay Mickey.

He was one short.

And I think that means that Mickey was going to take him as the fourth sacrifice.

At least he was until we showed up.

So one of us becomes the fourth sacrifice.

She gestured back and forth between the two of us.

And that little shit hiding in the men's room gets some sort of special favor from Mickey.

Essentially,

she frowned.

I don't see how that's going to help us.

You didn't let me finish.

Then hurry up and finish.

She looked over at the clock on the wall.

We've only got about 20 minutes left before Mickey comes to collect.

There's a way for one of us to become the ritual leader, but I'm not sure you're gonna like the cost.

Spit it out.

You have to give up your soul.

That's it.

That's a small price to pay to walk out of here alive.

And you have to kill the current ritual leader.

Anything else?

There's an incantation you have to say to become the ritual leader.

But that's essentially it.

Samantha pushed herself up from the table.

Where are you going?

To become the ritual leader, unless you want to do it.

When I didn't respond, she turned and started to walk away.

That's what I thought.

I sat at the table and watched her walk behind the counter and into the kitchen area of the restaurant.

She was back there for two seconds before she came rushing out with her hand over her mouth.

I got up and met her in front of the counter.

Are you okay?

She shook her head.

The sacrifices.

She suddenly started retching, making it impossible for her to continue.

I stepped back to give her some space in case she was going to puke.

Thankfully, she didn't.

Go look.

She gestured to the kitchen entrance.

See what's going to happen to us if we don't find a way out of here?

After seeing her reaction, I didn't want to go back there.

Go.

Hesitantly, I walked over to the entrance and peered around the corner.

Like Samantha, the scene before me made me instantly nauseous.

The kitchen looked like a slaughterhouse.

Mickey had placed all three bodies of the sacrificed restaurant employees across one of the prep tables so that their heads hung over the edge.

He then slid open their throats, letting their blood drain onto the floor.

When I peeked my head through the entrance, he was in the process of disemboweling one of them.

Did you need something?

In his hands was a thick rope of glistening intestine.

I shook my head and quickly turned away.

Samantha jabbed her finger toward the kitchen.

That's going to be one of us if we don't get that guy out of the restroom.

Before I could respond, Mickey returned.

In his left hand was a knife.

Did you finish reading the rules?

Yeah,

I did.

Then you know why I have to do this.

It's nothing personal, just business.

I would let you go if I could.

He placed his right hand over his chest to emphasize his sincerity.

Seriously.

Well...

I looked over at the clock.

We still have 10 minutes.

Ah, that will do.

You should probably use that time to decide which one of you is going to be

the sacrifice.

An idea started to form in my mind.

Can I ask a favor?

Depends what the favor is.

Most people who ask something of me have to pay a steep price.

He nodded toward the kitchen and the bodies within.

It's nothing like that.

I just wanted to know if I could borrow your knife.

Mickey eyed me for a moment.

You're not thinking of trying to be a hero, are you?

Because it will take a lot more than less.

He wiggled the long knife, which looked small in his large hands.

Aha, me.

What are you doing?

If you want to get that guy out of the men's room, we need something to pry the door open.

That knife is our best shot.

I turned back to Mickey.

I'm not stupid.

The knife isn't for you.

Okay.

Mickey flipped the knife around in his hand and offered it to me by the handle.

I didn't know if he agreed so readily because he heard what I said to Samantha or because he knew I wasn't a threat to him.

It didn't matter.

The important thing was that I got the knife.

Thanks.

The handle was slick with blood, but I did my best to ignore it.

I didn't have time to be picky.

Come on.

I motioned for Samantha to follow me to the restrooms.

TikTok!

Do you really think you can get the door open with that?

I don't know, but I'm going to try.

The men's room door was locked with a deadbolt that had an occupancy indicator on the outside of it.

currently red and showing the word occupied in white.

Below the indicator was a little slot that could, if you had the appropriate tool, be used to unlock the door.

Since I didn't have the appropriate tool, I was hoping the knife would be a good substitute.

Turns out, it wasn't.

The blade was too wide and didn't go in far enough to reach the mechanisms inside.

As I kept working at it, trying to force the knife in deeper, Samantha leaned in close to get a better look at my progress.

I don't think that's going to work.

Here, let me try.

She reached up and tried to take the knife out of my hand, but I moved it before she could grab hold.

When I saw the frantic look in her eyes, I realized that our time was almost up.

There was no way we were going to get Bryn out in time.

That meant that one of us was going to be the last sacrifice.

Give it here!

Samantha grabbed for the knife again.

The wild way she came at me made me realize she had no intention of using the knife on the door.

She had decided that I should be the last sacrifice.

Stay away from me!

I held the knife out, threatening her.

You have to sacrifice.

Why me?

Why shouldn't it be you?

Because I'm pregnant.

No, you're not.

You're just saying that to save yourself.

It's true.

Why do you think I'm hungry all the time or why I also seem to have to go pee every hour?

I lowered the knife, wondering if she really could be pregnant.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that it could be true.

We had engaged in some risky behavior on more than one drunken occasion.

Why didn't you say something sooner?

I was waiting for the right time.

The knife was now at my side, pointing at the floor.

Seeing that I had let my guard down, Samantha Samantha seized the opportunity and lunged for the weapon.

What happened next was a blur, but I swear it was an accident.

You stabbed me.

She looked down at my hand on the handle of the knife sticking out of her abdomen.

I'm sorry.

I let go of the handle and stepped back as Samantha crumpled to the floor.

I didn't mean to.

It was an accident.

Well, well, well,

what do we have here?

Mickey had come out from behind the counter to see what all the commotion was about.

She was going to kill me.

I was just trying to protect myself.

Behind us, I heard the click of the doors being unlocked.

Mickey heard it too.

Looks like you're free to go.

Without hesitation, I started walking towards the doors.

Aren't you forgetting something?

I turned around to see him gesturing at Samantha.

You're not just going to leave her here, are you?

I...

I thought she was the last sacrifice.

She wasn't.

Samantha moaned, twitching slightly.

My God,

she was still alive?

Mickey pointed towards the knife sticking out of the lower part of her abdomen.

He

was.

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This is the playoffs for parenting, aka getting ready to get back to school.

As we get ready for back to school, doesn't matter your income, your race, your background, whether you have a disability or not.

Our public schools are a place where all kids feel like they belong.

My child.

My children.

My family, my friends, kids, my community.

All students.

All students.

All students belong in a great public school.

Let's get ready for back to school at nea.org/slash back to school.

Families are interconnected in many unique ways, and as with the concept of a family tree, there are branches that can go off in unexpected directions.

And in this tale, shared with us by author Natalie Fenwick, we meet a psychologist who is trying to determine why his patient killed her partner, and we learn that perhaps the metaphor of a family tree is a bit more literal in this case.

Performing this tale, are Mike Delgadio, Aaron Lillis, and Sarah Thomas.

So there are secrets in there, just like how wood can hide a knot.

Mrs.

Lang?

Mrs.

Lang?

I gently shake the sleeping woman's shoulder.

Her hair, caked in dark earth and dried blood, hangs in hard threads around her face.

She stirs and repositions herself in the chair.

The movement disturbs the air around her, and something like the smell of rain on hot asphalt sets my stomach churning.

I force myself not to recoil and remind myself, I'm here to help.

Then she opens her eyes, and I wonder if she was sleeping at all.

Mrs.

Lang, are you all right?

She stretches her arms up over her head and then leans forward, elbows on the table, so close I can smell her breath.

Her eyes travel over me, taking notes.

You

must shrink.

Flakes of dried blood fall from her lips.

That's right.

I'm Dr.

Aaron Morrow.

I'm here to talk about what happened.

I fish a notebook out of my bag and take a seat at the table that's bolted to the floor.

But first, I want you to tell me if you're hurt or experiencing any pain.

This isn't my blood, Doctor.

But I think you already knew that.

Do you know whose blood it is?

I do.

Do you know whose blood it is?

With this, she turns her face to the darkened mirror behind me and smiles.

The detective, whose name I can't remember, had warned me that this wouldn't be easy.

We have an idea.

We just can't be sure until we find the body.

Of course, you could always just tell us.

Alright, then.

I know when I'm beat.

She digs some red gunk out of her left thumbnail.

The blood

belongs to my late husband.

Your late husband.

So he's dead.

That's right.

Well, apart from the husband part,

it's just a word we used.

We were never married.

I didn't know that.

I take out my pen and write that down.

It's important that we find him as soon as possible, just in case you're wrong.

Could you tell me where you left, Michael?

She smiles as she sucks air through her teeth.

Sure, sure.

The cops picked me up on Crane Street, right?

I nod.

Well, then I must have left him in his special place down by the lake.

We always take Crane Street on our way back.

Is it a cabin or something, his place by the lake?

Oh, no.

Just a certain spot he likes.

It's got a great view of the water.

I study her as she wipes some dirt off her forearm.

I'm finding it hard to believe that she would be able to kill a man.

She's slight, with deep blue eyes and that angular jaw I tend to prefer.

Probably a real beauty when she was young.

I guess I'm gonna have to give the detective better directions, aren't I?

She's once more looking at the mirror behind me.

You gotta look on the north shore, about a mile from the Crane Street entrance.

There's a little outcrop of black rock and a tree with limbs that look like a dancing lady.

You'll know it when you see it.

That's where you'll find Michael.

Faint voices come from behind the mirror, and then there's a flurry of activity in the hall outside the interview room.

The tension in my neck eases a little.

Maybe this is going to be easier than that detective thought.

I stifle a smirk, happy to prove him wrong.

Again, I think about leaving this all behind and moving to Florida.

I've done my part.

Helped a lot of people, and the world can do without me now.

I can almost smell the warm ocean air, pulling me along past all my favorite haunts.

Doctor?

I feel my face turn hot and red.

I'm very sorry I didn't get much sleep last night.

That's all right, I understand.

I wonder when the evidence collection guy will arrive to process her.

There's certainly lots of it, some of it collecting in a dusty heap around her feet.

A patrol card came across her, wandering aimlessly down the street, looking like she'd clawed her way out of a grave.

She hadn't said a word to anyone, but was identified as Mrs.

Colleen Lang by a nurse at the hospital.

Her husband, Michael, was a frequent flyer there, always reeking of alcohol and covered in small injuries.

After they hadn't been able to locate him, they'd brought her down to the station for questioning and called me in to help get her talking.

Would it be all right if we spoke some more about Michael?

Your relationship with him, I mean?

Sure, sure.

What do you want to know?

How we met?

How long we've been together, that kind of thing?

Yeah, that kind of thing.

I leaned back and let her talk.

We met in night school, back in 85.

We were both there learning refrigerator repair.

Only woman in the class, but I got treated all right by most of them.

Back then, Michael had a sweet way about him, always opening the door for me, never touching me, sharing his notes if I ever missed a class.

Addie was only little back then, and her real dad didn't want no part of raising a kid.

All my family was dead or moved away, so it was just me and Addie.

After a while, it was me and Addie and Michael.

He moved in with us in the fall of 86.

I watch as she starts to twist the cuff of her shirt around and around until the tips of her fingers turn purple.

I make a mental note that her daughter might be a sensitive topic.

You have a daughter?

Yeah,

but she has moved away now, too.

Florida, last I heard.

The coincidence shuffles through my mind, and I resist the urge to tell her I was just thinking about Florida.

God,

I really am off my game today.

Does she like it there?

I don't know.

We don't talk anymore.

Why is is that?

Did she and Michael not get along?

No, they got along just fine, mostly.

They treated each other good.

She and I had a falling out the day after she left for college.

I can't even remember what it was about.

Then, she met some guy I didn't like the sound of.

She wouldn't let me meet him.

Michael told me it was normal.

He said, kids are supposed to move on.

Do you think so too, Doctor?

I suppose it would depend on the circumstances.

You got kids, Dr.

Morrow?

I do.

I keep it light, hoping she'll leave it at that.

Well,

I'm sure you're a good daddy.

I had one, too.

Till he wasn't.

She turns her attention back to her sleeve cuff.

I think we should keep talking about you and Michael for now.

But later, if you want, we can talk about that.

She lets out a sigh and rests her hands on the table.

Sure, sure.

We lived together all these years.

And, like I said, he was a good daddy to Addie and a good husband to me.

Then he got in a wreck and it messed his head up pretty good.

After that, he'd do things to hurt me.

To twist me up and make me angry.

What kind of things?

You know, the usual beat me and stepped out with other women.

The last time was the last time I decided that.

Me, I wasn't going to take it anymore.

I'm sorry you had to go through that, Mrs.

Lang.

Traumatic brain injuries can change people.

Did you try to get help when he got physical with you?

Call the police, file a report, that kind of thing?

The first couple times I did.

Got a restraining order and everything.

But it only helped for a little while.

I found help somewhere else after that.

Where?

A women's refuge or

No, nothing like that.

I made a list and checked it twice.

Then she smiles in a way that makes my skin crawl.

My son's birthday is on Christmas Eve.

I clear my throat and push a twinge of unease down as far as it will go.

She can't know that.

She's trying to lay a foundation for an insanity defense by acting all unhinged.

That's it.

That's all it is.

Did you make the list for your lawyer to use as evidence?

No.

I gave it to the tree.

The tree?

I understand now that I have made a mistake and that I am nowhere near finished with Mrs.

Lang.

Before she can answer, the evidence technician knocks on the door.

He asks me to leave and as I wait in the hallway, the light above me starts to flicker.

The evidence technician steps out of the room and silently motions for me to go back in.

Mrs.

Lang is cleaner now, wearing a white paper jumpsuit, her small body just barely holding it up.

You mentioned a tree before?

I don't think she's heard me, then.

You live around here?

Yes.

My son and I moved to Chapel Hill about a year ago.

Why here?

Surely there are better,

bigger places for a man like you?

My wife grew up around the area, and I thought my son could use a change.

He's had a tough time recently.

She grew up here, but only the two of you moved down.

How's that work?

I hesitate.

I don't know how much I want to share about April.

My wife died.

It was very sudden.

I wanted him to feel closer to her.

I don't tell her how I'd walked in on him talking to her as though she were right in front of him more times than I could count.

Or about his dreams.

Well, that seems to be getting much better now anyway.

Maybe it was just that place.

The city can be so hard on a sensitive kid.

I fold my hands on my lap and watch her closely.

A widower.

Well, then, your boy must think the world of you.

Is Addie your only child?

I ask, trying to move the conversation forward.

She purses her lips for a moment before speaking again.

Yes.

After she was born, the doctors told me I couldn't have any more kids.

But that didn't bother me much.

She was enough.

I should have kept that in mind when I met Michael.

I didn't need him.

Didn't need him at all.

But I wanted him.

I wanted someone to need me.

Funny that, ain't it?

Mrs.

Lang, I say, mirroring the way she's leaned forward in her chair.

What happened to him?

What did you do to Michael?

She closes her eyes and tips her chin toward the ceiling.

I can't be sure, but I think she's trembling.

I gave him to the tree.

My grandmother's tree, the dancing lady.

She exhales slowly, eyes still closed like she's watching something play out.

I feel the tension bite my neck again.

I thought you said the tree was Michael's special place.

My grandmother planted it with my mother.

It became Michael's place when he asked for forgiveness.

It's where his

sins lie.

Is that the list you mentioned?

You made a list of his sins and he asked to be absolved?

That's right.

Although, again,

that word's not quite right.

He didn't exactly

ask.

Did you make him go to the tree, Mrs.

Lang?

She is not as clean as I first thought.

The streaks of blood down her neck stand out against her pale, thin skin, and they seem to glisten now.

I convince myself that it's impossible.

A trick of the harsh light in the interview room.

They can't be fresh and wet.

I feel a kiss of air brush my ear as she speaks.

Most of us, us normal folks, have a whole bunch of sins.

But they balance out with our good stuff.

Wouldn't you agree, Doctor?

Before I can respond, she continues.

Michael's sins, they tipped the balance, unfortunately.

All those little sins, a thousand tiny black marks on his soul.

I was as patient as I could be, waiting for his good to catch up with his bad.

I did try to see the good in him.

But he just kept chipping away at me, bit by bit.

I feel that trickle of air again again as the light above flickers and then winks out.

The room dissolves into inky darkness.

Mrs.

Lang, I say, panic edging its way up my vocal cords.

Mrs.

Lang?

I've always had a thing about the dark, ever since that time with my sister.

I was eight and she pushed me into our parents' windowless little bathroom before locking the door.

She left me there.

all alone while she went to the movies.

My dad found me when he got home from work, sitting in a puddle of my own piss, white as a sheet.

My sister got a real walloping later, but I got the feeling it was more for taking the bathroom light bulb out than for scaring me.

It wasn't the first time she'd done something like that, but it was the first time I heard the darkness and all the unseen gods that give it voice.

They like to tell stories.

Mrs.

Lang?

Her soft voice comes from my left.

I'm right here.

Where are you, Dr.

Morrow?

I can smell her bloody breath again.

Only this time there's another, sweeter scent just below it.

Soil and leaves and rain.

I try to move my feet, but they feel heavy, weighted.

Then the tube flickers and the white light fills the room again.

Mrs.

Lang is where she has been the whole time, leaning back into her chair across the table from me.

Everything all right?

Yes, I guess the wiring must be old.

I pretend to take notes as I focus on my breathing, trying hard to convince myself she wasn't just right next to me, that the light really is on and that those mumbling gods aren't real.

You ever heard of a mother tree, Dr.

Morrow?

My stomach ties itself into a thick knot.

as April's face comes to me.

My wife was a botanist, actually.

She was more or less obsessed with the idea.

I never could figure out why.

I always thought it was a little fanciful.

But you know what it is?

Oh, sure.

It's the theory that trees, some trees, can nourish and communicate with one another through an underground fungal network.

The older trees nourish the younger ones.

She nods her head.

Did I get it right?

Yeah, just about.

You could add a little romance to it, though.

I'm guessing you're not close with your own family.

Don't see the need for that connection.

It's just me and my son since my wife died.

And when he hurts, isn't there a place in you that hurts, too?

Maybe.

Sometimes.

I can feel my daughter right now.

I know she's okay.

She wasn't for a while, but she's better now.

I can feel my mother, too.

She's stroking my hair.

My heel starts tapping an impatient staccato on the worn linoleum.

That's not good.

I'm never going to get out of here if she doesn't stop talking shit about trees and mold, or if I get impatient.

I stop my foot and meet her eyes.

Did you have a good relationship with her?

Your mother, I mean?

My mother was a saint.

Fed us all before taking a bite herself.

My daddy killed her the summer I turned six.

She shrugs her shoulders before a wistful expression settles on her face.

It's all right, though.

Daddy didn't understand what he was doing.

Had no idea what he was tempting.

I'm sorry about that, Mrs.

Lang.

That must have been very hard.

She just nods her head again.

Is your grandmother's dancing lady a mother tree, Mrs.

Lang?

No, I don't reckon so.

It's just a regular silver maple.

Same as any other.

The only thing that makes it different is how it came to be planted.

And how did that happen, Mrs.

Lang?

She pulls her mouth tight.

So tight I can barely see her lips.

Then slowly starts to nod her head.

Yep, I guess it's time.

I ain't never told no one this.

Not nobody.

But I guess, given our situation here, I can tell you.

Thank you.

I'd be glad to hear all about it.

As she starts to speak, a droplet of blood falls from her chin onto her white jumpsuit.

I can't figure out why it looks wrong.

When my mother was just a little thing, her daddy, Grandpa Ray, would be gone for long weeks on end, laying track for the railroad to see.

My grandmother had to manage the hogs all on her own, feeding, breeding, and all the killing.

Eventually, his his time away got longer and longer.

Turns out he had a whole other family two counties over.

A younger, prettier wife, two little boys, and a dog.

I think it was the dog that really drove my grandmother over the edge.

See, my mother had been begging and pleading for one since she could talk, but he never let her keep one.

My grandmother

just couldn't forgive him that.

I heard she hit him in the head with the back of an axe while he was fishing.

Then slit his throat from ear to ear.

They planted that tree right on top of him.

After that day, they said they could feel what the other was thinking and feeling.

I realize that the droplet isn't blood at all.

It looks more like sap, sticky and dark.

I feel my feet grow cold, and when I look down to my notepad, I see that I've drawn a tree, twisted and sharp.

I don't remember doing it.

It reminds me of something.

One of their stories about a boy with antlers that slips down into the underworld on a quest to rescue his love, only to willingly succumb to the darkness below.

He is transformed into a gnarled and knotty tree that poisons the ground itself, sparking famine and a disease that lays waste to his home.

I'd forgotten about it until now.

Is that why you mentioned the mother tree, Mrs.

Lang?

Were your mother and grandmother that way?

Reckon so.

Yeah.

Cause I was that way with my mother.

And then, of course, my daughter.

Last I heard, she had a little boy.

A winter child.

Sometimes I feel him, too.

Though it's always stronger with the women.

A winter child?

Oh, I just mean, he was born around Christmas, is all.

Huh, that's so.

Yup, Christmas Eve, actually.

He must be a good kid, if I can feel him.

Bad ones are always connected to the other thing.

She looks at me and then smiles, her teeth not quite touching.

I look away.

The cold in my feet has now inched its way up to my knees.

I try and shift my weight in the chair, but can't.

There's a sound now, a chittering rustle, soft at first.

I thought it might be water in the pipes, but the louder it gets, the more certain I am that it's a million beetles crawling over my body.

The sound and the scent of a familiar perfume that shouldn't be here are making me dizzy.

I have to get help.

I have to move.

I, um...

I suddenly don't feel so well, Mrs.

Lang.

My legs.

I look up as the light starts to flicker again, and I see that her chair is empty.

Nothing but a fine dusting of red flakes remains on the seat.

I can't move.

The cold is creeping up my chest, and that wet scent of rich earth and all its crawling things fills the room.

My chest feels heavy, an invisible weight pressing down on me.

Then her voice.

Her voice is in my ear.

I can't turn.

I can't can't see her face.

Your wife, Dr.

Morrow.

How did she die?

I feel a wet finger tracing circles on the back of my neck.

Please, Mrs.

Lang, get help.

I can't move.

How did she die, Aaron?

The circles become letters, the finger pressing down harder with each stroke.

I can't make them out.

I don't want to make them out.

The light finally sputters out and I am enveloped in thick silence.

Can't feel my arms.

The air, thick with the smell of long dead things, is ice cold.

How did April die, Doctor?

Her voice fills the darkness, coming from all corners.

My breath is fast and shallow.

as everything shifts and I feel myself being pulled up, rising into the crushing pitch black.

Ahead of me is a tiny light.

The pinprick star shatters into an explosion of shining white threads suspended in nothing.

A web of soft filaments edging ever closer to me.

I wonder if I'm wrong, if I've made a mistake, because for a second it's all so achingly beautiful.

I welcome it.

Extend my arms toward the threads.

And before they even touch me, I hear children's laughter.

My son's laughter.

His teacher is playing a song on the guitar, and all the kids are dancing and giggling.

I see her, but I don't see him.

I understand I'm watching through his eyes.

The guitar and laughter recede, and now

I'm confronted with my old kitchen.

I see myself red faced.

I'm very angry, yelling.

I take a step back, but that only makes the other me advance.

I feel my hands around a neck I know is not mine.

It's her fine, beautiful neck that I like to nuzzle against in the dark hours.

She's my totem, keeping me safe from the gods and their stories.

It was an accident.

I don't know how it happened.

My cheeks are wet with tears.

Oh, but you do, Doctor, and I know because she showed me.

Her voice sounds far away now, muffled.

She can't have shown you.

I feel her now, still.

Becoming part of the earth again.

Just like I felt you grab her throat.

Felt your fingernails tear her skin.

I felt you choke the life out of my Adeline.

Oh, God.

I remember now.

I'd seen it before on paperwork.

Adeline April Morrow.

She went by her middle name.

April said her mother died.

I told you, Doctor, we had an argument.

Just before.

Just before you took her from me, I felt her heart warm again.

I was gonna find her and save her from you.

No!

You're a liar!

Am Emma,

how did you get to the station, Doctor?

Do you remember the route you took?

The call from the detective?

Do you remember what he looked like?

I remember...

I remember walking to my front door, past April's photograph on the hall table with that...

that little clay turtle my son had made for her stuck to the glass.

He was already at school because his backpack wasn't on the hook.

I remember opening the door.

There was a figure.

It pressed its hand over my mouth.

There was a bad smell, and then

the interview room.

But before that was a.

a space.

Nothingness.

I could hear the gods, and they were telling me a story.

Where am I?

Laughter fills the dark.

Oh,

but you know where you are.

You're with Michael now.

He's been here a while, actually.

The last time really was the last time.

I buried him under the dancing lady next to my daddy and Grandpa Ray.

Now,

I feel the insects burrowing into my clothes.

I thought of my son.

and his little round face as I tipped her body over the barrier into the river.

The water had done its job well, and there wasn't much left of her when they pulled her out.

She had a history, so there weren't so many questions.

Oh God, help me!

God don't want you no more.

But I think you know who does.

My mouth is full of wet soil.

Leaves and hollowed out husks work their way into my nose.

I can't breathe.

I start to choke.

I feel a gentle tugging all over my skin, then a probing, the shining threads breaking my skin like feathery needles.

They send me April, her face lit with the morning sun, smiling as she looks down at our baby.

Her arm has a dark blue bruise, the size of my hand.

Then she's dancing in a field, the long grass catching her dress, with a basket of clippings in her hand swaying in time to the music only she can hear.

Her left eye is red and swollen.

Her voice comes from within me now.

Where are you, Aaron?

For a long time, I am nowhere.

Nothing but ears and a voice.

I rest, but don't sleep.

Until I am roused by the quiet whimpering of someone who is afraid.

I want to tell them that I am afraid too,

that I am also scared of the dark.

I call out and the whimpering stops.

They start to listen.

They listen to my story.

Our phone lines have been cut, the cell signals are lost.

But we will return to delve into your darkest hang-ups when the calls will be coming from inside your house.

The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media.

The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone.

Our production team is Phil Migulski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornett, and Claudius Moore.

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

White, and Kristen Semito.

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

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On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for taking our nightmarish calls.

This audio program is copyright 2024 and 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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