S22 Ep6: NoSleep Podcast S22E06

The No Sleep Podcast is brought to you by Progressive Insurance.

Fiscally responsible, financial geniuses, monetary magicians.

These are things people say about drivers who switch their car insurance to Progressive and save hundreds.

Because Progressive offers discounts for paying in full, owning a home, and more.

Plus, you can count on their great customer service to help you when you need it, so your dollar goes a long way.

Visit progressive.com to see if you could save on car insurance.

Progressive Casualty Insurance Company and affiliates.

Potential savings will vary, not available in all states or situations.

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.

Federal Bureau of Investigation, Regional Bureau Chief Gordon Cole.

That's a real mouth movement.

I can't hear myself anyway.

I'm Agent Cooper's supervisor.

Can I speak with you a moment?

Welcome to episode 6 of season 22.

I'm your sleepless host, David Cummings.

This is the sixth episode of our 22nd season.

I'm glad you're with us.

My name is David Cummings.

As our 22nd season continues with its sixth episode, I, David Cummings, am glad you're here with us for the sixth episode of...

Wait, what?

Okay, hold on, hold on.

I'm starting to feel like I'm trapped in a loop here.

Now I have to figure out a way to get out of this trap.

Yes, I dare say, the feeling of being trapped is not a pleasant one.

And traps don't have to mean you're snared in a situation you can't physically leave.

It's easy to know you're trapped if you're stuck in a basement while marauding hordes of zombies crash around upstairs in your house.

But sometimes we can be trapped in more subtle ways, like when you hear a song that will be stuck in your head for hours and hours and hours.

Ah, but only a monster would intentionally try to inflict something like that upon you.

The No Sleep Podcast is brought to you by Progressive Insurance.

Fiscally responsible, financial geniuses, monetary magicians.

These are things people say about drivers who switch their car insurance to Progressive and save hundreds.

Because Progressive offers discounts for paying in full, owning a home, and more.

Plus, you can count on their great customer service to help you when you need it, so your dollar goes a long way.

Visit progressive.com to see if you could save on car insurance.

Progressive Casualty Insurance Company and affiliates.

Potential savings will vary, not available in all states or situations.

The wait is over.

Ladies and gentlemen, the next up live music finals are here.

On September 26th, TikTok Live and iHeartRadio bring you the biggest night in live music discovery.

Streaming live from the legendary iHeartRadio Theater in LA.

The top 12 artists you've been following will take the spotlight for one final career-defining performance.

Judged by music gurus and industry powerhouses.

Tom Pullman, chief programming officer at iHeartMedia.

Beata Murphy, program director of 102.7 Kiss FM.

Justina Valentine from MTV's Wild and Out.

And viral guitarist John Dreado.

Hosted by iHeart Radio's Jojo Wright and EJ.

This is the ultimate showdown.

The judges will crown the next up live music winner and you have the power to decide who takes home the People's Choice Award.

Don't miss a second.

Follow along at TikTok Live underscore US.

And be there live, September 26, 7 to 9 p.m.

Pacific.

Together, let's witness the dawning of the next music superstar.

Only on TikTok Live.

Now, in this this episode, we're going to meet people who find themselves trapped in all manner of disturbing situations.

If you can relate to any of these, you have my sympathies.

I'm sure some form of freedom is right around the corner.

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

In our first tale, we are transported to the horrors of a World War II battlefield.

Combat of any nature can be a nightmare, but having to fight within the claustrophobic frame of a tank seems even more horrifying.

And in this tale, shared with us by author Matthew Owen Jones, a tank crew is enduring an ordeal made worse by their commander, whose obsession is going to endanger them all.

Performing this tale are Ash Millman, James Cleveland, Andy Cresswell, Connor Larkin, and Jake Benson.

So it's a life-and-death battle out there, even if you are within the belly of the beast.

Frank Reeves slowly adjusted the radio dial, searching for the frequency he had lost.

The effort seemed futile.

There had been no word from anyone since they had been separated from what remained of the third company in what felt like days ago.

It was as though the four of them were completely cut off and alone.

Faint, crackling words of a song came through the headset that made him smile.

The familiar tune reminded him of a previous summer back home.

Better times in the sunlight, with grass beneath his feet.

It's a long way to Sipperi.

It's a long way

The tank lurched suddenly, causing his hand to jerk, spinning the dial through the frequencies and buzzing his ears with a rush of static.

Reeves let out a frustrated sigh.

He braced a hand against the overhead metal for support as the huge vehicle rolled over whatever obstacle had been in their way.

Reeves' gaze gaze flicked towards the front of the tank where Commander Lewis and the driver, Harding, sat with their backs turned toward him, their attention fixed on the terrain ahead as they exchanged words.

From his position in the rear, Reeves couldn't hear what they were saying above the deafening rumble of the engines.

Along with the relentless noise, the cramped compartment was stiflingly hot.

Reeves had already loosened his khaki shirt and rolled up his sleeves, but could find no relief from the incessant heat.

In front of him, Boyle, their Irish gunner, had stripped stripped down to his trousers.

His thin, pale back and arms were slick with sweat and engine oil in the dim, artificial light.

The man appeared completely at ease in the tank that Reeves had grown to hate.

The stench of petrol and fumes was suffocating.

It made it hard to concentrate.

Tank crews were not meant to be buttoned up this long.

He found himself losing his train of thought increasingly often, as though he had been too long without sleep.

Perhaps he had.

It was hard to tell.

Among the buzz and whine of static, Reeves heard a faint murmur from his headset.

He hurriedly cut the microphone close to his mouth to shield it from the rattle of background noise.

This is tank 742.

Do you receive?

Over.

His message was met only by the crackle of static.

I repeat, this is tank 742.

Can anybody hear me?

The silence seemed to swallow his words.

Reeves listened closely, straining for some sound of response.

It hurts.

It hurts.

The whispered voice was faint, barely audible.

Reeves felt a shiver down his spine at the pain mingled with despair in the voice.

He listened intently for anything further.

The hand that clapped him on the shoulder made him startle.

The commander wants you up front.

Harding's tone held no amusement at catching Reeves off guard.

Even this close, he had to raise his voice to be heard above the engine.

The man would have had to limp over to him, dragging his bandaged leg.

Reeves could see the dark yellow stain on the bandaging where the blood had seeped through.

With displeasure, Harding noticed Reeves' gaze lingering on his leg.

Get moving, Reeves.

Harding's demeanor clearly conveyed his dislike for the younger man.

The driver turned away, scowling, as he leaned heavily on on the support chain hanging from the ceiling and returned to his duties.

That voice from the radio was eerie.

He hadn't realised how much it had shaken him.

Reeves felt the tension he had been holding drain from him, only to be replaced by other concerns.

The commander's recent behavior troubled him as much as everything else.

Commander Lewis blamed himself, but no one could have foreseen the ambush.

The Germans weren't supposed to have heavy tanks, and it had taken them all by surprise.

The sudden attack from the German vehicle had obliterated the other two tanks in their company and vanished into the fog before they could return fire.

Lewis's obsession with pursuing the German tank had pushed them well beyond their orders.

Reeves feared the commander had begun to lose his judgment, perhaps his sanity.

He had become rigid and withdrawn, obsessed with the hunt.

The others had served under the commander since the beginning of the war and accepted his decisions without question, even now.

Reeves was just a junior crewman, responsible for the Hotchkiss machine gun and operating the new radio that had recently been fitted.

His experience with the new technology had gotten him this position.

Without it, he would have found himself in the trenches with the infantry.

Reeves clambered up to the front of the tank, keeping his head ducked beneath the armoured canopy.

Up here, the air was a little fresher than his station close to the engine block.

Lewis had his back turned toward him, staring out the observation slit, still wearing his leather crew mask that was supposed to protect them from shrapnel.

Reece wondered how he could bear it in this heat.

The commander finally noticed his presence and turned toward him.

The leather eye mask and chainmail splash guard gave his face an uncanny aspect in the half-light.

Lewis pulled the splatter mask from his face and slowly focused on Reeves as though just remembering him.

The older man had a strong jaw and deep-set eyes in a rugged face.

I want you to dispose of the old shell casings along with whatever other weight we don't need.

Drop it through the floor service hatch, then seal it up.

Perhaps we should stop somewhere, find some landmarks and get some air.

I could maybe get the radio.

No, we don't stop.

Commander Lewis leveled a hard stare at him, holding his gaze long enough to make Reeves feel uncomfortable.

Reeves knew the commander's tone meant the conversation was over.

But he found himself lingering as he considered mentioning the voice he had heard on the radio.

If they stopped a while, he could maybe get a better signal on it.

Was there something else, Reeves?

A look at the man's face convinced him that Lewis would not be swayed by the few words he had heard, especially ones that held no relevance for them.

No, sir.

The commander returned his gaze to the observation slit, through which Reeves caught a glimpse of fog and blackened trees beyond the wire mesh that guarded against grenades.

It was a hellish wasteland out there.

Reeves doubted dumping weight would matter.

The effect on their fuel and speed would be negligible.

He wondered, not for the first time, if he was being kept busy for some reason.

Commander Lewis had always had a low opinion of the usefulness of the new radio system.

Its reliability was often a problem.

He suspected the commander had begun to find him tasks to divert his attention elsewhere.

Reeves clambered back towards the rear of the tank, brushing shoulders with boil as he squeezed past.

As Reeves set to work loosening the access hatch, the Irishman flashed him a questioning look.

Reeve shrugged and gestured at the hundreds of spent ammo cartridges and dozens of used shells, pointing to the hatch to indicate the commands he had been given.

Boyle signed back that he understood.

Among the churning noise of the tank and the steady thump of the engine, it was often easier to use hand signals to communicate.

Boyle was partly deaf from his years so close to the engine, and often used the gestures even when the engine was shut down.

He pried open the hatch and felt a wave of cool air that provided relief from the oppressive heat of the engine.

Reeves stared down at the moving surface of mud and brown water littered with debris a foot below him.

A nudge from Boyar reminded him of the task at hand, and together they started to drop the six-pounder shell casings through the hatch, while the tank continued to roll forward steadily.

Each spent shell fell with a splash into the muck below.

As the terrain sped past, Reeves caught glimpses of what looked like bodies in the mud.

British, French, and German uniforms, some tangled in barbed wire, all looked the same in the mud.

Behind him he could hear the petrol and the spare drums sloshing around as they crossed over rough ground.

The tank slowed over the uneven terrain, allowing Reeves to get a better look as Boyle brought over the last of the spent shells.

He saw a tangle of pale, rotting faces and limbs partly submerged in brown water.

So many dead.

Something seemed to move below in the dark, causing him to lean closer.

A trick of the shadows.

Nothing could still be alive down there.

Yet he did see movement.

A young man's dead face drew his attention, the pale flesh contrasting against the dark mud.

White, pupilless eyes flared open inches from his own, staring back at him from the darkness, making him gasp.

A dip in the ground caused the tank to lurch suddenly forward.

Reeves lost his balance and almost tumbled through the hatch before Boyle's hand clutched his collar and steadied him.

Careful, Boyle.

I almost lost you there.

Boyle's grey eyes held the glint of amusement in his craggy face.

I

saw something.

Reeves' voice trembled weakly as he recalled the hateful eyes.

He saw Boyle frown and tap his ear to show he could not hear him above the relentless engine.

Reeves began to repeat himself when the commander's shout from up front cut him off.

Gas!

Button up!

Boyle scrambled over to the cargo hooks and tossed a gas mask at him as Reeves closed the access hatch.

With still trembling fingers, Reeves fitted his mask before hurriedly joining Boyle, who was shutting the observation slits and sealing them with rags.

He always felt claustrophobic in the sack-like mask with its two small glass lenses that did little for visibility.

Everything became a blurred haze.

He could hear his own rasping breathing,

and he forced himself to control it.

Just as they had been taught.

The image of the face he had seen in the mud haunted his thoughts.

What could have done that to a man's eyes?

Maybe gas, maybe something new.

There was always something new.

Flamethrowers, bullets that could punch through armor, even planes that rained death from the sky.

The world seemed divided and engulfed by madness.

After ensuring the observation slits were secured, he braced himself against the steel plating and waited, listening to the clattering of the engine and his own breathing.

The steel rivets in the plating pressed into his back.

Opposite him, he could see Boyle in his own gas mask readying the Hotchkiss machine gun.

Buttoned up like this, they'd be firing blind, with no ability to see the enemy.

The sounds of thuds and intermittent scraping on the outer hull could be heard above the engine, as if they passed through a forest or dense foliage.

It was hard to believe there were enough trees still standing for miles in any direction to create such resistance.

The ceaseless scraping on the metal set his nerves on edge.

A sudden clamour of scrabbling against the metal just outside gave him the jitters.

This new noise did not sound like any forest, but more like a feral dog trying to claw its way in.

With the hatches closed, the only lighting came from the two oil lamps situated at each end of the vehicle.

The lamps swung wildly as the tank jolted over obstacles, spilling shadows across the interior.

Through his lenses, he sometimes saw Boyle and the others in the jarring movement.

In the masks, they looked inhuman, more like monsters than men.

Man the guns!

Suppressing fire!

All directions!

The shouted command sent a jolt of fear racing down Reeves' spine.

He clambered into the cramped gunner's chair and hurriedly checked the ammo belts.

Opposite him, he heard Boyle had begun to fire the other machine gun, the rattling burst echoing in the confines of the tank.

His lenses had already steamed up, reducing his vision further.

But with the observation port sealed, they could see nothing anyway.

Reeves slipped his hand around the trigger and levelled the mounted gun.

He squeezed the trigger and felt the instant kick back.

His mind was filled with images of Germans assaulting them, inching closer with grenades under the cover of the gas.

They were cut off from support, blind and helpless, with no infantry to protect them.

He spun the gun to ensure a wide angle of fire, gritting his teeth against the vibrating rattle.

The explosion he was braced for never came.

He heard the breaking, feverish voice of Boyle behind him.

I see you, get your hands in the air!

What I got!

Shouting something at the unseen enemy, his tone somewhere between hysteria and fear.

A sudden rocking of the vehicle made him grab the butt of the Hotchkiss gun for balance, and he flinched away as the red-hot metal singed his hand.

Reeves was suddenly struck with a disorienting sense of deja vu.

Everything felt overpoweringly familiar, from Boyle's frantic shouts to the fresh burn on his trembling hand.

The unsettling feeling lasted only a moment before it was abruptly snatched away by reality and the growl of machine gun fire.

He forcibly dragged his attention back to the gun.

Eventually, he heard the order to cease fire.

Gradually realizing it had been repeated several times until he had finally registered it,

He slowly released his tightly wrapped finger from the trigger.

The sound of the guns was replaced by the familiar low rumble of the engine and his own laboured breathing within the mask.

Outside he could hear no more sound beyond the armoured plating.

They must have broken free of the forest and passed through.

The familiar metallic stench of cordite from the guns seeped through the cloth hood of his mask.

His head still spun from the cacophony of noise and fear.

He pulled the hooded mask free from his head to see and breathe more clearly again.

With a steadying hand on a ventilation pipe, Reeves retreated to the one small bunk they all shared in shifts.

Retrieving his water bottle, he took a long draught to ease his parched throat and clear his head.

The tank ground to a lurching stop.

He saw Commander Lewis helping Harding limp over toward the supply crates, removing his gas mask and encouraging him to drink some water.

It felt strange to be stationary again.

It reminded him there was still a world out there.

He tried to remember when he had last been outside, but found he couldn't.

With the urgent need to breathe clean air, this tank suddenly felt like a tomb.

Reeves abruptly rose to his feet, finding himself standing before the main hatch.

The release handle was inches from his hand, but an ominous feeling made him hesitate to open it.

A firm grip locked around the wrist of his slowly reaching hand.

He turned to see Commander Lewis standing beside him, his face as hard as stone.

That would endanger us all.

It's not safe out there.

The commander released his grip.

That gas may linger, and that enemy tank is close.

We stay buttoned up.

Reeves felt foolish for his instinctive need to open the hatch.

Lewis was right.

It was unreasonable.

His fears and anxiety had for a moment felt overwhelming.

But still, the commander's relentless obsession unnerved him.

He was not behaving rationally.

Maybe we should turn back.

We must be far from the company, and we are unlikely to find that German tank in this mist.

Are you commander now, Reeves?

Reeves' gaze flicked to the other two men who both sat watching the exchange.

He watched as Boyle took a swig from the hip flask he kept in his back pocket.

Beside him, Harding looked pale and sick, his gaze unfocused.

Neither looked like they were about to leap to his defense.

Seeing the lack of support, all Reeves' arguments fell away.

Go treat Harding.

His bandaging needs changing.

I need him back on his feet.

Reeves moved aside from the hatch and grabbed the dented metal tin that contained the limited medical supplies they carried.

He clambered across the tank towards Harding, who sat against the armor, his face a mask of pain.

Beside him, Boyle watched with interest as Reeves gently unwound the old bandages, revealing the extent of the wound.

It had not healed and had begun to go bad.

The commander walked back to the viewport, returning his attention to outside.

I need some light over here, Boyle.

Reeves emphasized the words by gesturing at the nearest oil lantern.

Boyle unhooked the lantern, and, holding it in his hands, he crouched down beside them, leaning over the wound.

The Irishman grimaced at the sight, hissing through his blacked teeth.

The wound was swollen and discoloured.

It was clear that it needed proper treatment.

Reeves poured a little of their water over the wound, making Harding wince before he began to re-wrap the leg.

The commander says they'll patch me up when we get back.

Harding's voice was rough and filled with pain, but neither Reeves nor Boyle offered a reply to his words.

Both of them doubted the truth of the statement.

Men didn't always survive such wounds.

It's not as bad as it looks.

You need hospital treatment, Harding.

A real doctor.

With real medical supplies.

As soon as Reeves finished bandaging the wound, Harding shoved them away from him and lurched to his feet, knocking the lantern from Boyle's hand and plunging the interior in darkness.

Reeves could make out the shadowy figures of his companions in the dim light from the far lantern.

The dark shape of Harding shouldered past him as he lurched back towards his driver's position at the front of the tank.

Reeves groped the lantern as it rolled across the metal floor.

Finding it intact, he fumbled for the matches and struck one.

The glow from the match illuminated the face of Boyle standing beside him.

The ruin ruin of the Irishman's face was missing one eye, the bone of his jaw visible where his flesh had been peeled away.

Reeves gasped and stepped back in horror.

What's wrong with you, Boyle?

Boyle looked confused as he stared back at him from the horror of his features.

Reeves stumbled backward, almost tripping over the loose shell casings.

He swung away to see Harding at the driver's position.

One of his legs was a ragged stump.

Reeves gasped again, feeling his chest tighten and heart race as he backed into the tank's steel wall.

Everything within the circle of light was a charred ruin of twisted, blackened steel.

In the flickering matchlight, Commander Lewis turned toward him with hard blue eyes staring back from a blackened face that had melted away, revealing a rictus grin of teeth.

No!

Reeves dropped the match, plunging them all into darkness.

He heard faint sounds in the dark, muted beneath the incessant rumble of the engine.

Reeves trembled, breathing hard and rigid with fear.

As soft light flared to life, Reeves could see Commander Lewis holding the newly lit lantern, his gaze fixed on him through narrowed eyes.

There was no trace of the horrific injuries he had just seen.

The interior of the tank, and the others as well, now showed no signs of disfigurement.

Both Harding and Boyle sat watching him as though he were an unpredictable stranger.

Get back to your position, Reeves.

The commander's voice broke his stupor.

Reeves tore his gaze away, unable to shake the haunting vision he had just witnessed.

Reeves walked back to the small chair at the radio position as though in a daze.

He felt the eyes of the others on him, watching.

With numb fingers, Reeves placed the radio headset over his ears and stared, unfocused, at the familiar equipment.

His hand shook as he reached for the control board.

That had been no delusion or trick of the light.

He had seen them all, with injuries no one could survive.

They had stared back at him with the faces of dead men.

The shadow of someone behind him blocked out the light.

Commander Lewis gripped the console and leant over, placing his face next to Reeves' own.

For a moment, he said nothing, but then the commander began to speak after glancing towards the others.

Whatever you think you just saw, keep it to yourself.

Reeves' eyes widened as he realized the commander knew what he had just witnessed.

Words failed him as he tried to reconcile what he had seen with reality.

You don't understand.

Lewis's voice was thick with emotion that he did not try to conceal.

He did not whisper but spoke openly.

Harding was too far away to hear his words, and Oil, being all but deaf, wouldn't either.

There

isn't any tank out there, is there?

There never was.

The man's lack of denial reaffirmed Reeves' belief.

Lewis looked back towards Harding and Boyle before quietly meeting Reeves' gaze.

He began to understand that the commander had been deliberately keeping them busy, assigning them tasks, refusing to stop.

Reeves felt a cold sensation blossom in his stomach as his fears were confirmed in the man's eyes.

He recalled a vivid memory of pain and screams.

Reeves had tried to claw his way out after they had been hit, but the hatch had jammed shut and fire had swept through the cramped confines of the tank.

He had never made it out.

You know,

don't you?

You've always known.

We died

back at that ambush, didn't we?

What I know is that we are better off in here than with whatever awaits us out there.

For the first time, Reeves saw how tired the commander looked.

His hard blue eyes had dark rings and a haunted look.

He'd never before seen the commander appear so much like a defeated man.

Lewis's trembling voice was barely audible over the engine.

You haven't seen what I have seen outside the viewport.

Such horrors, Reeves.

Things that would break any man.

The commander placed his hand against the cold armor plating between them and the outside.

Out there is no place for us.

In here, we are safe.

We can stay that way.

Reeves could feel the fear grow as he began to understand.

He could feel the truth of the commander's words.

It was as though, deep down, he'd always known.

Lewis placed a hand on his shoulder.

We keep going and look after each other, as we've always done.

He watched the commander as he walked away, head bowed like a condemned man toward the viewing port that had become his obsession.

In that moment, Reeves realized he would not be going home.

None of them would ever again.

There would be no more sunshine, fresh air, or better times.

The radio crackled and buzzed of its own accord, slipping through the static,

eventually settling on an old, faded tune.

It's a long way

Amidst the melody, you could make out faint murmurs within the static.

Reeves shuddered as he slowly realized the crackle and buzz he could hear was not static at all, but countless whispers speaking over one another.

A clambering cacophony of voices that were drowning in pain

and despair.

The No Sleep Podcast is brought to you by Progressive Insurance.

Fiscally responsible, financial geniuses, monetary magicians.

These are things people say about drivers who switch their car insurance to Progressive and save hundreds.

Because Progressive offers discounts for paying in full, owning a home, and more.

Plus, you can count on their great customer service to help you when you need it.

So your dollar goes a long way.

Visit progressive.com to see if you could save on car insurance.

Progressive Casualty Insurance Company and affiliates.

Potential savings will vary.

Not available in all states or situations.

The wait is over.

Ladies and gentlemen!

The next up live music finals are here.

On September 26th, TikTok Live and iHeartRadio bring you you the biggest night in live music discovery.

Streaming live from the legendary iHeartRadio Theater in LA.

The top 12 artists you've been following will take the spotlight for one final career-defining performance.

Judged by music gurus and industry powerhouses.

Tom Pullman, chief programming officer at iHeartMedia.

Beata Murphy, program director of 102.7 Kiss FM.

Justina Valentine from MTV's Wild and Out.

And viral guitarist John Dretto.

Hosted by iHeartRadio's JoJo Wright and EJ.

This is the ultimate showdown.

The judges will crown the next up live music winner and you have the power to decide who takes home the People's Choice Award.

Don't miss a second.

Follow along at TikTok Live underscore US.

And be there live September 26, 7 to 9 p.m.

Pacific.

Together, let's witness the dawning of the next music superstar.

Only on TikTok Live.

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Now, back to the horror.

You better put some warm socks on.

Preparing to commit yourself in marriage to your true love can be a wonderful thing, but the enormity of marriage can make some people feel uneasy.

Are they the right person for you?

Can you really commit to just one person?

Yes, it can be a quandary for some.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Manon Lysette, we meet a bride who is having second thoughts on her wedding day.

Her enthusiasm seems to be waning.

Performing this tale is Jessica McAvoy.

So let's meet the blushing bride and have her tell us why she says, I have cold feet.

I have cold feet.

He's watching me from all the way down the aisle, a broad grin on his face.

He's wearing a pristine black tuxedo with a single red rose pinned to the breast pocket, and shoes so thoroughly polished you could see a reflection in them.

He's the picture of a perfect groom.

But I have cold feet.

The organ blares the wedding march, and I'm filled with dread.

I don't want to do this.

My parents each take me by an arm, wiping away tears from the corners of their eyes and whispering about how happy they they are for me, that my big day has finally come.

But I have cold feet.

We head down the aisle, adorned with flowers, as our friends and families watch on in adoration.

Everyone is welling with emotion.

I hear sobs, gasps, and whispers of what a beautiful bride I am, as row upon row finally see my ornate wedding dress.

But I have cold feet.

We reach the altar all too soon, and my parents present me to the groom.

They stand by my side to hold me up because my knees are too weak.

He delicately takes my hands and mouths that we'll be together forever now.

But I have cold feet.

I stand quiet as he reads his vows and hold my silence when it comes my turn.

I can't believe this is still happening after everything I did to get out of this marriage.

My parents squeeze my arms, and Dad nods to the groom.

He lifts my veil and leans forward to seal our matrimony with a kiss.

But I have cold feet

because they only just picked me up from the morgue.

The No Sleep Podcast is brought to you by Progressive Insurance.

Fiscally responsible, financial geniuses, monetary magicians.

These are things people say about drivers who switch their car insurance to Progressive and save hundreds.

Because Progressive offers discounts for paying in full, owning a home, and more.

Plus, you can count on their great customer service to help you when you need it.

So your dollar goes a long way.

Visit progressive.com to see if you could save on car insurance.

Progressive Casualty Insurance Company and affiliates.

Potential savings will vary.

Not available in all states or situations.

The wait is over.

The next up live music finals are here.

On September 26th, TikTok Live and iHeartRadio bring you the biggest night in live music discovery.

Streaming live from the legendary iHeartRadio Theater in LA.

The top 12 artists you've been following will take the spotlight for one final career-defining performance.

Judged by music gurus and industry powerhouses.

Tom Pullman, chief programming officer at iHeartMedia.

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How's this sound?

Taking a wellness holiday in a small isolated cottage by the seaside to escape your troubles and clear your mind.

I'll bet most people wouldn't mind staying in a place like that.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Darren Kerr, we learn of a woman who did just that, and the mystery of what happened during her time there becomes difficult to solve.

Performing this tale are Erica Sanderson and Andy Cresswell.

So try to relax and unwind.

This is not the place you want to fret.

I came here to visit the place where she had written the letters.

They were in a box file held in the archives in York Library, a great Grade II listed building that was originally home to the Institute of Popular Science and Literature back in the 1800s.

There was nothing else about the author nor their time at Stooped Brown,

just 12 letters from January to early February of 1958, wrapped in a pale red ribbon.

After reading them for the second time, I put them in my pocket and took them home.

I've never done that before.

I've never taken anything from the archives home, not without permission, anyway.

It was after rereading them at home that I decided to make the short trip to the coastal cottage at Ravenscar, which now stands in front of me.

Stoop Brow, Ravenscar,

North Yorkshire, Saturday, 4th of January, 1958.

Dear Robert, I'm writing to say thank you for encouraging me to come here and get away.

You were right.

I need this.

I was encouraged by others to stay with friends or go travelling, but you know me better than I know myself.

You always have.

Go away, Franny.

Be alone, was exactly what I needed.

The short journey from York is hardly any distance, but the winter winds on this coastline will clear my mind whether I desire it or not.

And believe me, I do.

The strangest thing about losing someone is that they soon take up residence in your mind.

I still see them in the passers-by on the high street, or seated in a cafe, or even in my own reflection in a shop window.

I find Stoopbrow Cottage small and somber, but fitting.

It sits alone on the cliffside, looking out to the slow swell and surge of the North Sea.

Around the cottage is a spread of thorny gorse, bracken and broom.

Beneath the steep headland of limestone and dolomite is a pebble beach.

White spum surges into the air when waves hit the large outcrops of beech rock.

Above the cottage, curving up the cliffside, is a winding path with steps cut into the land.

The path rises towards the heathland, levelling out before dividing into a cliffside walk or stroll inland towards the town.

It is an ideal place to take me away from my troubles, but I feel my nerves.

Nevertheless, I feel the weight of it all has lifted somewhat.

Maybe that is because when I arrived, I thought of writing to you and how sharing my gratitude would further raise my spirits as acts of kindness do.

So, thank you again, dear brother.

Yours, Franny.

Thursday, 9th of January, 1958.

Dear Robert, thank you for your wisdom.

I will indeed try my best.

I am glad to hear that you are doing so well.

If he was still around, father would have been so pleased to know all is not lost and that my condition, or in truth, my situation, has not affected the family business.

Twelfth night has come and gone, which I recall often passes with feelings of relief.

Not so this year.

Not for me.

Nevertheless, I'm comfortably distracted by my surroundings that are homely, if sparse.

There is a painting on the wall that captures the view towards town, which surprises me.

I would expect quite the opposite.

Picturesque views out to the sea from the headland.

Maybe this painting is one of two.

The cottage floor is made up of great stone slabs, like flattened headstones worn smooth by time.

The click of my heels feels intrusive, so I've taken to walking barefoot indoors.

The difference is quite something.

Cold, firm ground beneath my feet.

As I write, I am sitting at a small desk by a window that looks out to the sea.

My toes find small ridges and indentations worn into the floor over time.

With the window closed, the outside world looks quiet.

Tidal waves hush their way in.

Kittiwakes glide on the seasonal breeze.

But if you open the window, quite a different story is told, let me tell you.

Rumbling waves, the blusterous swish of flora and fauna as winds rush against the cliffside, rising up and over the heath.

Even now, in the shine of bright sunlight, there is a weight in the air I have not experienced elsewhere.

The kittiwakes, like the herringuls I can see, are not gliding in the breeze, but trying to work with the wind that plays mercilessly with them.

The sounds here are something to behold, my dear brother.

The cottage is, as I think you know, very small.

One room and a galley kitchen on the ground floor, with a bedroom and bathroom above.

Furniture is sparse.

Besides the writing desk and wooden chair is an easy chair near the fireplace.

and also the glass cabinet.

The cabinet is not too dissimilar to the one our parents used to keep their spirits in, alongside their crystalware.

This one holds mismatched glasses, alongside a bone china tea set and side plates.

If you look closely, you can see a web of hairline cracks.

There is also what looks like a miniature magnetic tape recorder, and an older phonograph with wax cylinders.

Pear's collection of Dickens' Christmas books are lined up against a copy of the English Historical Review from 1922.

Bald headphones, possibly early military, and a pair of faded, delicate lace gloves with red ribbons at the wrists are laid one over the other.

A small set of rusting tuning forks makes me wonder whether there was a musician here at one stage.

It is an odd collection to leave behind.

Tomorrow, I shall venture out.

I hope you don't mind my writing to you.

It helps, and I certainly don't expect replies.

Only to let you know, I am doing okay.

Yours, Frannie.

Friday, 10th of January, 1958.

Dear Robert,

it is after two o'clock in the morning.

I cannot sleep.

I know you would tell me to go to bed and close my eyes, but I cannot rest.

I feel exposed here and open, and that is not good.

That is when I react stupidly and act without caution.

I caught my reflection in the mirror for a fraction of a second and hardly recognized the face that appeared before me.

I was thinking of writing about our grandparents, now they have both gone.

I thought it might be diverting to record my thoughts about who they were, how they shaped our parents.

Which I think would explain what they did with us.

For we are all done too, are we not?

My mind is whirring and whirring and won't rest.

Too many thoughts at once.

Writing this to you helps.

I hope you do not mind.

You are a good focus for me.

I know I must err on the side of caution when forming attachments.

I have been told often enough.

But you, big brother, don't count, do you?

I would much rather listen to you than any doctor.

Anyway, I will try to sleep now.

While writing this, I have looked again on my reflection in the window, and there I am.

But I do not like my hair.

I have resolved to have it cut, as I had always intended.

Yours,

Frannie.

P.S.

Please don't worry.

I would listen to a doctor, any doctor in fact, if you insisted.

But the point remains, there is no point.

For there is nothing they can do, is there?

Not really.

And I think that is okay.

I need to be okay with that.

Sunday, 12th of January, 1958.

Dear Robert.

I ventured into the village yesterday, and while anonymity helps, I fear people are wary of me too.

I suppose it is only natural.

I am a stranger after all, and they know me not.

Still, I feel too aware of this, and no amount of knowing makes me feel okay with it.

When I pass a small church in the village hall, I feel I have forgotten how to walk.

Would you believe there is a convent here?

The convent of mercy, no less.

I doubt it would open its doors to me.

Much of what is here is centered around a village village square that is home to a grocer's, a butcher's, a post office, bakery, and ironmongers.

In the centre of the village square is what looks like a cairn, stone upon stone.

A memorial, perhaps.

There is no plaque.

Opposite is the blackened oak.

I wonder if they do a good Scotch egg.

It strikes me as a pleasant and comfortably parochial place.

Mostly straight faces and busy lives, it seems.

Since I last wrote to you, I've shopped for groceries, visited the tea rooms, and the library, where I met Elizabeth McGregor, who works there and has shown me a kindness.

I decided to walk on and explore the cliff route.

It took me past a second World War concrete pillbox that had split in two.

One half was still in place near the edge, looking out to sea, while the other half had fallen part way down the cliff face, readying itself for an unstoppable tumble into the sea.

What noise it might make for no one to hear.

It had no doubt been built here for coastal guards to take advantage of the clear and direct line to the horizon during the war.

The sound carries well here, too.

With crashing wave upon wave, it is clear to see why the coast has fallen away.

A formidable concrete box opened up by a landslip.

The floor of the section that remains in place overhangs the cliff edge by maybe six or seven inches.

I step into this half space, open to the air and the sea, and find myself as terrified and thrilled as I've ever been.

What a strange feeling it is to stand here.

Standing in a half room, while the other half is simply missing in front of me, inside and outside at once.

The family-run tea room is very lovely, by the way.

I had a slice of eggless Christmas cake baked in a loaf tin.

Another hangover from the wall, dressed in watery icing and topped with half cherries and walnuts.

Do you remember the Christmas where the big surprise from mum and father were eggs?

Yours, Granny.

Tuesday, 14th of January, 1958.

Dear Robert, I must tell you about what I have heard.

I thought myself mad at first, especially when I mentioned it at the village shop.

The look I got.

But it all makes sense, because I spoke to Lizzie MacGregor from the library.

Lizzie has been a treasure.

But let me start over.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

I spent Monday morning unsettled and restless, so I went out.

I revisited the pillbox, stared out to sea for a while, and then continued along the coast until I reached a farm.

It had fresh tracks of mud around the yard and a hay barn, but I saw no one.

On approaching the barn, there came a long cry that hollowed my stomach and stopped me cold.

I took another step, and then I saw what I have since learned is a commotion of peacocks on the barn's hay bales.

I have also learned of a court of crows, both from Lizzie.

The peacocks repeated the cry one after the other.

They all were looking at me, the intruder.

Then they fell quiet.

I was awaiting their next cry when I heard a distant tractor rumbling towards the farm.

I left in haste before I was seen.

How foolish I must have looked trying to leave unnoticed, shuffling away and looking over my shoulder in the most hopelessly suspicious way.

It was dusk when I got home.

Darkness soon followed, and the moonlight lit up the sea.

I sat in the easy chair and started to read a book I had borrowed from the library.

But after my day of taking in the air, My eyes soon closed.

I awoke with a start, sure I had heard something like rolling thunder.

Wide awake, with my heart thumping, I stood as the noise swept towards the cottage.

I have never heard a sound like it.

It was not thunder, but was large and low, dragging, then lifting and dropping in pitch.

I went outside into the night, noticing the moonlight shivering on the surface of the sea.

For a moment...

There was nothing.

And then the great sound swept in and over me again.

I even turned with it as it moved inland.

I quickly looked around in the hope of seeing someone else.

But I was alone with the sea and the wind, so I returned to Studbrow.

I sat at the desk and opened the small window.

After a while, I returned to the easy chair in my book and nodded off once again.

This morning, I set about my chores and visited the grocers.

The owner, a man with the hairiest forearms I have ever seen, served me.

I asked if he had heard it too.

No, he said.

Fast asleep at that time, he said.

I asked whether he had ever heard anything like it before.

This drew odd glances, and it was clear what he was thinking.

She's bloody mad, this one.

He simply said, There's lots of sounds out there, what with the wind?

I politely agreed.

It's only natural, he said.

Yes, it is, I replied.

But it felt like no such thing.

The library proved more fruitful, as I knew it would.

Lizzie McGregor smiled at me as I returned my books.

Rather than ask, I casually assumed she'd heard it and said, The noise from the sea was very loud last night, wasn't it?

She looked up from stamping books and asked whether I was at Stoop Brow.

I said that I was.

You probably heard it better than anyone else then, she said.

She had never experienced it herself, but she knew of it, and heard of others that had.

My excitement was obvious.

What do you know?

What is it?

Who else?

I fear I overwhelmed her.

She took me to the reference section of the library and pulled a copy of the quaintly named Appleton's Annual Cyclopedia and Register of Important Events.

Yes, Cyclopedia, not Encyclopedia.

And from 1899.

It documented various instances of sounds from many places that still remain unexplained.

Stoopbrow nor Ravenscar was mentioned, in case you were wondering.

I described what I had heard.

Large and vast and occupying space.

A droning, almost dragging noise that had a distant low hum beneath fluctuations in sound that were nearer.

The pitch seemed to sway rather than rise and fall, which may be the result of the cliffs, or I don't know.

It is remarkably mild for the time of year.

I explained to Lizzy that it was out to sea and up in the air, making its way inland towards me.

Towards you?

she asked.

Yes, I think so, I replied.

We drifted into conversation about the pillbox, my visit to the empty farm, and that I was simply taking a short holiday alone.

She told me about the town, the people and the cairn to which stones are richly added every year, and that many farms here are home to peacocks.

It's quite common, she said.

A common commotion of peacocks, she informed me.

I told her all about the cottage, the glass cabinet, the magnetic tape recorder, and headphones.

It was so obvious now why they were there.

With Lizzie's encouragement, my mind was made up.

I will capture it.

And when I do, I will keep it for you and everyone else to listen to.

I am excited, dear brother.

For now, I have purpose.

Yours,

Frannie.

P.S.

On the matter of peacocks, Lizzie pointed out that the birds are actually pea fowl, made up of peacocks and pea hens.

Did you know that?

I did not.

Saturday the 18th of January, 1958.

Dear Robert, for three nights I have been waiting and there has been nothing.

Lizzie visited the cottage on Wednesday and showed me how the recording devices worked.

She was convinced they'd been used many times before.

We attempted to record on the old phonograph, which has a spindle that turns a small barrel-shaped cylinder upon which a needle gently etches grooves similar to those found on a record.

The sound is scratched onto the barrel, forever captured.

It is crude, but very clever really.

Sounds that will never leave.

We had little luck with the phonograph.

Lizzie playfully interviewed me, but what emerged was a barely audible version of our exchange, which sounded like it was recorded decades ago.

The magnetic tape recorder was better.

She placed it on the desk, and plugged it in and reached for the bake-light light headphones.

What I assumed were simply screws on top of the recorder were in fact two terminals for the headphones.

She told me it had clearly been adapted.

Her fingers split the end of the headphone cable in two.

Twisting the wires around the base of the terminals, she then screwed each terminal down, fastening the headphone wires securely in place.

She flipped a switch back and forth, then plugged in a clam-shaped microphone.

She explained that I should be able to hear the sound amplified through the headphones when recording, and afterwards when playing it back.

I think she was smiling when she said, let's test it.

And so we did.

I sat there, wide-eyed, staring at her face as she gently placed the headphones over my ears, checking that I was comfortable.

Everything around me was still.

The sea calmed, the wind went away, and Lizzie looked at me and seemed pleased.

I started to say something, but she put her finger to my lips and and hushed the moment.

She started to record.

Cupping the microphone in her hand, she leaned in and began to whisper to me.

Her quiet words spoke to me as I stared at her face.

I confess I was delighted.

Our experiment was a success.

I confirmed it worked, and we both smiled.

It had quite an effect on me.

So I was set and prepared and ready.

And yet, as I said, nothing for these last three nights.

The only sounds in these early hours were my clock, my soft steps across the stone floor, and the opening of the window at my desk each time I was ready to record.

Mostly I have heard silence, but even that is unlike any other I have heard.

How can that be?

Surely, silence is silence and no more than nothing.

But it is not.

Things simply appear appear calmer and clearer.

Maybe I have found my time.

Yours.

Frannie.

Thursday, 23rd of January, 1958.

Dear Robert, it has been almost a week and I'm quite exhausted.

Tonight will be my last try and then I will stop.

After all, it could simply have been the weather, the sea and the sound of the cliffs.

It does exist though.

That much I have discovered.

It is now mid-morning and my mind is whirring again, thinking on my failures.

How easy it is to do.

We are all a bundle of contradictions.

Only some contradictions are more acceptable than others, aren't they?

This much I know.

So why do I not have comfort?

We are not coherent, but complicated and confused, and can be present in the moment, but also elsewhere at the same time.

My greatest failing is, I suppose, recognizing this.

A life with a singular purpose is, I believe, the greatest act of self-denial.

A single purpose?

We are more than that, surely.

It reasonably follows that I do not need to adhere to a single path or purpose.

I cannot help it.

I do not look for a reason to be because reason is flawed.

I want to capture this noise, not explain it.

I am no scientist.

What good does explaining it do besides strip away the wonder?

And yet...

It is purpose that is rewarded and commended like the aims and ambitions we graft onto our lives.

I do not think I truly have a purpose or an aim.

I certainly have no ambition.

I wonder what they fear, if reason were denied them, or if it escaped them.

Would it be so bad to simply

feel?

Is this not what the Romantics did?

Their experience of awe was rooted in terror and reverence and wonder as they gazed upon the natural world they wrote about or painted.

The world was a part of them, and it was recognisably beyond them too.

It was not explained through purpose or reason.

I am happy to simply see this world as a bystander, but others disagree.

So are these my failings or their faults?

I am sure it will come as no surprise to hear me say that they are perhaps both

at the same time.

It is now evening.

I'm very tired, and I see that I have been rambling.

I will set my alarm for the final time.

It is now after four in the morning as I write to you.

I awoke an hour ago, made a cup of tea and set up the recording.

I sat at the table and opened the window to a misty view and cool breeze.

I waited.

And then, my brother, something did happen.

A surge in the air broke the silence once, twice and a third time.

It appeared closer and softer than the waves that lazily lapped the shoreline.

I looked out.

and saw what I can only describe as a large mass, a discoloration in the dark night, slowly lowering itself in the mist.

I started to record, put down my teacup, opened the window wider, then grabbed my torch and left the cottage.

The gravel path crunched beneath my feet as I directed the light left and right, casting it ahead, and then behind me to the path that ran above Stood Brow.

And it was then that I heard it again.

Louder and sharper this time, Like bedsheets now snapping in the wind.

The torch was hopeless, doing nothing more than lighting up the mist in front of me.

So I turned it off to see more clearly.

I heard it for a third time, and that is all I remember.

I awoke on the floor, my cheek cool against the grass.

The mist had risen, the moonlight bright enough for me to see the ground on which I lay.

It looked unsteady, as if pulsing.

I started to move, and a great blanket of birds lifted at once, snapping their wings, cawing and crying in fright.

I screamed, and was glad no one was there to witness my embarrassment.

Forgive me.

I haven't asked how you are.

How are you?

Good, I'm sure.

You would tell me if you were not, wouldn't you?

Yours.

Frannie.

Friday, 24th of January, 1958.

Dear Robert, I must write again as the recording device did not capture what I was hoping for, but something else.

I heard all as expected, but much more too, including myself.

What surprised me was the queer feeling that comes with listening to yourself, removed somewhat.

It being me and not me.

Let me tell you all.

I made tea, sat at the desk, and put the headphones on, ready to listen.

I was staring out to the vanishing point.

The first thing I hear is my teacup on the desk.

Then the arm of the window drops onto the catch to hold it in place after I open it.

Is it not strange that when you are listening intently, you squint your eyes?

I did this, and could just make out the whisper of the sea.

Or was it the distant wind?

Perhaps both.

Next, my feet cross the cottage floor, and the door latch snaps open.

I remember walking out, not closing it.

For a while, there is nothing.

Well,

nothing besides soft breeze, and I think the sea on the shoreline.

Then there is a break in the stillness.

To be honest, I cannot tell if this is what I hear, or what I imagine.

I listen to what feels like a pause in the sounds.

Then I hear the soft crunch of my feet on the path, increasing in volume as I walk around the front of Stoop Brow.

I hear muttering.

Was I muttering to myself when I cast the torchlight around me in the mist, unable to see?

A few more footsteps, and the muttering stops.

A moment passes and then the burst of the snapping bedsheet sound shatters the silence.

It was much louder than I had experienced firsthand and I could not help but look around, checking that it did not come from within the room where I sat.

I put the headphones down on the desk for a moment and thought, What's wrong with you, Franny?

Rattled by the rush, I thought of Lizzie, and the calm confidence in her reassurances.

There is a sound out there.

It exists.

You have heard it.

I believe you, and that is that.

It matters not whether there are solutions or answers, Lizzie had told me.

This time, prepared to smile at my folly, I knew the sounds of the birds lifting from the lawn was yet to come, so I steeled myself.

But then something happened that I didn't recall.

Something else.

Forgive me, but I've just noticed the word else.

What a strange word else is.

But yes, else.

What the tape gave me was something else.

A soft knocking on the door, followed by a quiet...

Hello?

Anyone home?

The key turns.

The door opens and the click clack click clack of boots on the floor.

Footsteps into the cottage.

My cottage.

A chair pulled away from my desk.

A pause.

Then a voice.

A familiar voice.

So, so quiet, whispering my name and asking if I was here.

Franny,

are you still here?

I repeated the line myself.

Hearing yourself whisper your own name when alone is quite chilling.

Have you tried it?

Saying your own name in a whisper.

Try it.

You will understand.

Try it now.

I am sure I have heard this voice before.

It spoke again, and then I heard the sound of papers being leafed through.

The next thing was the departure of the poor startled birds taking flight, and my schoolgirl scream.

I heard myself walk back into the cottage, closing the door that I had left open, dropping the latch in place, and turning the key.

My feet pace across the room to the table, and then nothing as I stopped the recording.

And then, just as I had considered putting everything back in the cabinet, I heard Mum offer me a cup of tea from the kitchen here in the cottage.

But she was not there.

She was nowhere, and yet her voice was clear as day.

Do let me know that she is okay, won't you?

Yours,

Granny.

Thursday, 30th of January, 1958.

Dear Robert, I am fine, and I will listen.

But there is so much to listen to.

After hearing Mum in the kitchen, I have since heard you, here, telling me to open my present on that wretched day of my 16th 16th birthday.

I overhear exchanges between myself and Lizzie that we have not yet had, and now I fear we may never do.

It happens again and again.

Some are recollections, and others not.

For how do you recall a conversation yet to happen?

One that did happen, as far as I can remember, took place early one morning on holiday walking at Saltwick with father.

I could not have been more than seven or eight years old, and he was telling me about growing up there.

I hear school assembly hymns as if they were on the radio filling the room, and Julie Benton crying, sobbing, as she walked away from me when I was 15, and mum and father's nighttime arguments under their breath.

I hear it all as if I'm right there with them,

or rather, them with me.

Yes,

them

with me.

The coast is quieter, which is useful.

Yours,

Franny.

Friday, 31st of January, 1958.

Dear Robert,

I don't appear to be able to contain the sounds I hear.

There are car horns and birds and the kettle whistling and conversations sometimes all happening together no matter where I am.

It is quite disorientating.

I find myself distracted when buying groceries or when visiting the tea room.

Did she ask me what I wanted?

Or did I hear someone else from another time ask the same question?

Relaxing is difficult.

Reading is almost impossible.

I have stopped going to the library and feel ashamed at not visiting Lizzie.

I stay at Stoop Brow.

I know where I am here.

Someone is typing at my desk, and yet, when I look up, there is no one, and the room is empty.

It may be typing I have already done, or I'm yet to do.

Nevertheless, the sounds are much busier when I leave Stupbrow, so I must stay here for now.

Yours,

Franny.

Wednesday, 5th of February, 1958.

Dear Robert,

you would be proud, for I have taken responsibility.

I have been to see a doctor.

As much out of curiosity as cure, if I'm honest, but nevertheless.

I lied as to why I wanted the appointment.

Women's troubles, I said, and the receptionist understood.

I worried they would be fitting me for a straitjacket, and as it happens, when I was honest, I was practically handed one.

The doctor was baffled, but mildly interested.

He asked me why I was at Ravenscar.

To get away, I told him.

What about my past?

And was I troubled by what I was experiencing?

All I could think was, well, I'm bloody here, aren't I?

Then, how do you react when it happens?

I told him I was worried, but in truth I stop what I'm doing to check to see if it is real or not.

Are there any sounds or voices that occur more frequently than others?

No.

And you're in your late forties?

No.

Not for quite some time, actually, sir.

You are often tired or exhausted when it happens?

No.

I am not at all sure how he arrived at his diagnosis based on my answers, but he said it is quite common.

He noticed my surprise at this and said, not the noises and sounds.

They are incidental and part of a broader issue.

A hysterical neurosis, he said with confidence.

I laughed at this, which did not help.

He recommended rest, which was a feeble suggestion.

He asked if I was married.

Wouldn't that be nice?

I said to him.

When I return home, I should seek help from the hospital at Broadgate East Riding.

We were now in the realms of the absurd, but nevertheless I courteously agreed and nodded my head.

He generously offered to make the arrangements there and then.

I said my husband would take care of it and quickly place my hand over my empty ring finger, which I'm sure he noticed.

I know all too well what happens in Broadgate, and I will not be lost within those walls.

He also spoke of the most excellent benefits of hydrotherapy and how immersion may reduce the noise and instill calmness.

But who needs a hospital bath when I have the sea before me?

I shall make use of those most excellent benefits, especially the silence the sea offers.

Yours,

Frannie.

Thursday, 6th of February, 1958.

Dear Robert,

I went to visit the pillbox, only to find it was gone.

It has tumbled off the edge right where no one was looking.

I see its path has left its mark gouged into the cliff base.

And at that moment, I hear it smash into its other half, sending them both into the water with a thunderous splash.

They are sitting beneath the surface of the shimmering sea, and no one is the wiser.

Maybe they will be seen when the tide goes out.

And would you believe it?

Right behind me, I hear Lizzie, who asks, Franny, are you okay?

Now you might.

I don't know if the letters were ever sent.

The last is incomplete, with a page or more missing.

I like to think that after Stoop Brow was entrusted to English Heritage, the letters found their way to the library, maybe even to Lizzie MacGregor.

Ravenscar Library closed its doors over a decade ago.

Enforced austerity measures saw 700 closures under that government.

York inherited a lot of the local library's contents, mostly local history, personal testimonies and the like.

Maybe this is why her letters survived.

Standing in front of Stoop Brow on a late summer's afternoon, there's a warm breeze easing itself in from the sea.

The gulls are quiet.

I have the key and the desire to sit at the desk where the letters were written and read through them once more.

Even though the place is empty, I can't stop myself from gently knocking a quiet rat-ta-tat-tat before saying,

Hello?

Anyone home?

I think about taking my boots off, but don't.

The desk still faces the small window.

I sit down and take out the letters, arranging them in order,

and then whisper,

Franny,

are you still here?

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 Migolsky, 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.

Add free extended episodes each week and lots of bonus content for the dark hours, all for one low monthly price.

On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for 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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