S22 Ep9: NoSleep Podcast S22E09

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They're calling.

Like me to call you back to see if you can make it.

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.

He returned with a box of roses to beg my forgiveness.

He implored my forgiveness.

Some things are not forgivable.

Deliberate cruelty is not forgivable.

It is the one unforgivable thing, in my opinion, and the one thing of which I have never been guilty.

Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast.

I'm your host, David Cummings, and I'm sorry.

Sorry for what, you ask?

Well, I don't know.

I'm sure there's something.

And it's not just because I'm Canadian and used to saying sorry.

Oh, I mean, sorry for you American listeners who pronounce the word incorrectly like that.

Okay, wait a minute.

That's that's mean.

Sorry, sorry.

Anyway.

If you're like most people, you probably live with some nagging sense of guilt.

Possibly because you wronged another person and you kind of wish you hadn't.

And if you can manage a bit of communication with that person, talk it out, offer an apology, I'll bet things can be resolved and you can allay your guilt.

But what if that reconciliation isn't possible?

What if the wronged person is no longer around, yet is still rather unforgiving?

Well, on this episode, we meet people who are carrying the weight of guilt upon them.

And there are ways for them to make amends, but those ways aren't easy.

So don't carry that guilt around with you.

Don't wait until it's too late.

You might not like the alternatives, and the last thing you want is to get a call from the wronged person.

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

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In our first tale, We meet a man struggling with one of the hardest things a person can do, give up cigarettes.

Overcoming addiction is tough, especially when the former habit helped you emotionally as much as physically.

And in this tale, shared with us by author Ophelia Diaz, the man is trying to distract himself by visiting a rather dark part of town.

Dark in more ways than one.

Performing this tale are Graham Rowett and Dan Zapula.

So if you find yourself in the same place, pay attention to the gravestones.

There's more to learn under the words, here lies.

A council of trees loomed over Sean Riggs.

He could not go back to the town, to the light.

His stomach flipped when his mind brushed the memory.

So his mind backed off.

Down the hillside stood a cemetery.

He ambled toward it as the night stalked at his heels.

There was no reason to go there specifically, but every reason not to go home.

At least not until he'd appeased the unfamiliar urge for fresh air and time to think.

The dark distorted his surroundings.

making ominous shapes and shadows.

They stretched and danced, elongated and shrunk, but the stone tombs grounded him as he passed beneath the ornate lich gate serving as the entrance to the cemetery.

It was an old place, filled with stained gravestones and lichen growth.

The overrun dirt path pointed west at the last sliver of sun.

A tall wrought-iron fence enclosed the area.

As Sean walked, his hands involuntarily clenched in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the breeze as if it was a cruel gust.

He hadn't shaved for a week, and the ghost of a once-lit cigarette was permanently indented between his index and middle finger.

Ah, Jesus.

Sean's hand slipped from his pants and patted his chest pocket, but there was no cigarette pack.

He groaned.

and rubbed his forehead, raking his fingers through his unkempt hair.

He'd quit smoking last week, but the terrible urge remained.

He breathed deeply, relishing the air in his lungs and pushed everything from his mind, especially the SIGs.

Soon he crossed a cluster of footstones.

They were disarming, absurd symbols to mark mortality.

Did they bring comfort?

Sure, to most they did.

To Sean, burying someone's body in the ground inside a wooden box and covering it with upheaved dirt had the same effect as sliding oneself headfirst into a 16-inch diameter tube.

Nothing was more claustrophobia-inducing, mainly because he was sure his shoulder width exceeded 16 inches.

He paused, shivering at the thought of bodies below him.

Dead bodies.

Dead and confined by packed dirt.

He decided to leave.

A threatening dread enveloped him, like staring into the abysmal pit of a basement, and he fought the childish instinct to flee the oppressive gloom.

Instead, he turned from the graves and calmly pursued the short path back to the lichgate.

But it wasn't there.

He blinked.

His mouth slowly opened.

Then he shook his head and lightly slapped himself on the cheek.

Riggs, you're being ridiculous.

You got turned around, is all, you dumbass.

Are you seriously spooked?

With a nervous chuckle,

Sean spun on the path and forced calm steps in the opposite direction.

His tongue snaked out to dab his dry lips, absently yearning for a smoke.

The scrape of footfall on grass and his fingers' rhythmic snapping seemed to echo.

After walking the path for a few minutes, he stopped.

Where is that damn exit?

His heart thudded in his chest.

He inhaled long and deep, exhaling even longer, but it did little to slow his panicked heart.

It had become too dark to see the headstones, so, despite his reluctance, he took out his phone to make a call.

His eyes widened when he unlocked it and glanced at the top left of the screen.

No service.

He whirled around, his breath coming out in ragged pants

until he stamped his foot and swore.

Calm the fuck down, Riggs.

Calm down and think.

He switched on the phone's light.

It illuminated the immediate darkness, revealing the same headstones set in crooked rows.

He shone the light to his left and right, then turned again.

There was no sign of wrought iron or litchgate.

Only graves.

He spun around once more and stopped short of a sprint, his eyes drawn to something bright and out of place at his feet.

With the phone angled down, Sean cautiously bent to examine a small bed of off-white chrysanthemums.

As he inspected them, he realized they'd been cut and set into inground vases along a dirty footstone.

He brushed loose soil and dried leaves from the stone, revealing the inscription.

Here lies a mother.

His brow creased at the strange epitaph.

There was no name, but was it needed?

She might have said otherwise if he could have asked her.

She'd been someone's mother.

The designation kept its importance, for everyone living had a mother.

Perhaps this was why the stone was anonymous.

She was anyone's mother.

Mothers were gracious and kind.

John's mother had been that way.

At least before she'd left when he was nine.

The temptation of another life, newfound freedom and no responsibility, had lured her from domesticity into the great yonder.

He'd found out she'd died a few years back, and he'd repelled all thoughts of her until reading the stone.

He squinted and held the light closer.

The chiseled word mother blackened across the stone's surface, the discoloration spreading toward the edges as if charred by an invisible flame.

The phone light trembled uncontrollably.

Sean's lips twitched.

Sweat formed on his brow.

The strong scent of cigarette smoke drifted under his nose.

He sprung up and ran.

Hey!

Anyone out there?

Hey, help!

I'm lost!

But there was no reply.

He opened his mouth again, but was breathless, so the words became muddled.

He slowed from a run to a trot, gulping air as he pointed his phone to find the lich gate.

When he still couldn't see it, he stopped and bent over, gasping with his eyes closed.

After a few moments, he straightened and opened them.

Those minutes of unrelenting panic momentarily abated, and the blood that rushed in his ears was no longer muffling the sounds of chirping crickets intermixed with his heavy breathing.

All right, Riggs.

You can't find the exit.

It's night.

You're alone.

You're lost.

Strange things are happening around you that you can't explain.

He pressed his palm flat against his mouth.

So,

what do you do now?

The sensible thing was to pick a direction and keep walking.

He glanced up at the stars.

Having been a Boy Boy Scout and having a pretty, outdoorsy dad, he knew the line made by the tip of Ursa Major to the North Star was his arrow.

He nodded slowly to himself.

North.

You have to keep going north, Riggs.

He marched with his phone's light pointed in front of him.

Past headstones he couldn't remember seeing, and shrubbery replaced by trees.

The question of how kept repeating in his head, but he couldn't explain what was happening around him, so he didn't think about it.

Instead, he thought about his father.

A hard-working fellow, Sean's father was tough but fair.

He was good at navigating situations and people, something Sean lacked.

Even after his accident, Sean's dad got along fine and returned to work despite medical advice.

He had to keep working, support his family.

Sean was in awe of this dogged display of responsibility.

In comparison, Sean felt utterly irresponsible, jumping ship from jobs, relationships, and commitments at the drop of a dime.

Maybe that's why he wasn't comfortable about having kids.

He sighed and wiped the sweat trickling through his eyebrows.

His shoulders sagged.

He yawned.

despite his desire to leave.

The compulsion to smoke clawed at him like a cat on his shoulders.

He just wanted to find that stupid lichgate and go.

Instead, he came upon a tree.

It was tall and sturdy, its branches forming a shelter.

Sean kicked the tree and sidestepped it, but a headstone on a plinth stopped him in his tracks.

Here lies a father.

He gulped.

Like the mother, no name or date was chiseled into the ledger, but a single matchstick lay on the flat, rectangular top.

Sean pinched it between his fingers as he considered the possibilities.

A match could prove useful.

He could start a fire, get some attention, be found.

He smiled at his luck, then frowned as he brought the stick under the phone's light.

The match head was blackened.

No.

His heart sunk.

He wound his arm and flung the match as far as he could.

No!

With his head in his hands, he slid against the tree trunk until he was seated on the ground.

He looked up at the sky, tears welling in the corners of his eyes, and frustratedly knocked the back of his head against the bark, willing himself to think.

He couldn't overlook his quandary.

The area he'd entered had shrunk around him, and he couldn't explain how.

It was changing shape, keeping him trapped, steel bars inching inward, corralling him.

Every direction was pitch black, a void of tombs, trees, and leaves he couldn't escape.

Even the stars were starting to fade.

Maybe he would have to stay there.

Get out in the morning.

The weight of his predicament tired him, and though he was scared, He knew there was nothing more he could do.

He looked at his phone again.

The battery was half.

11.23 p.m.

He sighed, turned off the light, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes.

Crickets chirped.

The wind whispered through the tree limbs.

Sean smelled the forest, the damp moss, pine needles, and something familiar, yet strange.

Smoke.

Where there's smoke, there's...

Sean's eyes snapped open.

An orange glow fought back the shadows ahead.

He looked up.

The tree was on fire.

He scrambled from the blaze.

His heart fluttered wildly in his chest.

But he froze before the flaming tree, his eyes riveted to the inferno engulfing the dry fibers.

As the bark burned away like paper, something inexplicable was revealed beneath.

Charred, irregularly shaped pieces.

It wasn't until they tumbled out of the tree, rolling to stop at Sean's feet, that he shrieked.

Bones.

Human bones.

Sean sprinted.

The way didn't matter.

He dropped his phone.

The light no longer a lifeline.

There was no lifeline here.

He was trapped in this hell, this perdition.

His heart thudded wildly in his ears.

He stumbled over a fallen branch, scrambled to his feet, then smacked his shoulder into a tree so hard he twirled.

The night was unbearable, like smoke in his eyes.

Then he fell and tumbled down a series of stone steps.

When at the bottom, he cried out,

gasping for air as the pain set his nerves afire.

But he was alive.

He grimaced as he moved, groaning to his feet.

He leaned against the stone, a mixture of sweat and blood trickling down his face.

He twisted his ankle and felt a wet gash above his forehead.

But he could keep going.

A penetrating wave of heat blasted him unexpectedly before he realized there was an orange glow spilling between two metal doors.

Lotus flowers blossomed along the door's surface.

He glanced back at the stairs.

Then ahead at the light.

You've got nothing to lose, Riggs.

Just keep going.

At least you found something.

Sean shambled inside.

A burial vault.

Small and plain, the mausoleum had five square shutters to a row and four to a column.

A heavy, stinging scent made Sean recoil.

He coughed and covered his face with his arm.

He looked back.

knowing he would not see the door.

It was gone.

Oh, God, have mercy.

It was sweltering.

His clothing clung to him.

To relieve the discomfort, he removed his buttoned-down shirt with the chest pocket and the t-shirt underneath.

Sweat gathered in his armpits and between his legs.

Even his tidy-whities were damp.

He smiled hopelessly at the stupid thought.

He used to say tidy-whities as a kid.

A carefree time when things were simpler with fewer obligations.

He sniffed and fought back a few tears, a single humorless ha withering on his tongue.

Once nude, he turned to the center of the crypt.

There were no religious relics or decorations, just small square compartments for the dead.

A four-foot coffin had been placed on a short bier.

Sean shuffled reluctantly toward it.

On the top was a stuffed brown teddy bear.

Sean bit back a sob

as he read the silver coffin plate.

Here lies a child.

How old had the child been?

Not this one, but the boy at the house in the town.

Had he played with stuffed bears and dinosaurs?

Did he hide in a clothes hamper in the closet when he was scared?

Sean brought his finger to his mouth and bit the flesh to feel something.

He hated seeing the small coffin, but he could no longer escape the consequences.

The father, the mother, the child.

They were any family.

They could be in any house, in any town.

Tears sprung from the corners of his eyes.

It was an accident.

I didn't know the place would light up like a tinderbox.

It was just one smoke.

I had a bad day, and I just...

He flicked an imaginary cigarette from his fingers with a strangled sob.

The action was casual, something he'd done many times before without consequence.

But now it hurt.

He staggered backward, sank against the wall, and put his head into his palms.

He'd successfully blocked out the memory for a week.

The town, the family, the fire.

But it would no longer stay shrouded in the corner.

It would not wait for his stubborn acknowledgement.

Memory was like a hound, and Sean was the rabbit.

Only he'd gone so deep into the Warren he couldn't turn around, and the soil was collapsing.

A creak pierced the quiet.

Sean's breath stuck in his lungs, held tight by the vice of fear.

The shutter of one of the rows opened slowly, as if a specter had unlatched it from the inside.

Sean gulped his panic.

but felt it surface through his pores, beads of sweat now like raindrops on his skin.

The teddy bear on the coffin shifted forward, revealing something slim and white.

Sean got to his feet and shuffled to it, picking it up and pressing it between his index and middle finger.

He breathed shakily,

no longer crying or in denial, but accepting where he was and what would happen.

In the seconds of him taking the cigarette, a cloud of thick black smoke seeped from behind the closed shutters.

Sean coughed until he was forced to retreat into the only place he could go, the single open square.

He coughed and hesitated.

Self-preservation won out, and Sean shimmied his way into the confined space.

It was tight and made him shudder.

At the far end was a lighter.

Tremors raced the length of his body.

The stone became became slick with his sweat.

He moaned in terror.

Another creak.

Sean fought the urge to peer toward his feet, but knew the shutter had closed.

Was this what it was like?

To be beaten back by smoke, flame, and heat?

He thumbed the spark wheel of the lighter until a flame illuminated the gray stone.

He lit the end of his cigarette and inhaled.

The glow from the tip was a red eye.

It crawled closer the more it smoldered.

With the cherry nearing the filter, his tomb became tighter and hotter until he could no longer breathe.

But he was grateful for his last inhale of sweet smoke.

What does Zin really give you?

Not just hands-free nicotine satisfaction, but also real freedom.

Freedom to do more of what you love, when and where you want to do it.

When is the right time for Zen?

It's any time you need to be ready for every chance that's coming your way.

Smoke-free, hassle-free, on your terms.

Why bring Zen along for the ride?

Because America's number one nicotine pouch opens up something just as exciting as the road ahead.

It opens up the endless possibilities of now.

From the way you spend your day to the people you choose to spend it with.

From the to-do list right in front of you to the distant goal only you can see.

With Zen, you don't just find freedom, you keep finding it again and again.

Find your Zen.

Learn more at Zen.com.

Warning, this product contains nicotine.

Nicotine is an addictive chemical.

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If you're struggling with dark thoughts about your existence, we hope you know that there are people you can speak with, hotlines with people who can help you overcome the thoughts of self-harm.

But in this tale, shared with us by author A.M.

Marone, we meet a woman who works at just such a hotline.

She's back at work after a particularly rough stretch, and she has a caller who seems rather persistent.

Performing this tale are Lindsay Russo, Peter Lewis, Matthew Bradford, and Sarah Thomas.

So steal yourself and remember your training when you have to answer the call.

The familiar black letters stared at me from the blue screen.

Like any typical evening I spent in this room for the past year, waiting patiently for a call.

It almost felt like a welcome home.

The bold, anonymous dared me to pick up the phone, walk through the door into a world unknown, and come face to face with whatever version of myself I left behind the last time I went there.

As I contemplated my next move, I slowly laid back into one of the office chairs crowding the half-empty room and let the persistent ringing fill the silence of the night for a few moments more.

A gentle voice came from the desk facing mine.

Hey, you know you don't have to take it if you don't feel ready yet.

The same sentiment was echoed on my left, albeit a bit more enthusiastically.

Yeah, you don't have to force yourself.

Just being back here is already progress.

My fellow colleagues, no.

Fellow volunteers?

All these terms felt inadequate to describe the people who were doing their best on tonight's shift to make me feel at peace, despite the growing urgency that enveloped the air with every ring.

If I could only use vague terms to describe them, I decided to go with listeners.

Trying to somehow encompass such singular people with a simple listener one and listener two felt almost laughable.

But what choice did I have, really?

I guess this makes me listener three, then.

This never used to be a problem for me.

All the policies and protocols, the invisibility.

A ringing phone was never one either.

But tonight was different.

I made it different.

For everyone involved.

Taking my silence as a sign of discomfort, Listener One pressed further, balancing between their desire to make me comfortable and the desperate need for a decision to be made before the call went unanswered.

Some calls can be harder than others, and it's normal to be hesitant.

The last one you went through.

I came there that night for a reason.

I couldn't back down.

I grabbed the phone with urgency and put it to my ear before they could even finish their sentence, letting habit take over.

Hello, this is Mental Health Hotline.

What would you like to talk about this evening?

Only silence met me on the other end.

But I took this as an opportunity to let Listener One know I would be okay with a simple nod.

Just to be sure, they slid me a pen and paper to take notes, and the new volunteer pamphlet, commonly known as the Basic Volunteer Kit.

Adequately equipped, I let my focus fall entirely on the caller I had to coax into speaking.

Hello?

Are you still there?

In the case of a silent caller, it's recommended to either use the silence to push them to speak or reiterate the service's founding principles.

It was a bit too soon to use silence, though, so principles it was.

I'm here to listen to whatever you want to express, I said in the softest tone I could muster.

So take all the time you need.

I'd just like to remind you that everything you say will stay free of judgment, free of outside influences, and entirely between us.

Yes, I know.

I'm familiar with this service.

Thank you.

I knew that voice.

The deep, raspy sound that ruled my every waking hour for the past few months.

My sleep certainly wasn't free of it either.

I tightened my hold on the phone's handle, hoping it would keep me grounded.

I'm sure it's just a coincidence or wishful thinking.

Even if it isn't, it doesn't matter.

Yeah, it doesn't matter.

We were required to treat every call independently, and I was not about to forget that now.

I couldn't let the nauseating feeling in my stomach betray my unease in front of people who already walked around me on eggshells.

So,

what happens next?

Well, that depends on you.

What's on your mind?

I don't really know how to start.

It's complicated.

Complicated?

How?

I just woke up in this place.

And I can't quite remember how I got there.

This place?

I purposely echoed the caller's own words.

Anything else might be interpreted as an attempt to influence the flow of the conversation.

Yeah, I don't really know where

I am exactly.

Feels like I'm in the middle of nowhere.

Could you tell me more?

I don't know.

I think I'm in the woods.

Can hear the sound of some animals in the distance?

I can also hear some cars.

I might be close to some highway.

What can you see around you?

Um, there's

moss under me and some leaves.

The trees, they feel almost too

tall.

Yeah.

How did you know?

That's because I already had this conversation before.

A few months ago, on a night exactly like this one.

God damn it.

I wasn't supposed to intrude on the caller or put words into their mouth.

I should stamp out my desire to know more because this isn't about me.

It's about listening to them.

And yet...

Oh, I just guessed, I said.

Desperate to not raise suspicion, I stole a glance at the volunteer pamphlet and followed the first piece of advice my eyes stumbled upon.

Dig more for the context.

How did you find yourself in the woods, if you don't mind me asking?

As I said earlier, I don't remember.

Would you like to?

Would you?

For the first time during the conversation, the caller sounded so certain, so unlike the tone of confusion that colored our exchange, that it left me reeling.

What do you mean?

I could feel Listener 2's intent gaze from my side, ready to come to my assistance, but I gave them a thumbs up as soon as the caller went on with their explanation.

This was all the reassurance needed before they dragged Listener 1 out for a much-needed smoke break.

And I think it was at a party at a friend's house.

Relieved to be back to normal territories, I continued with this line of questioning.

How did the party go?

I mean, I'm not a big party person or a big people person

in general.

I just

came to meet someone.

What do you mean when you say you're not a big party person?

It's just too loud for me.

I never really liked the crowd or the blaring music.

I had some drinks, though.

What kind of drinks?

Some wine, I think.

Sensing a lull in the conversation, I checked my notes for anything of interest the caller might have mentioned previously.

Earlier, you mentioned going to the party to meet someone.

Uh, yes.

An old friend of mine.

We used to be very close before I left for college, and I...

I thought...

I thought it was my last chance to properly say goodbye.

I already knew the answer to my next question.

I had heard it in the voice of Listener 2 talking to the emergency services while I held up the phone.

In the chaos and the sound of sirens in the distance, in the slow and ragged breaths, and in the deafening silence that had followed.

I knew the answer, but I asked anyway:

Why would you want to say goodbye?

Silence would do the trick here.

When I was in middle school, I thought things would get better in high school.

And then

I thought things would get better once I got to college.

And then I thought that life would be better if I got a job, a lover, a dog.

I always kept waiting for something that would make existing more

bearable.

But it never came.

How does that make you feel?

I was pulling a cliche, but I didn't know what else to do.

I just.

I don't even know

how to be happy anymore.

And I am tired.

I am tired of trying.

I'm tired of waiting.

I'm tired of being tired.

I understood.

I couldn't tell them that, but I got it.

I was also tired.

Tired of the nightmares that wouldn't let me sleep.

Of the guilt that just wouldn't leave.

Of thinking that I should have done more.

Should have said more instead of just listening.

Even if that was what I was there for.

I was haunted by all that I could have said.

I just wanted it to...

I just wanted it to end.

The next thing I should do is ask if they're talking about suicide.

Ask questions to determine if it's active, passive, or immediate, and provide information.

Follow the trusted and tested protocol used in suicide calls.

But there was one thing I couldn't just let slide for some reason.

There was just one question I had to ask, only one, and then I'd follow the steps written written in every pamphlet and poster.

You say, wanted.

Why the past tense?

Please say it's because you don't feel that way anymore.

Tell me about how you tried and failed, how it made you realize you never really wanted to die.

Tell me that you're alive.

Why does it matter to you?

Their voice was so soft, so knowing.

I must have conjured it from the depths of my despair.

I think I'm finally losing what's left of my mind.

Yep, my sleep-deprived brain probably came up with this as some form of punishment.

There's no other logical explanation for what the caller is implying.

Either that or someone is messing with me.

Why are you doing this?

I don't know who you are or what you're trying to imply, but this isn't funny.

My voice rose so high that listener one and listener two probably heard it even from outside.

I might get banned from the hotline for life, but at this point, I don't care anymore.

The caller continued earnestly as if they hadn't heard anything of what I'd just said.

I didn't mean to hurt anyone.

Stop with the bullshit.

It's not my fault.

This world is cruel.

It's not yours either.

I was already at my wit's end before I picked up the phone, but there was no need to hold the tears anymore or the words.

Saying that it's not my fault is like saying that there was nothing I could have done.

And what about it?

That...

That if I was truly that powerless, what the hell have I been doing here for the past year?

You tell me.

I just did my best.

I just did my best.

And fine.

Maybe it wasn't enough.

What more do you want me to do?

It was enough

for me.

I just wanted to say

thank you.

That makes no sense.

The last time you called, you died.

I heard you die.

I said, because as crazy as it sounded, I couldn't hold it in anymore.

Didn't you?

We both know the answer to that.

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Sometimes you just need to escape and get away from things, right?

Head out and find a new setting just to clear your head.

Why not thumb a ride and go?

Well, in this tale, shared with us by author Larry Allen Tyler, we meet Daniel.

He's getting away and a kind person has stopped to pick him up.

Now he just has to figure out where he's going.

I joined the cast of Jeff Clement, Sarah Thomas, Matthew Bradford, Mary Murphy, Nicole Doolin, Mike Delgadio, Ellie Hirschman, Nicole Goodnight, Reagan Tacker, Marie Westbrook, Atticus Jackson, Kristen DiMacurio, Danielle McRae, and Jesse Cornette in performing this tale.

So pay attention to the road if you're driving while listening to Daniel Cordullo and the Fog.

My name is Daniel Cordullo.

I wasn't going to tell you that, but I figure, hey, what's the difference now?

Daniel.

Yes.

Daniel Cardullo.

So this is me about, I don't know, 24 hours ago.

Give or take a couple hours, maybe.

All by myself, standing at the side of Route 16, waiting for a chance to stick my thumb out and catch a ride.

You don't hear anything going on around me because, well, there isn't anything to hear.

A few birds waking up early and talking to each other, I guess, but no cars going by.

Haven't been for half an hour or more.

Yeah, good old Route 16.

No, I'm being sarcastic, I'm sorry.

I hate sarcasm, so I don't know why I said that.

Sarcasm is mean and insulting, and being mean and insulting is what got me into trouble in the first place

so what i should say instead is that i actually hate route 16 and always have that's the truth i hate it

what an embarrassment to every other highway in the country it is

sure it's paved just like all the other highways in the country but well that's where the difference ends

It's only got two lanes the whole length of it with little gravel shoulders on each side of the road.

Gravel shoulders no wider than your arms spread straight out.

And that certainly doesn't leave much room for you to pass a car without killing yourself.

It's almost like they designed the road that way on purpose, to kill anyone dumb enough to take it in the first place.

The whole thing's more treacherous than just about any road you'd find yourself on.

It winds over the white mountains in tight knots.

goes past a dozen or so little settlements that may or may not call themselves towns, and finally gives up somewhere in the gut of New Hampshire where it merges into Route 49,

and that'll take you to Thornton.

That's where you go.

I didn't, especially, but it was better than staying here at some empty crossroad, praying for the right car to show up and dodging others that weren't right.

Police cars, for example, were crazy people.

But I figured it was either Route 16

or the asylum.

I chose Route 16.

I guess I had a lot to learn.

Now, up ahead, you see a thick forest hugging the road, and an incline that gets steeper the higher you climb.

You'll come on a bad drop-off every now and then, and that'll toss you into a place you don't want to go if you're not careful.

Yeah, that's Route 16.

I've taken this road a lot.

Plenty of times over the years, so I knew what I was in for.

I didn't like being there, but beggars can't be choosers, as they say, let alone fugitives.

No, it was cold, bone-chilling cold, out on the edge of the highway, and the sun was about to come up, so I began to get reacquainted with two familiar friends of mine who liked to barge into my head from time to time.

Despair and anxiety.

I started thinking crazy thoughts about curling up in the woods somewhere a mile or so up the road, or even walking myself back to the Hubert clinic and telling them, gee, I'm so sorry I escaped before wake-up call today, leaving you scrambling around for hours looking for me, but please take me back.

I won't do it again.

I promise.

What's for breakfast?

No, these were crazy thoughts.

The voices of despair and anxiety.

And they've never done anything for me except lead me into plenty of poor decisions.

So, okay.

Stay put, Daniel Cardulo.

Thrust your thumb out and get the hell out of there just as soon as you can.

That's when I saw the truck on the horizon.

It was a rest bucket, all right.

As old as my grandfather, maybe even a couple of years older.

The left headlight was knocked out, and the bumper was lashed on with a rope.

The tires were balder than my Uncle Ed, and the brakes squealed with a metal-on-metal sound that pleaded for a merciful death.

I'd say it was a miracle the thing was still moving, if I believed in miracles.

And I did, back then.

It came to a reluctant stop about ten yards in front of me.

The driver poked his head out the window and lifted himself above the roof.

Come on, get in!

Oh, thanks.

The driver didn't say a word.

He didn't look at me.

In fact, it seemed it was all he could do just to keep his eyes focused on the road.

It was weird that he didn't ask where I was heading.

They always do.

But no,

he didn't.

Not even a hello.

A hey there, or a grunt.

Okay,

good enough.

Just get me the hell out of here.

Finally, oh, it must have been five minutes or so later.

We spoke up.

Let me ask you something.

Sure.

You ever see a car that was struck by a moose?

What?

I said,

you ever see a car that was struck by a moose?

That's a strange question.

Well, have you?

No, I.

I can't say I have.

You see, when a moose gets hit by a car, its legs fold up like a card table.

The guy let go of the steering wheel, made an X with his arms, held it there a moment, and then collapsed the X flat.

And the damned beast topples right onto the hood, smashes through the windshield.

Well, the windshield or the roof, doesn't matter which, as far as the driver is concerned.

Either way, you hit a moose head on, you're a dead man.

Saw it happen once.

Whole thing didn't take two seconds.

Anyway, when the sky's just starting to get light, like it is now, that's when a moose in the road is the deadliest thing in the world.

Yep, just a black shadow on the black pavement.

You never see him till you're nose to nose with him.

Then, bam!

You hit him square on and he ends up on your lap.

And your lap ends up in the back seat under 900 pounds of moose.

Uh-huh.

I tell you, these back roads can be deadly.

Not just because of a moose, either.

No, you have to be careful of black ice on Route 16, too.

Black ice, rain-slick roads, fog, and sharp curves that come out of nowhere.

This road has them all.

Tombstone every mile, as they say.

The right headlight, the only one he had working, was out of alignment and pointed up toward the top of the trees.

I didn't see an inspection sticker on the truck.

There couldn't have been been one.

Of all the cars that might have come across to rescue me, this one was screaming at the top of its lungs for the cops to pull it over.

Ever see a car go off a cliff?

No.

Oh, amazing sight.

Absolutely amazing.

People get thrown completely out of it as often as not.

Skulls will find a rock to land on every time.

You can bet on it.

Wham, smack, scrambled eggs.

So, what are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?

Where are you headed?

Oh, I'm going to see, um,

see my brother.

Yeah?

Well, what's his name?

I probably know him.

Probably not.

What's his name?

Just moved here.

He's from out of state.

I bet I know him.

What's his name?

John.

John?

Johnson.

John Johnson.

No, I don't know that name.

Say, does he like pie?

I could sure use a slice of pie.

You suppose he has any at his place?

Where does he live?

No, it's a funny thing.

He hates pie.

Hates pie?

Nobody hates pie.

Well, he sure does.

Hates it.

Listen, you ever see a guy that's drowned?

That's the weirdest sight I ever seen.

All drowned, bloated, and kind of blue.

And his eyes bulging out of his head and stuff.

You ever seen that?

Tongue hanging out of his mouth?

Blue tongue?

Ever seen that?

No.

Weirdest sight I ever seen.

Uh-huh.

Whew, fog's starting to roll in.

I see that.

Thought I might just be seeing things at first, but it's coming in for sure.

Coming in heavy.

Sure is.

Think you might want to slow down a bit.

The fog's getting thick.

It's hard to see the road.

Oh, don't worry none about that.

I know this road better than I know my mother's face.

Say, what's your name?

My name?

Yeah, it's Johnson something, but do you have another name?

A first name?

Um,

Bill.

Bill Johnson.

Okay.

My name's Garber.

Just Garber.

No first name.

Okay.

I figure I don't deserve two names yet.

Gotta deserve that.

Once you earn an extra name, you can have it.

It's yours.

But you gotta work for it.

Earn it before you get it.

I haven't earned my extra name yet.

Okay.

So, what did you do to earn your extra name?

I don't know.

Well, you must have done something.

You don't deserve an extra name if you haven't done nothing to earn it.

Please watch the road.

The fog's getting thicker every minute.

Why don't you have any luggage with you?

What do you mean?

Well, that ain't much you're carrying for a trip.

Nothing but a shaving kit, is it?

That's right.

Shouldn't you have more than that if you're heading off on a trip somewhere?

It's enough.

How come your brother hates pies?

Everyone loves pies.

My favorite is cherry.

Please watch the road.

Slow down and watch the road.

I can't see five feet in front of my bumper now.

This is is the heaviest fog I ever seen.

Okay, so slow down then.

You want to get where you're going in one piece, don't you?

Watch this.

See that?

I turned off the headlight, and now we can see a lot better.

Put the light back on.

But I can see the road a lot better now.

That headlight was tilted right up to the sky.

Couldn't see a damn thing with it on.

But no one can see you with it off either.

Someone's gonna come along and plow right into us.

You see anyone else on this road?

No.

No, we're the only fools on this road right now.

Anyone else trying to drive through this soup has pulled over long ago.

And you know what?

Yeah, that's just what we're gonna do.

All right, good, but don't stop in the middle of the road.

Pull over.

No need to do that.

Nothing's coming this way.

Get off the road.

Let me show you what I got in the back of the truck.

Fine, but let's get off the road first.

Please, come on.

I've been a busy man.

Let's get the truck off the road, okay?

Holy fuck.

What is that?

Raccoon.

Found him on the road last night.

What are you doing with it?

Why are you lugging that thing around?

Why'd you toss him into the back of your truck?

Picked him up just last night, poor fellow.

He needed to be rescued, just like I rescued you.

That's what I do, you know.

I rescue things from the side of the road.

All kinds of things.

Hey, damn it!

Another one?

What's that thing?

A cat, I think.

Anyway, that's what it was about a week ago, I suppose.

But he's been kind of picked over, so I don't know for sure.

Get those goddamn things out of the truck!

Oh, well, now you're getting me all upset, ordering me around like that, mr.

Bill Johnson.

It's my truck, after all, and you shouldn't be telling me what to do with my own truck.

Anyway, this is the stuff I need to collect to earn my extra name.

Haven't earned it yet, so I gotta keep working at it.

He looked down at the two carcasses, then looked up at me and grinned.

I backed up further onto the gravel.

This fellow is crazier than any of the patients at the Hubert Clinic.

A lot crazier.

He certainly had me out distanced.

He walked to the back of the truck, pulled back a heavy tarp, and rummaged around some tools that he had had stored there.

I couldn't see for sure what he was doing because the fog was coming in thicker by the minute, but I could make out a faint silhouette.

He picked up something from the truck bed, walked around the tailgate, and started heading my way.

As he got within four feet, I could see what was in his hand.

It was a long metal bar.

Shouldn't be telling me what to do, Mr.

Johnson.

I stepped back several paces as he swung the metal bar at me, and I held up my left arm to block it.

His body became a faint blur again, and the fog thickened, and he stepped back.

I heard him swing a second time.

I made a guess where I thought the metal bar would be and lunged for it.

I found the bar, grabbed it, twisted, yanked.

I pulled it out of his grasp, raised it up in the air, and slammed it down onto his skull.

He stopped moving.

I took some steps back, unsteady, woozy from the pain in my arm, and suddenly aware of a trickle of blood dripping down the side of my head where the metal bar bounced up and caught me just above my left ear.

I struggled to catch my breath.

The fog kept rolling in.

It seemed like it couldn't get any thicker, but it managed to anyway.

Now I couldn't even see my fingertips when I stretched my hand out.

And with the sun just coming up above the trees, the whole world grew into a grayish haze, wet and cold.

I couldn't see where Garber was lying, and I couldn't hear a sound from him.

I couldn't see for sure where the truck was either.

I was swimming around somewhere in that gray void, but I needed to find that truck.

I needed to find it and drive the hell out of here.

But it was no use.

No use at all.

The more I groped around looking for that truck, the more I knew I was wandering farther and farther away from it.

Garber!

Garber!

Not a sound from him.

Not a sound in all the world.

Even the birds had given up and flown off.

Garber, where are you?

The blow from that metal pipe was making me woozy and sick to my stomach.

It was just a glancing blow, so maybe my full swing was enough to knock Garber out cold or maybe even kill him.

You know, I hoped it did.

I really hoped it did.

But no matter what, I had to get away.

I knew that.

I certainly wasn't going to wait around for him to wake up and come charging at me again.

And on the other hand, if he was stone cold dead on the ground, well, I wasn't gonna wait for the fog to lift and have someone show up and find me hovering over his corpse.

That wouldn't work either.

No, I had to get away.

More crazy thoughts.

More stupid decisions.

What did I think I was gonna do?

Wander blind around Route 16 for 20 miles until I stumbled out of the fog?

And then, okay, what?

Just go along my merry way?

Walk to Timbuktu?

Stupid idea.

God damn stupid idea.

But I'm real good at stupid decisions, so that's exactly what I did.

Started walking down the road into the fog.

Expecting fate to bail me out.

I guess.

I just kept walking.

I walked several miles.

Don't ask me how many.

Eight or ten at least, probably more.

And I stopped every now and then to listen, waiting to hear the sound of Garber's truck.

But there was nothing.

Not a sound in the whole world.

Nothing.

The fog kept rolling in.

I couldn't believe it could get any thicker, but it did.

I couldn't even see my shoulders now, nor the end of my nose.

The fog had me wrapped up as tight as a shroud.

I stumbled forward without being able to see a damned thing.

Well, no, that's not quite true.

I could see, well, at least I thought I could see, fog swirling around me in a hundred shades of gray, growing lighter very slowly but steadily as the sun rose.

Swirls of fog, gray and white, forming all around me.

A whole world of fog closing in everywhere all around me.

Embracing me.

Shielding me.

Confining me.

But that's all I could see.

And then the fog seemed to separate.

I don't know how to describe it any better than that, except to say it just.

well, it separated.

Patches of fog began to form in strange shapes and take on colors.

Pale colors at first, like pastels.

Very faint pastels.

Pale blue mostly.

Then pinks and yellows.

And as the fog swirled around me, more colors began to appear.

They merged and brightened into real colors.

Bright, true colors.

Not the colors of the forest around me, colors from a human palette.

And in just a brief moment, the world around me was painted onto a canvas of fog that was surrounding me.

Hugging me.

Mauling me, really, like a hungry bear.

And as it drew into focus, I could see that I was in a room with a bed, desk, chairs, a window that looked off to a yard outside.

Posters on the wall.

A red carpet on the floor.

I knew exactly where I was.

I was in my bedroom.

Or, more exactly, the bedroom my grandparents gave me when I came to live with them as a child.

Someone came into the room.

My grandmother.

Barging into the room, wild and angry.

Stop that right now!

The very idea.

Quiet you!

Who taught you to talk like that?

A 10-year-old with a mouth mouth like that?

And playing with yourself.

I caught you all right.

Wipe that grin off your face or I'll wipe it off for you.

Disgusting little pig.

No wonder your mother left home.

You've got a lot to learn about manners, young man, and there's no time like the present to start learning it.

I remembered this incident.

I d tried to forget it, but I remembered it all right.

I remembered it and I wanted to get out of that room.

This was nothing I wanted to relive, and relive it so vividly at that.

I kept walking, kept moving forward.

I walked through the wall of that ugly memory and tore it open like a puff of smoke.

But as soon as it dissolved around me, the fog seemed eager to form into a new pattern.

I ended up walking straight into another room, a classroom.

I knew it well.

My fourth-grade classroom.

I heard laughter.

Derisive laughter.

Oh,

I remembered it.

I remembered it very well.

Everyone's looking at me.

Me, bawling my eyes out.

I didn't didn't mean to.

The teacher grabs me by the arm and off we go into the hall.

Laughter behind me getting louder, wilder.

What did I do?

What did I do?

Don't act like you don't know, you little brat.

I've had it with you.

You hear me?

What did I do?

Shut up.

Just shut up.

Trapped in another another ugly memory, I didn't want to stay there any longer.

I couldn't.

I kept walking, stumbling forward, and as I did, new scenes emerged around me.

But every scene I entered was no better than the last.

How many times had I been humiliated?

Or I guess, I have to say, humiliated myself?

Why had the fog come here today to show me this?

Why was it doing this to me?

What did it want?

I'll confess, I've lived a life of unrelenting embarrassment, disappointment, and failure.

But scene after scene of disgrace was bringing all these memories alive, and they seemed to have no end.

I walked from room to room, scene to scene, entering a lifetime of regret.

This was my life story.

One humiliation after another unfolded in front of me.

As you can see, we have demonstrated a pattern that shows this young man is not fit to be in the community.

I can behave, Your Honor.

I'll do better.

I promise.

Your Honor, he's been given his chances, plenty of them.

We've been more than tolerant and forgiving.

I walked down the road for hours.

How many hours?

Maybe eight?

Maybe ten?

I don't know.

But I kept walking.

Walking from one terrible, vivid scene to the next.

From one vision of crushing embarrassment and failure to the next, coming in endless succession, confronting me more vividly than a dream.

And all these memories, I'm so sorry to say, were true.

The chronicle of a life of unrelenting failure and humiliation.

Hey, just go away.

And don't come back either.

What are you doing?

Are you crazy?

Go away.

Go fuck yourself, you creep.

Get out and stay out.

I mean it.

You creep?

Creep?

What's the matter with you?

There's something very wrong with you.

You know that?

I'm calling the cops if you don't leave right now.

You make me sick.

Leave me alone.

I said, leave me alone.

I kept walking.

There was no pain or fatigue left in my body.

I was way beyond that.

But with each insult that spewed out of the fog, there was a fleeting but vivid visual memory that hovered in front of me.

And I cringed with each insult, as though a nail had been driven into my soul.

Why are you acting so weird?

What's the matter with you?

You don't belong here.

Why don't you just go

stop being such a creep?

Creep?

Creep.

What are you doing here?

Get out.

Get out right now.

Out.

No, I don't want to be your friend.

Are you kidding?

You're disgusting.

You make me sick.

You give me the creeps.

Don't come back.

I mean it.

This isn't working out.

You need to leave.

I'm going to have to let you go.

Yes, you're fired.

Can't you control yourself just a little?

Okay, that's it.

You're fired.

Fire.

Creep.

Get out of here.

Get the fuck out.

Stop that.

Stop.

You're disgusting.

I just go away.

Don't come back either.

What are you doing?

Are you crazy?

Go away.

Get out and stay.

I mean it.

You creep.

What's the matter with you?

There's something very wrong with you.

I'm calling the cops if you don't leave right now.

You make me sick.

Well, I guess you can see why I never won any popularity contests.

So now,

well,

here I am.

Still stranded on Route 16.

I don't think I could walk another yard.

I don't have it in me to even try.

But at least it looks like the fog is done taunting me.

It's starting to break up.

Those nice little vignettes seem like they finally stopped.

No,

there.

I'm being sarcastic again.

Well,

the hell with it.

So I'm sarcastic now.

Let's just add that to my lists of rotten traits.

I'm now a sarcastic bastard, along with being a creep and a lunatic.

I found a good substantial rock over there at the side of the road to lean against, and to be completely honest with you, I'd be content to sit there and rot away for the rest of eternity.

Just like all the other discarded dead growths in the forest.

All are rotten, dead growths.

Daniel Cordulo.

Dead growth.

Rotten.

I'm lying back and looking at the swirling fog overhead.

It's finally breaking up?

Yes,

definitely.

Too late, but yes, I can see.

It's faint, but I can see it.

The outline of treetops across the road.

A pale orb in the sky that is the rising sun.

Looks cold.

How long do you suppose it will be until they find Garber's truck in the middle of the road?

and come upon Garber sprawled out beside it.

I suppose that's where he is.

That's where I left him.

Look, there he is.

Where?

Over there, sitting on that rock.

See him?

I told you I saw someone.

Hey, sir.

Who's there?

Sheriff's Department, sir.

What is it you want?

We want to help you.

Oh, look at you.

You're a mess.

Thank you.

Here, take this blanket.

Let me help you with it.

Wrap it tight.

Get it over the top of your head.

That's where you lose all your heat, you know.

Thank you.

It looks like you've been wandering out here in the fog a long time.

Mm-hmm.

You got that right.

Is your family back there on the highway somewhere?

In the fog?

No.

Friends?

No friends, no car.

I catch her looking strangely at me.

I know that look.

Seen it all my life.

She knows something's up, but she's not going to tell me what she knows.

She's probably seen my picture.

The clinic's told the whole world by now that I've escaped.

She'll get me in the car and we'll go straight back to the clinic.

Funny thing is, right now that doesn't seem so bad at all.

Not anymore.

Here you go.

Get in.

Let's go to the station and get you a nice hot cup of coffee.

Maybe the cop wasn't lying about the coffee.

Maybe they'll at least do that for me before they ship me back to the Hubert clinic.

I guess it wouldn't be so bad, though, going back there.

I suppose I could use a little more time to get myself straightened out.

Just a week or two, maybe.

You know?

To get my nerves settled.

I listen to the tires rumbling and crackling over the tired old road.

Route 16.

Damned old Route 16.

Outside the car, thick parcels of fog continue to slip by, but I can tell the fog is gradually lifting because there's a faint outline now on the horizon.

I can see the dense forest hugging the side of the road where the cold, wet trees are huddling together like frightened children.

The fog's lifting.

But is that a good thing, really?

The shroud that hid Garber's truck will be lifting now, too,

revealing for all the world the bloodied corpse of the man I killed.

We're headed for the station.

In ten minutes, we can get the two of you out of those sopping wet clothes, and you can have a nice hot cup of coffee.

How does that sound?

Two?

Did she say the two of you?

My head spins toward the seat beside me.

Silhouetted against the window is a figure wrapped head to toe in a gray woolen blanket, sitting still and silent, leaning slightly forward.

Looking like the statue of a monk in prayer.

I sit quiet.

I don't dare move, move, foolishly hoping the blanketed figure will stay frozen in that pose forever.

Ten minutes and we'll be at the station.

Hot coffee and dry clothes.

Sound good?

I don't answer.

The figure doesn't either.

The figure beside me is moving all of a sudden.

He leans forward toward the driver and hovers there.

His blanket slips away from his hand, and I can see he's holding a thick metal pipe.

Say, officer,

yeah,

tell me something.

What's that?

You ever see a car that was struck by a moose?

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 McInally, 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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This audio program is copyright 2024 and 2025 by Creative Reason Media Inc.

All rights reserved.

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Welcome to What's Next for your career and for your future in healthcare.

Carrington College is hosting our biggest open house yet, Thursday, August 14th, from 10 a.m.

to 7 p.m.

Come explore hands-on healthcare training programs, meet instructors, watch live demonstrations, tour the campus.

You could graduate in as few as nine months, prepared to step into a new career.

Ready for What's Next?

We're ready for you.

Reserve your spot today at carrington.edu/slash events.

Programs vary by location.

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