NoSleep Podcast - Sleepless Decompositions Vol. 19

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Deep composition

Greetings, sleepless listeners, and welcome to Sleepless Decompositions, Volume 19.

I'm your host, David Cummings.

I have a couple of quick announcements to start the show.

The first is that our Nanocast system is back online.

If you had a membership on that system in the past, you should now be able to access and download any content you wish to keep.

The system will be going offline permanently very early in 2025, so please use this time to get the content you want before it fades into the sunset for good.

And with season 22 beginning next weekend, you'll have until the end of November 30th to join the Sleepless Sanctuary's Sleepless tier to hear all of Season 21.

Starting on December 1st, anyone joining the Sleepless $5 a Month tier will only have access to season 22 content when it comes out.

Anyone with a sanctuary level membership won't be affected by this at all.

And if you're currently a sleepless tier member, you will continue on with season 22 with no interruption to your past content.

Now, we hope to peak your interest in this episode.

And that pun works better if you know that by peak, I mean P-E-A-K,

not P-I-Q-U-E.

You see, we're scaling mountains on this episode.

And while mountains themselves don't often inspire fear, when people are climbing them or living on them, they're usually surrounded by strange settings and things in the wilderness that can bring a mountain-sized pile of horror with them.

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What if Juliet got a second chance at life after Romeo and Juliet, created by the Emmy-winning writer from Schitt's Creek and pop music's number one hitmaker, playing October 7th through 12th at the San Jose Center for the Performing Arts?

Now, dear friends, submit to the summit.

Because on this show, the tallest mountain is known as Mount Neverrest.

So brace yourself for these sleepless decompositions.

In our first tale, we venture to a very angry mountain.

At least it was back in 1980 when it blew its top in a ferocious eruption.

Yes, Mount St.

Helens was not a mountain mountain to be trifled with that day.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Jay Bechtel, we meet two brothers who return there to remember their father, who was one of the people who died in that fateful eruption.

Performing this tale are Jesse Cornett, Atticus Jackson, and Kristen DiMakurio.

So if you're asked how many people died on Mount St.

Helens on that day, you can answer about 57.

I was 10 years old when my father left us.

The next day, Mount St.

Helens erupted, and a lot more people disappeared.

I've always tried not to imagine the two things were connected in some way,

but I think they were.

The dormant volcano started to rumble a couple of months before it blew.

My big brother Jeremy and I thought it was the coolest thing ever.

Volcanoes were only real in Hawaii and science fiction movies, yet about an hour from our house in eastern Washington, Mount St.

Helens came to life.

We'd watch the updates on the news and cheer every time it released some steam or clouds of ash.

We especially loved Harry Truman, not the president, but the old guy that lived up by Spirit Lake, just a few miles from the smoking volcano.

Nearby towns and villages were evacuated, but not Harry.

He stayed, in defiance of the Forest Service and the National Guard and the cops.

He told one of the news stations, I grew up on this mountain, and I ain't leaving.

Jeremy and I would high-five when we talked about Harry.

He's got it figured out.

No one's telling him what to do.

Would you leave?

You know, if you were in Harry's place?

No fucking way.

I'd build a wall around my house.

I laughed because at 10, nothing was cooler than hearing my 13-year-old brother use the word fuck.

I'd stay too, but I think I'd be scared.

What's to be scared of, Bene?

Some lava, some steam?

Jeremy punched my shoulder.

You can handle it.

You're tough, like me.

I always hoped that was true.

On Saturday, May 17th, I asked my dad if I could stay at a friend's house overnight.

He said, sure.

It was the last word he ever spoke to me.

Sunday morning, I rode my bike home and watched thunderclouds roll in from the west.

Big black clouds that menaced the skies unlike any storm I'd ever seen before.

I scanned for lightning to try and judge how far away it might be, not sure if I'd get home before the downpour soaked me.

But nothing flashed.

The clouds swallowed everything in its path.

Raindrops never came.

Instead, gray flakes and yellow flecks started falling from the sky, floating down from the cloud that obliterated the sun.

I wheeled my bike into the driveway and my mom stood in the garage watching the sky.

She saw me pedal up and waved frantically.

Get in here, Benjamin, right now.

I rarely heard fear in my mother's voice.

She pulled the garage door down behind me so quickly, it grazed the rear tire of my bike.

What?

It erupted.

As she grabbed my hand, she looked like she might have been crying.

Wind is coming our way.

Radio says to stay inside.

Where's Dad?

And Jeremy?

Jeremy is already in the basement.

And your father is out.

Out?

Where?

He needs to come home right now.

He'll be fine, Benjamin.

She paused, and I thought she was about to say more.

But she didn't.

She dragged me down to the basement where we huddled for the remainder of the day listening to the radio, trying to adjust the antennas on the TV to get the best reception, learning as much as possible.

Slowly, the way we did back in those days.

At some point, Jeremy and I pulled a couple of folding chairs over to the far wall and stood on them to stare up through one of the basement windows.

I think it was evening, but it was hard to keep track of the time because of the darkness.

The little area outside the windows filled with ash, at least an inch of fine gray powder mixed with specks of black and yellow.

Charcoal and sulfur.

Jeremy pointed to the various particles.

Radio says it could be toxic.

Just outside the window, a small spider tried to navigate its web, its legs coated with the falling ash.

Jeremy tapped on the window.

Go find a hole, stupid spider.

We watched it struggle, its movements more and more unnatural.

Where do you think dad is?

He shouldn't be out in the ash either.

Jeremy replied without looking at me.

That's fine.

He can take care of himself.

His voice had a waver in it that I ignored.

What about Harry?

Do you think he's okay?

Jeremy turned on me then.

Have you listened to anything?

Seen the pictures on TV?

It didn't erupt.

It exploded.

They said it's maybe a thousand feet shorter than it was yesterday.

But Harry, Harry said he wasn't scared.

I heard the tremble in my voice that meant tears.

Jesus, Bench.

Harry is smoked.

The waver in Jeremy's voice was getting harder to ignore.

That's what's falling on us right now.

That mountain, the burnt trees, the burnt animals, whatever's left of Harry.

He pointed toward the outside.

The sun is gone, Bench.

Mom says it could be years before everything is cleaned up.

Are you scared?

He climbed off the chair and stalked to a different corner of the basement.

He didn't answer.

We stayed in the basement until Monday.

School was canceled.

Everything was cancelled, really.

I'd go back and stand on the folding chair every hour or so and peek into the window well, looking for signs of the spider.

Sometime early Monday morning, I finally saw it, covered in ash, not moving.

Two of its legs splayed forward in surrender.

I tapped the window lightly, hoping to see that it survived.

Tom Spider,

I whispered, trying to mimic Jeremy.

Should have found a hole.

When mom finally allowed us upstairs around noon, we peered through the kitchen window.

Light trickled from the street lamps, filtered through floating gray haze.

Ash covered everything.

The roads, the lawn, the roofs of the houses.

Faded footprints were embossed in the ash in the middle of the street.

I didn't like the idea of someone being out there walking around.

Jeremy saw the footprints too, and he pointed at them.

Hey, look, Bench.

Harry's ghost is coming for us.

Stop.

That's not funny.

They're just footprints.

Nothing to be scared of.

I could hear the waver in his voice again.

He tried to hide it under the laughter.

I squeezed my mother's hand.

When's dad coming home?

Don't go outside.

My mother nodded toward the footprints.

No one should be out in this.

The radio says we shouldn't breathe the ash.

She grabbed our shoulders harder than I'd ever felt my mom grab me.

You boys hear me?

Yes.

Yes.

Your father drove down to San Diego.

He's not coming home.

She went back down to the basement and left Jeremy and I to stare into the colorless gray of the afternoon.

Jeremy and I remained close through high school and college and into adulthood.

It may sound cliché, but I considered him my best friend.

We lived together for a few years after I graduated UW.

Then I moved to Portland for work and he stayed in Washington, in a suburb above Seattle.

Every year, we'd get together for my birthday and spend a weekend camping.

We only missed a few.

One, the year cancer took mom, and another when I was going through a divorce.

We weren't missing this one, though.

He chuckled over the phone.

This is a big one.

The big 5-0.

Where are we going this year?

You only turned 50 once.

It might be tough this year.

This pandemic thing is shutting stuff down.

It sounds like a lot of national parks and forests are closed.

That shouldn't stop us.

Might even make it better.

No one around,

some solitude.

What are you thinking?

I paused.

I'd been stewing on it for a few years, but hadn't made the leap yet.

I figured turning fifty was the push I needed.

St.

Helens.

Oh,

I'd been wondering what you might get around to it, Bench.

Have you been up there?

No.

Have you?

Claire and I took the girls maybe ten years ago when we drove over to Spokane to see mom.

We only spent the morning there.

Looks like a mountain in a forest.

Well, that's where I want to go.

Maybe we'll find Harry.

He laughed, and I laughed too.

At least, I hoped it sounded like a laugh.

We found a clearing near Spirit Lake just east of Harry's Bridge, named after the late, great Harry Truman, the one that was not the president.

We pulled the car off the road and hiked in.

The park, of course, was closed.

We joked about being too old to go to jail and having good enough savings to pay the fines if we got caught.

Jeremy pulled a small spade from his pack.

I heard you could still find ash out here.

He chunked it into the soft earth and in short order dug a hole about 10 inches deep.

Then

he hid it like a vein of gold ore in one of those old mines.

A thin line of gray running through the dark soil.

Holy shit.

I didn't think I ever wanted to see volcanic ash again.

He smiled.

Pretty cool, right?

I don't know.

It feels a little like we shouldn't disturb it, you know?

Like, that was a whole different time.

It was.

You remember that day?

Man, I was so scared.

That darkness was something.

something.

I thought that was the way the world was going to be forever.

He stood and kicked the dirt back into the hole.

Perspective is weird.

Sometimes I hope the volcano got dead.

Just like it did Harry.

It's pretty dark, Bench.

He tamped his foot down, trying to repack the hole.

But I get it.

He seemed satisfied with his work and looked at me.

Come on.

He started walking again.

It seemed quiet here?

Park's closed.

No people, no vehicles.

No one trying to get that perfect shot of the mountain or the wildlife with their drone.

We are so alone.

Of course it's quiet.

And no birds and no insects?

He stopped and gave me a surprised look.

He turned toward the trees and then back to me.

Huh.

I hadn't noticed.

Weird.

He shrugged.

We still have a ways to walk.

We hiked another three miles and set up camp at the edge of a meadow where it butted up against the young forest.

Our conversation, the occasional clank of our equipment, and the crackle of the fire were the only sounds we heard until we zipped the tent flap shut that night.

I woke the next morning in my sleeping bag, staring up at the roof of the tent, and watched a spider make its way slowly down the outside, each leg moving with intent.

I wanted to sit back up and whack the inside of the tent, send the little creature away, but my arms wouldn't respond.

I could only watch its legs screech across the nylon.

I tried to turn and see if Jeremy was awake, but I couldn't move.

I couldn't open my mouth, couldn't breathe,

and the spider crawled ever so slowly.

I heard my voice.

It screamed inside my head.

The spider's front feet opened a small hole in the tent and it pushed its body through.

It knew something.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

When they opened, the spider was gone and Jeremy was crawling from his sleeping bag.

He unzipped the flap.

Want some coffee?

We pushed the flap open, the morning sun in our faces.

We stood and and stretched.

I'll get a fire going.

Jeremy didn't respond.

He stared at the ground.

I followed his gaze down and stopped when I saw the footprints.

Gray tracks through the dewy grass and weeds across the meadow and toward the lake.

The morning sun outlined their shape against the shadow of the grass.

You needed to be last night?

Why didn't you just walk over to the trees?

I didn't hear you get up.

Pretty good.

You almost sound convincing.

Those aren't mine.

He turned to face me.

Something in his look unsettled me.

Really?

Are you messing with me?

I patted him on the shoulder.

I get it.

A fun happy birthday prank for your little brother.

He stared at me.

Seriously, those aren't mine.

He knelt and looked more closely at the tracks.

Maybe a deer or an elk?

He spoke without much conviction.

We both knew they were no animal prints.

He touched a track, twice as big as his hand.

What are you wearing?

Uh, timberlands.

Me too.

He rubbed his finger against his thumb.

This looks like the tread I had on my rock ports when I was a kid.

And this.

He showed me his finger.

This looks like ash.

We followed the trail for a a little over a mile.

Jeremy carried his rifle and I watched our position with the GPS on my phone.

Then the prints vanished.

I don't mean they faded out or became hard to track.

I mean it was as if whoever made them simply flew away.

Footprints, then no footprints.

Neither of us spoke.

Somewhere behind us, near our camp, a bird screeched.

And we both twitched at the first sound we'd heard in several hours.

Well, that's fucked.

Stranger walks through our camp last night and disappears.

You sure wasn't you?

Jeremy looked over his shoulder at me, his face lit by the sun behind us.

Yes, I hid some old boots away and hiked out here in the middle of the night, then flew back to camp so there wouldn't be any tracks the other direction.

You're right.

This is fucked.

He nodded, then grinned.

Maybe it's Harry.

Yeah,

that's almost funny, but I'm not a kid anymore.

And despite the morning sun beating down on us, I felt a chill push through me.

We walked back toward camp.

The insects and birds, even the creaking of the forest, returned like someone had flipped a switch.

I could make out the tent in the tall spring grass when Jeremy spoke.

You really think the volcano got dad?

Oh, mom said he moved to San Diego and got remarried.

I know, but what if she just said that?

I mean, what happened?

Why'd he leave?

Where'd he go?

Jeremy stepped on one of the footprints.

They faded as the morning sun dried the grass and the light wind pushed the ash away.

We agreed to never look for him.

Fuck him, right?

But sometimes,

don't you just get curious?

Look,

it's my birthday, man.

We've spent too much time this weekend, our whole lives, talking about dad.

Jeremy put a hand on my shoulder and nodded.

We walked a few more steps like that before I spoke again.

The ash.

It got him.

It swallowed him up.

It took him away.

I looked at Jeremy.

That's what happened.

My brother raised his face toward the vast expanse of blue above us.

I can live with that.

Each of us tried to pretend the footprints meant nothing.

Just some other dude catching some solitude, knowing the park would be closed and empty.

We hiked, took pictures, cooked a delicious campfire meal, drank beer, and watched the embers burn burn down to nothing.

We tried to outdo each other, identifying constellations.

Eventually, we climbed into the tent, zipped the flap shut, and slipped into the sleeping bags.

You got your rifle?

Damn straight.

We both laughed.

It reminded me of our laughter 40 years earlier.

The sun was already warming the tent when I woke the next morning, after probably one too many beers the night before.

The smell of the coffee and the crackle of a new fire filled the air, Jeremy already up and starting the day.

I rolled onto my back and stared up at the top of the tent.

It was covered.

With the spider from the morning before

and about 200 of its closest friends.

Thousands of legs scratched along the nylon, their shadows elongating as the mass moved down the side of the tent toward the open flap.

My arms and legs were frozen in place.

I tried to raise my head to call for help.

Jamie!

I clenched my eyes until fireworks danced across the inside of my eyelids.

I counted to ten and opened them again.

The spiders were gone.

I kicked out of the sleeping bag and scrambled from the tent into the morning air.

It was no different than the day before.

Clear blue skies, a pot of coffee percolating on the campfire.

Warm sun hitting the side of my face.

I breathed it in.

A good 50th birthday.

Spiders notwithstanding.

Where's the mugs?

I crouched, digging through the packs.

My brother didn't answer, and I stood and scanned the tree line.

Jeremy!

Then I saw the footprints.

Like the morning before, they were heading away from camp, except this time, there were two sets, side by side,

both filled with gray ash.

Jeremy!

Harry!

I don't remember how long I stood there, not believing what I was seeing.

I followed the footprints for almost two miles before they vanished.

I screamed Jeremy's name, staggered through the surrounding area, and ran in ever-widening circles, sure I'd find something.

I searched for five hours, certain that he was going to appear from behind a tree or a rock, laughing hysterically, positive that the volcano couldn't have taken someone else.

I rubbed the ash from the tracks between my hands, hoping to appease Harry or whatever walked through the deserted forests surrounding Mount St.

Helens.

At one o'clock, I stumbled back into camp and slumped to the ground next to our fire pit.

I cried.

I steadied my voice.

And I used the last of my phone's battery

to call for help.

It took the Forest Service team almost two more hours to get to me.

I tried to show them the footprints, but the sun and the wind had erased any evidence.

They searched for two weeks.

No trace of Jeremy was found.

The police asked a lot of questions.

So did Jeremy's wife, Claire.

I think the police believed me pretty quickly.

Jeremy had simply disappeared, walked out into the forest at night, and was attacked by something or had fallen into one of the deep ravines that appeared after the eruption.

They were confident his body would be found eventually.

They offered their condolences and fined me for being in the park.

Claire was a different story.

She was convinced I'd done something horrible.

At the very least, that I was responsible for taking Jeremy out into the wilderness where he could disappear.

She refused to return calls or emails.

She had a lawyer contact me to let me know if I didn't stop trying to get in touch with her.

There would be a restraining order.

Or worse.

And that's been two years now.

I often think about the volcano and how the official count has been debated.

Most places report that about 57 people died in the explosion that day back in 1980.

Some of the presumed dead may not have actually died, and some that went missing may not be in the body count.

I wonder if a car on its way to San Diego ever made it.

I wonder how many more people the mountain has taken since then.

I no longer sleep very well, and

if I'm being honest, it's been a lot longer than that.

Close to 42 years that I wake up and see spiders crawling across the ceiling.

I never told my brother

or my ex,

or my mother.

Sometimes I squash them with my shoe.

Other times I close my eyes again and hope they go away.

I think about the spider outside the basement window the day the ash came.

I quit my job in Portland last week before they could fire me.

I put my house on the market.

I told the realtor to give the money to Claire.

Tomorrow, I'm getting in my car.

I'm driving up to Washington and to that volcano.

The one that took my dad.

That took my brother.

Evaporated Harry Truman.

I'm going to take a tent into a distant meadow and wait for a thing

that makes footprints.

filled with ash.

I hope whatever took my father and my brother will take me.

I hope.

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In our final tale, we join a man in the Black Mountains of North Carolina.

He's at the family cabin and looking forward to a week of solitude.

And in this tale, shared with us by author Jay Hodgkins, the man can't help but remember his father's playful warning about the spooky woods.

I mean, surely he's not really being watched.

I'll join Graham Rowett, Mike Delgadio, Dan Zapula, and Atticus Jackson in performing this tale.

So enjoy the forest and the quiet.

Just remember, there may be eyes in the woods.

Dad shuts the trunk of his elephantine SUV, finally, finally ready to leave.

Well, bud, the cabin's all yours.

You got the list of everything to clean and close up when you leave.

He's gone over the list five times in the last 24 hours, and knows very well he left it stuck to the mini-fridge of his petite A-frame cabin.

The snowbird is headed back to Florida for winter, and the main condition for me getting a week of solitude nestled in the autumnal bliss of the western North Carolina mountains was agreeing to complete a 48-point winter readiness checklist.

Yep, it's right where you left it.

Any questions for me before I go?

No, Dad, I got it.

He gives me a warm hug, the kind I have no recollection of ever receiving as a child, and gets into the SUV.

He makes it 10 feet before he hits the brake, wheels grinding into the gravel drive.

He rolls down the window and leans out.

Oh, hey, bud.

Yeah, Dad?

It gets a little creepy out here at night.

You sure you're going to be okay by yourself?

Boy, you used to get scared of the dark as a kid.

Remember that?

Teasing and traumatizing.

Now there's the dad I know.

Yeah, Dad, I think I can handle it.

Well, I'd lock up the doors and close the curtains at night just to be safe.

These woods have eyes.

Spooky.

With that, he pulls down the drive, and I stand completely still until I can't hear the crunch of gravel.

When the sound is gone, I close my eyes and breathe deeply.

All I hear is nature.

Wind rustling through the dry autumn leaves, water cascading over rocks, down a streambed somewhere in the distance.

Birds rustling in the hollow straw bones of the season's last wildflowers.

To this orchestra comes the rapid thudding of feet.

Wendy, my Weimeriner, sprints down the gravel drive from up the mountain.

She's back from her morning visit to Pete, the retired guy in the last cabin on the road who feeds her leftover bojangles.

Hey girl.

I open my eyes.

She bounds into me with a full head of steam, then stares at me with crazed yellow eyes and her tongue drooping out of her mouth as I keel over.

Oh, Jesus, Wendy, easy girl.

She pounds her front paws into soft earth, then sprints in a circle around the grass lawn in front of the A-frame.

The zoomies.

It's how my soul feels as I look around.

Yellow and red leaves circling to the ground like confetti.

Nature celebrating the end of another year of life.

The towering ridge of 6,000-foot peaks, topped with a dark frosting of fir trees, cutting off half the sky.

A nearly full moon out in the daylight sitting above the ridge line like a cherry on top.

The smaller mountains hugging in closer, a colorful patchwork quilt wrapped tight around the cabin.

Finally, free of entertaining Dad, I grab Wendy's leash to take her for a walk.

At the end of the gravel track, I look up the road.

And I mean, up.

Straight up a spur of the Black Mountains under the shadow of Celo Knob.

We march past luxury vacation cottages, modest but well-kept homes, simple log cabins, A-frames and rusting trailers with bric-a-brac-strewn lawns.

Towering poplars loom over everything, forming a golden dome.

Wheezing, I wonder at every twist if it could be the last until we finally come to the end of the road.

There's a stillness here that feels everlasting.

It's like a painting of a forest.

A trail continues on, past the end of the road.

An old logger's road, more like, heading in the direction of Ceelo Knob.

The road in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, haunted by the headless horseman, springs into my mind.

I feel watched, like the woods really do have eyes.

I take a few steps into the forest, Wendy pulling me in a new wave of excitement when the extent of the darkness sets in.

I look at the time on my phone and realize it's too late to go bushwhacking up the mountain.

It's almost dark when we get back to the A-frame.

I let Wendy putter around the yard.

She weaves back and forth, tail wagging, then suddenly goes stiff.

The hair raises on her back.

There's a deep pitch in her growl I've never heard before.

A track where she's looking.

And I don't see anything except...

except.

Except an odd, short, stumpy tree covered in dead vines in the woods just beyond the front yard.

I'm surprised I haven't noticed it before.

Such an odd little tree.

But there are plenty of dead, stunted trees in those woods where my dad has girdled them to preserve his views of the mountains.

Here, Wendy.

She ignores me.

Instead, opting to bark at the tree.

She does this sometimes.

I think she might be half blind.

She barks at plastic bags blowing down the sidewalk.

She once stalked a particularly large maple leaf like it was prey to be hunted.

Wendy, here!

She lets out a weaker bark of protest.

Now!

She runs to me on the porch and takes a treat from my hand, but she's still agitated, sniffing at the air and pacing in circles.

Freaked out, I drag her inside by the collar, lock the door, and close the curtains.

Congratulations, Dad.

You win.

The next morning is sublime.

Cold, bright.

Golden light zigzags across the wrinkled face of the mountain to the south, stripes of full color exultant in the sun's rays.

Wendy patters across the frosted grass to the edge of the woods, but finds nothing to dislike.

I can't even make out the shape of the odd tree.

Everything looks so so different in the light.

Wendy runs up the gravel track to Pete's, and a few minutes later he's driving down the hill in his truck with Wendy hot on his heels.

Hey, partner, enjoying the peace and quiet without your dad.

You bet?

Well,

I'm going to run into town and get some bow jangles.

For me, your little Wendy.

You need anything?

No, thanks, Pete.

I'm good.

All right, partner.

Catch you later.

Pete hits the gas, and his truck ambles down the path.

Pete gets it, I think to myself.

When a man comes this deep into the woods, he's looking for solitude.

Time to slow down because everywhere else feels so sped up in this god-forsaken world.

And just like that, everything does slow down.

I read the book that was supposed to take me all week to finish.

I stroll around the woods with Wendy, lay out on a blanket in the warm sun.

By the time the shadow shadow of the forest stretches over the yard, I feel completely relaxed.

Life, work, girlfriend, family woes, feelings of self-doubt, all 1,000 miles away.

I'm so relaxed, I unzip my pants and pee over the porch railing onto my dad's rhododendrons.

It feels good, relieving myself as a cold gust of air swoops down the mountains with their shadows.

When I step inside, I hear a voice and freeze.

It's Dad's voice, coming from the little security system speaker next to the wireless router.

Hey, bud, I know nature calls, but would you mind not peeing on the rhododendrons?

I click a button on the device so I can answer.

Jesus Christ, Dad, are you watching me out here?

Dad showed me the cameras set up by the front and back doors before he left.

Just for security, he said.

Oh, by the way, I can talk to you through that little doodad over there.

Sorry, bud.

I just wanted to make sure you were getting along okay.

Not okay, Dad.

What if I want to sit on the front porch naked?

Do I have to worry about you literally beeing up my ass?

I swear to God, I'm shutting off the cameras if you're going to sit at home looking over my shoulder the whole time I'm here.

No, no, no, don't do that, bud.

I won't check the feed anymore.

I promise.

Seriously, Dad, I mean it.

So, how'd your first night go?

Did you get spooked?

Bye, Dad.

I flick off the modem, just to make the threat real, and don't turn it back on until I'm sure Dad would have stopped waiting for the video feed to come back.

The exchange took me out of my newfound mountain groove.

But after grilling up a few brats and downing a couple beers, I fall back into the slow rhythm.

Lying in bed, reading some formulaic spy novel Dad left behind, it's almost perfect, except for the sound of country dogs baying all through the hills.

Wendy starts whining, pacing, sniffing, scratching at the back door.

Without thinking, I reach from the bed and open the door.

Wendy sprints out, but immediately skids to a stop.

She bays with a ferocity that echoes for miles, that silences the lesser country dogs up and down the valley.

I roll out of bed in my underwear, quick as I can, out the door just in time to see a black bear crashing through the edge of the porchlight into the dark forest beyond.

Dad's small camp grill lies on its side.

Shit.

I forgot to clean it and put it back in the shed.

The smell of grease lured the bear in, and Wendy almost paid for my mistake.

If she hadn't been able to scare the bear more than it scared her.

Shit, shit, shit.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She's still baying, threatening to run off the porch, out of the light, into the woods.

But she holds her ground, smart enough to know a losing cause when she sees one.

Good girl, Wendy.

Here.

Wendy, here.

She winds her way back into my arms, nervously wiggling her tail and backside in the way Weimariners do when they're sure of you.

but nothing else.

I have a hard time getting to sleep after that.

All I hear are bumps in the night, acorns and twigs dropping on the A-frame and rolling down the roof, which I imagine to be monsters and aliens.

Dad must be laughing his ass off now.

A new morning.

Better than the last.

Crisp, luminous, brilliant.

It is heaven on earth.

But I'm tired from a night of fitful sleep.

I lounge my way through the day, restless, angry at myself for not making more of my precious little time here.

I should be hiking, writing, thinking about the future.

At least throwing up the hammock and lying back in the sun.

Wendy doesn't help my mood, expressing her utter exasperation at my do-nothing state.

It takes me all day to get the resolve to do anything.

But when the clock strikes 3pm, I realize there's just enough daylight to explore the old log road all the way way up to the ridge line, if it goes that far, and get back down before dark.

We drive this time, and I park in the gravel circle where the road ends, nose of my little blue hatchback pointed up to the trail.

Peering up that lonely tunnel, I'm surprised it's just as dark in mid-afternoon as it was when I came upon it two evenings ago.

Out of the car and a quarter mile into the woods, I feel my spirits lift as the trail leads us directly up up the mountain, gaining altitude at a rapid clip.

This could turn out to be the easiest of many hard ways to get to the mighty ridge line of 6,000-plus-foot peaks above.

I let Wendy off her leash and watch her sprint ahead.

I put her leash and my vest in my backpack and sip water from my bottle.

It's oddly warm here in this holler where the wind doesn't blow and the sun can't reach.

Feels like summer.

It even sounds like summer.

The sound of bugs in the forest is all wrong.

August, not October.

I catch up to Wendy hovering over an odd sight.

It's a wild grapevine, at least 100 feet long.

It's been cut and rolled up like an oversized garden hose, laid right in the middle of the trail.

It looks like some kind of grim Christmas wreath, lying there to greet all who might pass, or to warn them.

Another hundred yards up the mountain, the road splits.

In the crook of the fork in the road, there are signs of people.

Two old cans flattened next to slices of logs placed like seats.

Cinder blocks stacked into a U-shape.

Burnt cans strewn amid the black ashes of the makeshift fireplace.

I hold my hand over the ashes, which are cool.

I check out the flattened cans.

A monster energy drink and a soda can.

Maybe it's just kids from down the road, coming coming up here to goof off or escape another beating from their red-necked daddy.

Despite myself, the feeling crawls up my spine.

Not for the first or last time, I feel watched.

I forge ahead, more aware of my surroundings now as I take the road to the right, the road that bears toward the slope that leads up to Silo Knob.

In this direction, the old log road quickly shows its age.

Where rocks, ruts, and gravel marked the way before, now the road blends into the forest under a layer of soft duff from years of decaying leaves.

But its contours are still easy enough to follow, around a steep slope rising to my left that drops down on my right into a deep gorge, filled with moss-covered boulders and the sound of rushing waters.

Soon enough, the old road becomes soft and muddy as it rounds a curve of the mountain across a trickle of water, where the source of the stream bubbles out of the earth.

In the mud, I note footprints.

A lot of footprints.

Wendy sips water, standing on a walkway of stones placed carefully across the spring.

On the other side, the path rises again, more overgrown, less distinct, into a sliver of sunlight that has managed to weave into the holler.

Ahead, I notice Wendy start to get excited, zooming on and off the trail.

She's caught a scent.

Wendy, here!

But I've lost her to instinct.

She takes the scent up the trail, higher up the slope, over a crest, and she disappears.

Wendy, here!

I stop to listen for her, for the sound of paws trotting through crackling autumn leaves.

But it is silent.

I take a few more steps.

Wendy!

Pause.

Silence.

Here!

Pause.

Silence.

Let's go!

I start to run up the slope.

I'm almost to the crest when I hear the sound of her feet thumping back down toward me.

The path flattens out just as she reaches me, and, annoyed as I am, I rub her head and give her a treat.

Whatever she found, her breath smells awful.

I look ahead to see where the path leads, but it has disappeared.

What I see instead takes a moment for me to understand.

There's a hammock, a tarp, some objects that don't belong in the woods strewn here and there.

It's a camp, but not much of one.

I don't see anyone, and I don't wait around to either.

Okay, Wendy, this way, I say, loud enough for anyone at the camp to hear me and know I was on my way.

We walk back down the path, down the slope.

I feign nonchalance, pretending to take in the forest and the stream while scanning for figures in the woods.

I don't look back.

I wait until the path curves over and around the spring and points back into the sliver of sunlight.

I look up the hill from where we just came, straining my eyes in the light, and amid the silhouetted trees, I see the black shadow of a man

standing there at the crest of the hill.

I don't look twice and continue my nice, steady pace.

Relaxed, not threatening, just a man on a walk in the woods with his dog.

My mind is turning shadows into ghosts until we get back to the fork in the road.

Only one flattened can, the monster energy drink, lies next to the log stools.

A normal person might take a hint and exit stage left, down the rutted path to my hatchback, but I'm not about about to let a prime shortcut to the ridge go undiscovered, nor let there be any truth to my dad's taunts that I'm still a chicken shit little boy.

I go right, up the road not yet traveled.

I think about living out here in a hammock.

No real shelter, freezing nights already in October.

How bad do things have to be for that to be your station in life?

I allow myself that one little bit of fantasy, that one little instant of wandering mind, and I'm frozen stiff when I come back to the present.

I don't even really see it at first, but I know something is wrong.

Wendy knows it too.

She stopped by my side, sniffing at the still air.

Yet again, I should just turn the other way.

Come on, Wendy, let's go and book it down the path.

But what I see is so confounding.

I continue to stare.

My mind can't quite put the puzzle pieces together.

Is that a man?

No, it's a tree.

No, it's a man wearing camo.

It's a man wearing camo and he's in the tree.

It is hunting season.

Is he hunting?

Why isn't he saying anything?

Oh shit.

It's a man in camo and he's hanging from a tree.

He hanged himself.

Despite myself, I take two steps forward for a better look, around a big tree obscuring the view.

The tree hunter-hanged man disappears behind the big tree for just a moment.

And in that split second, it changed.

Now it's just a tree.

I look harder.

Wendy still isn't moving.

A little closer.

Other details come into focus.

Objects.

More objects that shouldn't be in the wood.

A tent on the ground, camouflage pattern, barely noticeable.

Everything is camouflaged, and this camp is more substantial.

I don't wait for my eyes to make sense of it all.

I turn and walk away, and Wendy follows.

Good dog.

Down the mountain we walk.

Slow, non-threatening.

Just a man who saw nothing walking in the woods with his dog.

But I do see.

I stay vigilant, focused the whole way down.

And I see the figure in the woods off to my right.

Still.

So still.

I don't dare turn to get a better look.

Wendy runs far ahead, sticking to the trail.

Good dog.

I don't think I'm ever going to get out of that dark tunnel until, finally, I see a glint of blue, the hood of my hatchback shining through the bleak grey tree trunks and muted yellow leaves.

I finally allow myself to pick up the pace, almost out of this meth head, axe-murder paradise.

Steps away from the car, at the gaping maw of the forest that I thought might swallow me and never let me out.

A man is snooping, looking in the window.

I startle, but my read on him is different.

A civilian.

I noticed what I missed before.

A mailbox and driveway off to the side.

The last cabin at the road's end.

Hello there!

Wendy is already sniffing him, and the man pats her on the head.

This your car?

Yeah, that's me.

Just went on a little hike with my dog.

Thought we might see if there was a way up to Ceelo Knob.

Oh, no, you don't want to go too far up that way.

You not from around here?

I'm staying at my dad's cabin for a bit down on Country Meadows.

As soon as I say it, I regret it.

Even though this guy looks harmless, in his bright flannel shirt and poorly fit jeans, there are less than ten homes on the gravel track called Country Meadows, and only one with a blue hatchback parked out front.

Other than Pete, no one is more secluded, more deeply pressed back into the woods, into the mountain, alone.

I'm rattled enough when we get home that I put down a couple of beers.

I unzip my pants and unload a not insignificant volume of those beers on Dad's rhododendrons.

Dare you to say something, Dad.

Dad.

It's colder tonight.

I can feel it already.

On my face, my fingers, my exposed parts.

I revel in it.

Cold, fresh mountain air makes me feel alive, alert.

Under the light of the full moon, the forest beyond the yard is equal parts black and silver.

I see the weird tree again.

silhouetted there under the large maples and elms.

Everything looks different in the dark.

I notice Wendy won't leave the porch.

Don't you need to pee, girl?

Go pee.

She patters to the sliding glass door, pokes it with her nose, then scratches at the glass.

Fine, have it your way.

I'm not letting you out in the middle of the night, though.

When I get into bed, Wendy snuggles in tight.

She presses so hard it's uncomfortable.

but I don't mind her warmth, and I can't ever seem to turn away her love, even when it makes me go numb.

She wakes me up in the middle of the night, licking my face, stomping all over my body from my chest to my balls.

I should have known this dog's bladder would never make it without her last pea break.

I throw on joggers and a zip-up hoodie and step outside, barefoot and bare chest.

The porch is already frosted over.

Wendy ambles one step off the porch and leans into a mighty pee.

I laugh at the relief on her face, clear in the moonlight.

I look up to that beautiful full moon, floating above the pitch-dark face of the western slope of the Black Mountains.

I follow its beam of light down into the yard, an illuminated pond of quicksilver punctured by twisting sculptures.

The dogwood tree, the Forsythia bush, the hydrangea.

The weird little tree.

But the weird little tree is no longer in the woods beyond the yard.

The weird little tree is now in the yard, where it definitely should not be, where it definitely was not before.

Wendy paces cautiously toward the tree, sniffing at it from a safe distance.

I'm too scared to call her back, as frozen as the deckboards beneath my feet.

A breeze tears through the valley.

like an approaching freight train, and into the trees around the cabin.

The sound is deafening.

Leaves rattle and fall to the ground.

The trunk of the weird little tree lifts and spreads out like a wave.

Wendy yelps and runs back to the porch.

I hurry her inside and lock the glass door, pushing down the floor lock for extra caution, and pull the curtains shut.

I don't realize I've fallen asleep until I wake with a start.

Morning light pours through the south-facing window high atop the A-frame's front wall, but that isn't what wakes me.

The knocking wakes me.

On the back door, which is just a few inches from my face.

Before I can even begin to wonder who would come to a cabin this deep in the woods other than an axe murderer, I hear Pete's voice.

Hey, pal, you sleeping there?

Hey, I don't want to bother you, but I'm heading into town to get some bow jangles.

You need anything?

I realize I'm I'm still in my joggers and hoodie, so I zip up the hoodie and step outside with Wendy.

She accosts him enthusiastically.

Hey, girl,

I'm gonna go get you some right now.

Hey, Pete.

Yeah, what's up?

Did you see or hear anything strange last night?

No, why?

Bears?

No, not a bear.

I don't know.

Oh,

you must mean the ghosts, then.

The spirits of the forest.

Seriously?

I'm just screwing with you, buddy.

Damn!

Your dad told me I should try to get a rise out of you.

Look, whatever it was, it's just the forest talking to you.

It's only scary because you're not used to it.

Yeah, I'm sure that's it.

Thanks, Pete.

Wendy follows Pete as he limps up a few uneven stone steps to the gravel path.

Then she trots back, content as he pulls away in his truck.

As I make coffee to try to shake off the cobwebs, the events of yesterday, the objects, the shapes that shouldn't be there, already seem like a bad dream.

I decide to cut my trip short, close up the cabin for the winter and get home today, as soon as possible.

No more turning down the wrong path.

I sit down on the couch and sip my coffee.

There are few better feelings.

I hear Wendy thump off the bed to the floor, and in a moment moment she's spinning around next to me on the couch, searching for a perfect piece of cushion that only she knows how to find.

No sooner does she find it, plopping down with a thud that knocks my thigh and spills my coffee, than she lifts her head up, alert, ears pinned back.

She stares into the corner.

I suddenly feel it too.

The eyes.

The eyes from the woods.

Inside the cabin.

I don't see anything at first.

In fact, what I see, or feel, rather, is the cold from outside.

The curtain is pulled open slightly.

The sliding glass door is unlatched, cracked open just enough to let in an icy draught.

The hairs from my neck to my knees stand on end.

Goosebumps cover my flesh.

My eyes flick back to the corner where Wendy still stares, now growling lightly, unsure what it is, but sure it's not right.

I only see Dad's old recliner at first, as it ever was, worn leather marked with coffee and beer stains.

But then I see it.

A creature.

A monster.

No.

Something much worse.

A man.

A man in a ghillie suit.

I know it's a ghillie suit because I just watched a video of a Bigfoot sighting in Colorado that left the experts at odds as to whether it was really Bigfoot or just a man in a ghillie suit.

But I'm not thinking about Bigfoot or ghillie suits.

I'm thinking about what kind of man stalks you through the night, breaks into your home, and watches you watching him from the corner.

There's only one answer to what kind of man.

I can't see his face, but I can feel him watching me.

Feel those eyes.

The eyes in the woods up past the end of the road.

The longer I look, the more I can make out his dimensions, the rise and fall of his breathing, the outline of his legs, the length of his arm, and the thing he's holding in his right hand.

He steps from the corner toward me, but stops short when Wendy bays at him.

Hackles raised.

Good dog.

Not that anything could be more terrifying than the sight in front of me.

But the thing that makes me actually jump is the voice.

My dad's voice.

From the security system speaker.

Hey, asshole.

I don't know who you are, but I've got you on tape breaking into the house.

The cops are on the way.

I see the head underneath the ghillie suit look left and right.

If you can hear me, bud, hang in there.

The cops will find this asshole and lock him up for good if he touches you.

Not particularly comforting, Dad, but it's the thought that counts.

The man in the ghillie suit takes a slow step to his left, but stops when Wendy barks and fakes a lunge at him.

I unfreeze just enough to grab her by the collar, and he holds up what I already knew was in his hand, but is still more terrifying to see in plain sight: a buck knife.

Long,

curved.

Let

me

leave.

leave.

I nod.

It's all I can muster.

He takes two more slow steps toward the back door, not looking away, not lowering the knife, then stops again.

Don't come back to our woods.

I'll be watching.

I nod again.

Wendy sits.

Yellow eyes wide and insane, low growl cycling through her chest like a record on repeat.

The man disappears behind a wall, and I hear the back door open and close.

Watching eyes, I think.

Though I never saw them, I felt them in the woods.

Like everywhere else, I won't be back, but I wonder if there's anywhere else to go.

your time with us has come to an end and you can now finally escape these sleepless tales, we thank you for joining us here at the No Sleep Podcast for our sleepless decompositions.

Join us next week for the premiere of season 22 of the No Sleep Podcast.

The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media.

The musical composer is Brandon Boone.

Our production team is Phil Michalski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett.

Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy.

I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings.

Please visit then sleeppodcast.com for show notes and more details about the people who bring you this show, along with hundreds of hours of audio horror stories in our archives.

On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening and for supporting our dark tales.

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