S23 Ep13: NoSleep Podcast S23E13

Welcome to the Darkness of the Night, WNSP's overnight programming.

I'm your host, DC, back at the mic with you.

We have a great show for you this evening.

Joe will be dropping by to discuss the best fishing spots he's found lately.

And of course, we'll feature another episode of our favorite horror podcast.

Lots of good stuff in store.

But I want to start by sharing a funny story.

I was down at McCreary's pub having a couple of wobbly pops with Jerry when he mentioned how crazy my hair looked.

I guess my mop of blonde hair reminded him of Old Yellowtop.

Now, if you don't know, Old Yellowtop is the name given to a tall Sasquatch-like creature that was sighted several times up in Ontario, Canada.

Now the description of the creature by eyewitnesses closely resembled that of a Sasquatch.

However, it has a blonde patch of hair on its head and a light-colored mane.

Well, let me tell you, being compared to something like that didn't sit well with me.

And you know it, we both ended up laughing about it.

So I guess I'll be getting a haircut soon.

lest I get compared to some other cryptid.

Now, why don't we launch right into some horror stories with another episode from the No Sleep podcast?

A rustle of the leaves, a fleeting movement at the edge of your vision.

How often have you walked a forest trail at dusk, only to feel the unmistakable sensation that something unseen is watching you?

For centuries, humans have populated the darkness with creatures of legend whose existence remains unproven, yet whose presence is undeniable in the whispered tales of those who dare venture too deep into the wild and wild.

Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast.

Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast.

I'm your host, David Cummings.

If you've ever seen one of the Willy Wonka movies, you've likely heard either Gene Wilder or Timothy Chalamet sing these lyrics.

Come with me and you'll be in a world of pure imagination.

Take a look and you'll see into your imagination.

Now, in fun family movies like those, the idea of our imagination being delightful and magical, well, it makes sense.

We should encourage imaginative thoughts and ideas.

But our world is that of horror.

The imagination we seek to conjure isn't so delightful.

Hell, remember the boat in the tunnel scene in the original Willy Wonka movie?

Yeah, that's what I'm talking about.

We have for you this week tales in which people are using their imagination.

Why deal with real life when you can use your mind to see the world differently?

And while a little escapism can be worthwhile, we think you'll learn from the stories that you can stray a little too far from reality, and getting back to it isn't that easy.

But it is easy to enjoy our tales of horror, so tune in, turn on, and brace yourself for our sleepless tales.

In our first tale, We meet a man, a writer, who is in need of inspiration, of renewal, and he knows the best place for that, his old hometown.

That will recharge his creative batteries.

And in this tale, shared with us by author C.D.

Vazquez, the man's bus ride home is shared with others who fondly recall the old town, and they're all headed there for the same reason.

Performing this tale are Peter Lewis, Aaron Lillis, Lindsay Russo, and Jesse Cornet.

So couldn't we all use some time to unwind?

Especially in a town called Calm Springs.

I remember the town of Calm Springs fondly.

Its grassy hills and middle-of-nowhen charms come to me often when I find myself overwhelmed by the intoxicating buzz and humdrum of the city, when the breakneck speed of life reminds me of that old Alabama song, I'm in a hurry to get things done.

Oh, I rush and rush until life's no fun.

That's when my thoughts inevitably drift to this place I once called a home.

To its scenic hiking trails that wind through the woods, where the pines reach for the sky like hungry green giants, to the cool waters of its many rivers, flowing towards destinations that even now only live in the corners of my imagination.

Of places filled with rose-tinted memories, like Fred Dunn's Cantina, where I had my first beer at the precocious age of 16.

Calm Springs lives in my mind, a small town full of small charms.

I find myself on a bus riding I-65 to this old town of mine, seeking the relief of its small comforts.

Lucy had lured me with the idea that perhaps I was due for a visit.

No, an escape, she'd said.

To this town where I had once fallen in love with writing.

Maybe there I would find a cure for my creative slump.

She would take the girls down to Florida to visit her parents while I drove up north, looking for calm in calm springs.

You should take a bus and enjoy the view, she had insisted.

Find the words on the road.

I had agreed, packed my moleskin and enough clothes for three days and set off in the morning, making good time to catch the first bus out of the station.

My wife had been right, of course.

The mountains in the distance offered exactly what I needed, a radical change of scenery.

I could feel the words brewing, waiting for me there all along, on the road to Calm Springs.

Are you headed for Calm Springs?

An old lady with snow-white hair and fat-rimmed glasses interrupts my thoughts.

She strolls down the aisle in a flowered dress that drapes over her as elegantly as worn-out curtains.

Aren't we all?

I reply, and because I suddenly find my answer is too dry, I add,

I'm headed there for the weekend.

She accepts my reply with a coy smirk, like she's been let in on a secret.

Well, it's been too darn long for me.

I'm sussy.

Sussy offers a wrinkled hand.

I shake it, hoping the gesture won't lead to conversation, or worse, for her to take the empty seat next to me.

James, I let silence fill the space between us.

But even then, she lingers, fishing for words to kindle a conversation.

Calm Springs.

She lets the name of my hometown rest on her tongue, an unsolicited soliloquy.

I haven't been since Robert passed away.

I just nod.

Sorry for your loss.

It's such a lovely place.

And I agree, because Calm Springs is the loveliest place, especially this time of year when it is neither too hot nor too cold.

I...

I grew up there, I say, suddenly compelled by her southern warmth, inspired by her assessment of this town I love.

Sussy takes my response as an invitation.

A waft of perfume hits me when she slumps on the seat next to me.

It reminds me of my great aunts.

It smells of flowers and old age and Sunday dresses packed away in closets, equally floral and pungent.

Is that so?

What street?

Down by Sycamore Road.

Her smile lights up like fireworks.

Robert and I built our first home on that very same street.

He always did say the sun rose and set on Sycamore Road.

Lovely, lovely place.

I smile, thinking of my first home on Sycamore Road.

The one my parents had built at the end of the street, with its walls painted blue like the sky.

A set of red windows facing the driveway where my father kept his mint-green Buick Apollo, and the pristine white fence that guarded my mother's tiny garden.

We talk of Calm Springs for a bit, reminiscing about the town that witnessed the early days of my life, of its single main street that split the town in two, paved with old cobblestones the mayor had flown in from Spain, of the town hall by the plaza where Sussy's husband, Robert, had proposed.

Slowly but surely, we find connective tissue, places and people we'd both met during our respective times at Calm Springs.

Sussy's sister had owned the bowling alley where I'd claimed my first kiss.

My mother had worked with Robert in a small pastry shop by the plaza.

Now that I fine-combed the trove of memories, I realize Sussy and I have crossed paths on more than one occasion.

Back then, when her hair was not snow-white, but gilded blonde, and she smelled of fresh flowers, like the ones that grow in the fields of Calm Springs.

What a lovely coincidence, I say, feeling a little dumb for my lukewarm introduction.

What brings you back to Calm Springs?

A slight tremble in her lips gives away her grief.

Sarce produces a white handkerchief and preemptively wipes at unseen tears.

I'm visiting Robert.

I can tell the wound of his absence must run deep because she is quiet for a few stops.

She must be so lonely.

Aren't we all?

I think of the girls and Lucy, realizing that in a way I'm lonely too.

Too busy and concerned with work and money and words and empty pages to enjoy my own family.

Sussy and I make small talk until eventually she leaves for the back rows of the bus, searching for other lonely lonely travelers who may keep her company.

Her perfume lingers behind her like a snail's trail.

My thoughts go back to Calm Springs, the lovely town that brought us up and now together in this bus.

I can't help but wonder about the other travelers.

I search their faces for recognition and slowly find burrowed, deep memories that take me back to my early days.

Two rows to the back, I spot Maxine,

whom I dated once, right before prom.

Three rows to the front, I find Cruz, a bald man wearing a Yankees cap.

He'd been my gym teacher and the school's one and only football coach.

Cruz had caught me and Jimmy Hartsfield by the bleachers, cruising an old playboy Jimmy had snuck out of his father's private collection.

And The warmth of recognition washes over me.

We are all going home to Calm Springs.

Drawn back, inevitably, to its small-town charms, to the memories that had made us, one way or another, members of a very special club.

The bus makes a pit stop at a 7-Eleven off I-65.

I stretch stretch my legs, giving an occasional nudge of acknowledgement to the other travelers I just so happen to know.

The driver informs us we'll take 20 before plowing on for the second leg of the trip.

I decide to grab a snack, maybe a drink.

A tattoo-riddled clerk greets me, probably surprised at the sudden surge of clientele.

I make rounds, looking for something that captures my attention, thinking of the soft drinks that quelled my thirst after school in Calm Springs.

I finally settle for a diet coke and some Cheetos before queuing in line to pay for my bounty.

A voice speaks up from behind me.

You headed to Calm Springs?

Aren't we all?

I answer, turning around.

It's a young girl, probably in the latter stages of her rebellious teens.

She reminds me of my oldest daughter, Kara.

Hair streaked with dashes of pink and purple, nose pierced one too many times and way too much shadow, adeptly applied under a set of lovely,

if not sad, blue eyes.

She shrugs.

The universal response of her generation makes me feel old, makes me long for the young days at Calm Springs even more.

How about you?

She says she is, like the rest of us, headed home.

When I ask where she's coming from and who she's traveling with, she avoids my questions.

It's easy to conclude the girl is a runaway.

Calm Springs is probably the last place she remembers where she felt at home.

She doesn't tell me that.

But I know.

I know because everyone on our bus is running away from something.

Even me.

Who am I to judge a fellow traveler seeking haven?

I offer to pay for her snacks, and she doesn't protest.

After all, it turns out I know her parents from my summer gig at the Calm Springs Festival.

It's the least I can do.

We exchange a non-committal banter until it's my turn to pay.

On my way to the bus, I can't help but wonder,

You know, if there are places made to build us up, like Calm Springs, then the opposite must also be true.

The 7-Elevens by the road could very much be limbos, places of transit, or worse, for that clerk, places where we remain stuck forever.

Places that break us down, that digest us slowly, like Venus flytraps.

I'm relieved, then, to make it to the bus, where the driver is smoking a pack of blacks by the taillights.

Sussy is chatting with other travelers, and the teenage runaway disappears amongst the faces of weary travelers.

I examine us as a group in transit, imagining the worlds we've left behind for the weekend.

The struggles of making a living, you know, the...

the loneliness we carry, the ghosts we run away from, you know, the frustrations of just...

just being less.

So much less

than we ever hoped ourselves to be.

And, you know, none of it would matter, because at the end of the day, Calm Springs is a bus ride away.

With its slow, timeless afternoons and sermon-filled Sundays, with the neighborly gossip and the reassurance that every face was known and every name was household kosher.

I feel like writing again,

but I fight against the pull of it.

Sometimes the words need to boil until the bubbling tips over, otherwise you risk running the well dry.

I will write

when I get to Calm Springs.

I'll go to Miranda's diner and order a vanilla float with fries.

Dip them in the ice cream like I used to.

I'll look for the coin-operated cabinet in the back next to the restrooms.

Hopefully it's still there.

I'll break a few dollars and play Gallagher until I run out.

Then I'll stroll down the main road, and the countryside will fill my lungs with the scent of pine wood and juniper, and everything will be as it once was.

Only then will I I write.

Perhaps about the grassy knoll by Sycamore Road, where we used to roll down with the other kids from the block until our faces burned with so much laughter.

The memories flood me as we pass the interstate sign that reads, Exit 8, the very one that heads away from the busy roads.

Towards the creeping woods.

We're getting closer now to Calm Springs.

I'm lost in thought when a burly man in khakis takes the seat next to me.

We need to get off this bus.

I turn to face bloodshot eyes filled with an unmistakable dread.

You're headed to Calm Springs?

It isn't a question.

Why would it be?

Aren't we all?

I reply.

He shakes his head, trembling underneath his worn-out nirvana shirt.

Do I know you?

Listen to me.

He places a firm hand on my shoulder that feels like a plea.

Calm Springs does not exist.

Droplets run down his brow, and some gather under his thin upper lip.

He looks ill to me, desperate.

The word bubbles to my head, sprung from the well of inspiration that's been brewing on the road.

I can't help but chuckle while I respond.

I grew up in Calm Springs, buddy, down by Sycamore Road.

Am I right?

That's.

That's right.

How did you.

He looks around, making sure no one can hear him before answering.

Everyone.

Everyone on this bus says the same thing.

They're all from Sycamore Road, where the sun rises and sets.

Don't you find that strange?

I'm from Sycamore Road.

He glances outside of the window.

Do you know who I am?

Look at me.

His hand pulls my head towards him.

I can smell the booze on his breath.

Have you ever met me before?

I...

think.

Think hard.

I dig deep into a well of memories.

His face feels more familiar by the second.

Jimmy?

Jimmy Hartsfield.

I think that's my name.

His index finger taps on his sweaty skull.

But I've never set foot in Calm Springs.

I mean, I thought I did.

Until...

Until...

I want to help him.

Jimmy looks ill and lost.

Aren't we all?

There's still some of the boy I'd met so many years ago in his eyes.

I know then and there that life hadn't treated Jimmy Hartsfield kindly.

Jimmy, it's me.

You, you know me.

He shakes his head in disbelief.

That's what it wants us to think.

We need to leave this bus.

By God, James, you need to come with me.

I could live with leaving the others behind, but not you.

Not you.

Tears run down his face.

You have to calm down.

Jimmy, we're almost there.

We are almost home.

I place my hand on his shoulder.

The plea for reason.

A bit patronizing, I know, but it feels right.

The others hear Jimmy's weeping now.

They gather around us.

A concerned bunch.

No,

an old group of friends.

The old lady who worked at the school cafeteria, the postman who delivered correspondence every morning.

Classmates from our grade and even coach crews are here for Jimmy.

Small town charm, I can't help but think.

Kind you can never find in the city where nobody cares about anybody.

Only dead bodies if they ever wound up in the streets.

Not here.

Not in Calm Springs.

We give Jimmy some breathing space and for a moment he looks serene, lost in thought.

Here, but not here.

I wonder if his mind is soothed by the cozy memories of our collective experiences.

Of the times we played hide-and-seek around the neighborhood.

Of Sycamore Road sunsets, for the sun did rise and set on Sycamore Road.

Of racing our bikes toward the ice cream parlor right at the end of Memory Lane.

I know my mind drifts to to these corners when the living gets rough, when the bills rack up, and the going

gets hard.

Thinking of Jimmy, sussy, and Coach Cruz soothes me.

Thinking of Calm Springs, which I often remember fondly.

Jimmy snaps back and apologizes to the group.

Blame it on the drinking, he says.

On that last pint he shouldn't have plowed through after the pit stop.

We understand, of course.

We're practically family.

Family just gets it.

You're good, buddy.

He slumps in the seat next to me, and I return my eyes to the road.

The pine woods stretch around us in every direction, an endless sea of warm greens and grays.

A small sign in serif font reads, Welcome to Calm Springs.

When the bus crosses the threshold, I feel it.

I

am finally home.

The bus pulls up to the station and we exit in a single file with our belongings close to our chests.

The things we carry in our hands and the burdens we carry in our souls.

We can walk from here on out.

Calm Springs breathes around us, expanding and contracting with the rustling of the leaves.

It rejoices in our arrival almost as much as we revel in it.

There is so much to write about.

Calm Springs unfolds, as it once did before me, a town full of memories, a cozy place for the mind, a shelter for the lost and the broken,

like me.

The most

beautiful place.

I finally close my eyes at Sycamore Road,

where the sun rises and sets

at Calm Springs.

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Now, back to WNSP's presentation of the No Sleep Podcast.

If you've ever walked through a dark, damp forest, you've probably seen them.

They can be beautiful in appearance and one of nature's wonders to behold.

I'm referring to lichen.

Yes, it's nice when there's fungus among us.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Kristen Kirby, we meet a woman whose art involves sketching lichen, and she soon starts to take things far too seriously.

Performing this tale are Dan Zapula and Jessica McAvoy.

So get a good foothold for this tale.

Make sure you have a solid substrate.

Emmy came in from the backyard, hair dripping, and ducked into the half-bath off the kitchen.

She reappeared, cheerfully rubbing a towel in her hair.

Dan, you should see the trees.

This rain's really making the lichen go wild.

I turned from the stove, holding out a spoonful of tomato sauce.

Emmy tasted the sauce and gave a thumbs up.

As she reached past me to grab plates, I smiled at my wife, heart full.

We'd moved into the rental house less than a year ago, but I could tell Emmy was happier than she'd ever been.

The apartments we'd rented over and over had made her feel confined and restless.

But this house had a green space behind it, woods full of fir and maple trees, room for her to explore and do her art.

I noticed, amused, that a stalk of gray-green lichen had attached to Emmy's jeans.

You brought some with you.

Emmy glanced down.

The feathery branches were splayed across the fabric, like a flowing hand with many fingers.

I tried to brush it off, but the lichen clung.

Brandishing the pasta tongs, I clicked them together, making Emmy laugh.

I peeled off the lichen with the tongs, then dropped it into the kitchen sink and ran the disposal.

After dinner, we meandered through our little stretch of woods, not minding the misty rain that was a part of life in the Pacific Northwest.

In the fading day, lichen hanging from tree branches stood out in silhouette.

Feels like another universe out here.

Our universe.

Can we stay forever?

What if work transfers me again?

Have they been talking about it?

Thankfully, in the waning light, Emmy couldn't see my frown.

She pulled a sprig of lichen from a tree, studying it.

I grasped her hand and she moved into my arms.

We leaned against a tree, kissing, before the rain started falling harder, and we went inside.

In bed later, Emmy placed the lichen on a corner of her sketchpad and started drawing.

I pulled up an article on my laptop.

So it's like moss, but it's not.

It's...

it's its own thing.

It grows on tons of surfaces or substrates.

Trees, rock, gravestones, bones, and it lives like...

forever.

As Emmy's hand made sure strokes with the pencil, the lichen came to life on paper.

So it could be sentient.

Not like a brain, but, well, old things, they know things.

They've been around.

A beep from my computer.

It's from work.

I pulled up the email, my fingers clicking sporadically on the keys.

I stopped.

My silence made Emmy lift her head from her sketch, and she caught my rueful look.

Her sigh made my heart hurt.

Sweetie, we haven't even unpacked everything from last time.

I know.

I tried to make my tone light.

Maybe in the next town we can buy a house to make it feel like home.

I am home.

Emmy wouldn't meet my eyes as she slid her sketchpad to the floor, turned, and quietly curled up to sleep.

The lichen dropped onto the bedspread.

I didn't think I'd be able to sleep, but I closed my eyes anyway.

I awoke later to a curious sound, like the rustling of wet leaves.

Emi?

I turned on the light and didn't see Emmy at first, but only gray-green shoots and reaching tendrils of lichen twisting across Emmy's thighs and arms and stomach.

I watched in horror as the lichen's fibrous fingers grew along her skin, seeking new purchase.

Oh God, Emmy!

Emi rolled sleepily, opening unfocused eyes and lifting her arms to gaze with dreamy wonder at their new form.

I yanked Emmy from the bed to the bathroom, pushing her into the shower.

I turned on the water and let it blast, roughly rubbing a loofah across her skin to dislodge the lichen.

The water amped the lichen even more.

It spread quickly across Emmy's chest and neck towards her face.

Emmy fought my desperate swipes with the loofah.

I'll find something to cut it.

I stumbled down the stairs to the kitchen and frantically opened drawers, grasping at knives, at scissors.

In the dim light, I saw something alive in the kitchen sink.

The lichen I had rinsed down the drain grew unnaturally fast and snaked across the counter toward me.

I cried out and ducked away.

Emmy came down the stairs, dripping, saying my name with a mouth muffled and full.

She was covered in lichen.

There wasn't much of her left.

She reached out a feathery hand of waving, living lichen.

Hating my cowardice, I ran for the half-bath, slammed the door, and leaned against it.

My chest was tight with fear.

Delicate, gray-green runners of lichen slipped under the door, searching and brushed my bare foot.

I shrieked.

Please, please, Emmy, Emmy, I love you!

I love you, please, please!

The runners paused, then withdrew out of sight.

I heard a soft, plaintive sigh.

Then shuffling across the kitchen floor, then fumbling with the back doorknob.

Then all I heard was the rain falling outside.

On the day the movers were due, I checked out of the motel I'd been staying in for a couple of months and drove back to the house for a last look

and

goodbye.

I parked in the driveway and sat in the car for a long time.

Misty rain coated the windshield, and all I saw of the house and front yard were running colors of brown and green.

I noticed my hand kept drifting to the door handle.

Pulling courage from somewhere, I got out and trudged across the backyard into the green space.

The rain had made the trees virtually disappear under thick forests of lichen.

It was immediate.

Soft small branches of gray green began to peel from a fir tree.

amassing, building on themselves, forming something like legs and arms and a head, the shape almost human.

Wisps trailed down like hair.

A face wavered among curled strands.

Emmy?

It wasn't her.

It couldn't be her.

But I knew it was.

And I finally knew I was home.

She was my home.

My voice was husky with hope.

I love you, Emmy.

I love you,

please.

I walked toward the waiting figure.

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Now, back to WNSP's presentation of the No Sleep Podcast.

I've said it before, and I'll keep saying it.

Stories with babysitters and little kids with vivid imaginations are pure nightmare fuel.

So, here's exactly that type of story.

In this tale, shared with us by author Elsie Sullivan, we meet Nikki.

She's babysitting Danny, and Danny's parents want to discourage the child's new friend, one who certainly isn't real.

I join Nicole Goodnight, Mary Murphy, Marie Westbrook, Mike Delgadio, Alante Baraket, Graham Rowett, and Ellie Hirschman in performing this tale.

So let kids have fun as long as they don't insist on the reality of the imaginary friend.

I'm not gonna lie, babysitting always freaked me out.

There was something about being in a big, strange house that always left my body in an alert state for hours on end.

I could never relax.

It's easy money, my parents often reminded me.

They weren't wrong, it was easy money, especially babysitting such a great kid like Danny.

You would think, after four months of being the family's primary babysitter, that I would have gotten used to the house.

I hadn't, and I only had my active imagination to blame.

The fear of being alone at night was something I hadn't quite grown out of.

To the Mathers family, I never let it show.

I smiled, formed a close-knit bond with Danny, and occasionally broke the rule of only one snack after dinner.

Despite my irrational fears, I truly did enjoy my every other Saturday night job.

It was the weekend before Halloween.

And as I stared up at the oversized colonial with my finger pressed to the glowing oval beside the door, I couldn't help but draw parallels to scary movies I had seen recently on television.

Stop.

I shook my head and rang the doorbell.

Mrs.

Mathers opened the door and greeted me with a smile, donning a costume that resembled the singer Cher.

Her mom bob was topped with a long, dark wig that traveled down to her lower back and met up with her high-waisted bell bottoms.

Oh, come on in, honey.

The clicking of her heels echoed off the high ceilings in the foyer of the home.

Thank you.

I trailed her past a Cinderella staircase and into the kitchen where Danny sat at the the kitchen island on a wooden stool.

Mickey!

She leapt off the seat and charged like a linebacker, wrapping her tiny arms around me with a force that knocked me back a few steps.

Okay, easy, Danny.

I looked down, smiling wide with my arms around the toothless girl who grinned up at me.

So, what do you want to do tonight?

I got the new Barbie Dream House for Matt Chrissy.

Her big brown eyes beamed with excitement.

Or we could play with Coco.

Who's Coco?

I noticed Mrs.

Mathers' glance in our direction at the mention of the name, and she motioned for me to come here with a subtle flick of her index finger.

Honey, come finish your pizza.

Danny released me and skipped back to her seat, popping back up onto the stool.

I chuckled when she ripped into the top of the cheesy triangle.

So, Danny has this new imaginary friend?

Oh, okay.

I shrugged, figuring it was rather typical behavior for a child of six years old.

I guess it's normal.

We don't really want to encourage it, but I guess it'll just run its course.

Coco is real.

We both glanced over at her and I figured I'd change the subject.

Hey, who are your best friends from school?

Do you still sit next to Julia in class?

Danny hesitated and then nodded.

Julia and Peter.

And who sits behind you?

Maddie.

She put on a frown.

She always kicks the back of my chair.

Oh, you should tell the teacher.

That way she'll stop.

Mrs.

Mathers winked at me and nudged me in the back before wandering toward the staircase, shouting for her husband.

When's your birthday, Danny?

Can you marry suck it?

She swallowed her mouthful of pizza then glanced around to see if her mother was in the vicinity before whispering through cupped hands.

Can I have a glass of orange soda?

I smirked and cupped my hands to whisper back to her.

Maybe.

She smiled and made the motion as if to zip her lip, and I laughed before going over to hug her.

Coco is coming over tonight.

Is that okay?

Before I could answer, a man's voice interrupted from behind.

There is no Coco.

I turned to see Danny's father donning his best 70s-style leather vest and a fake mustache.

Dad, there is a Coco.

She made a loud groaning noise to overemphasize her exasperation, making her father laugh as he rushed over to scoop her up.

I see then.

What does he look like, huh?

Does he have rainbow hair and giant ears?

He pulled out her ears, making her giggle.

How about the missing teeth?

Is he missing his teeth?

No.

She giggled some more and he set her back down.

He's a clown.

Oh, a clown, huh?

He motioned to me with his thumb.

Well, look, Nikki, here, she's afraid of clowns, so I don't think Coco should come around tonight, okay?

Danny cocked her head to the side.

Why are you afraid of clowns?

Oh, um.

I snickered and and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear to buy myself an extra few seconds.

Well, they always play jokes on people, and it scares me when they honk those loud horns and Coco doesn't have a horn.

No Coco tonight.

Mr.

Mathers held out his pinky.

Danny hesitated and rolled her eyes before linking her pinky with his.

What her father didn't notice was the way she crossed the first two fingers on the other hand.

It made me smile to myself.

Ready, Steve?

Mrs.

Mathers strolled in, toting a little purse and twirling her car keys around her finger.

I got you, babe.

He motioned between the two of them, referencing their attire.

You get it?

Yeah, I get it.

She rolled her eyes, but still smiled.

Okay, we'll be home between 11 and midnight.

Take your time and have fun.

The two of them kissed Danny on the cheek and then bid a final farewell before disappearing out the front door.

So, the orange soda?

I sighed and gave in immediately, retrieving a can can from the refrigerator and a plastic cup from the cabinet beside it.

Ice, my dear?

No, thanks.

She grinned and wiggled one of her bottom teeth.

Maybe this will come out tonight.

Let's save that one for mom and dad.

I teased, cringing as I offered up the soda.

Danny wiggled her tooth some more before finally leaving it alone.

Can we pour a glass for cocoa?

I narrowed my eyes at her with a smirk.

Are you just trying to get two cups?

Danny shook her head and continued to to munch on her dinner.

I promise I won't drink it.

She made an invisible cross over her chest.

We can leave the can and piece of pizza outside for him.

He doesn't want to eat inside?

I asked, indulging in her harmless little fantasy for the first time while taking in a deep breath through my nose to inhale the decadent scent of the pizza.

She shrugged.

Sometimes he does.

But if you're scared of clowns, I'll make sure he stays on the patio.

Before I could say anything more about it, Danny was walking towards the back door with her last slice in one hand and the drink in the other.

Danny?

I trailed her with a sigh and looked out onto the dark, empty patio.

When she clicked the lock to open the door, I felt my heart rate pick up as a flush of warmth rushed to my cheeks.

I'm just going to set it on the table.

She flicked the patio light on to illuminate the stone rectangular seating area.

Get a grip, I told myself.

She's six and she's not afraid of the dark.

I stepped out behind her, watching Danny skip across the paverstones to set the food down on the table.

My eyes scanned the yard for anything out of the ordinary and it wasn't until she was back inside that I managed to calm my nerves.

With a click, I locked the door behind us.

So is Coco like Santa Claus, but instead of milk and cookies, you leave him pizza and orange soda?

Danny giggled at the comparison.

I guess.

Only Coco doesn't tell my mom and dad when I've done something bad.

Like sneaking an extra snack after dinner?

She shrugged.

Yeah, and like taking my mom's necklaces and earrings.

I looked at her more directly.

You shouldn't take your mom's jewelry without her permission.

I'm sure she'd let you wear one of her necklaces if you asked her.

Oh, it's not for me.

She toyed with her ears.

I don't even have my ears pierced.

Is it for Coco?

Mm-hmm.

The Coco thing was starting to weird me out.

I knew Mr.

and Mrs.

Mathers didn't want to encourage it, and so I tried to redirect the conversation again as we made our way into the living room.

Do you want to get your ears pierced someday?

Danny shook her head.

I'm afraid it'll hurt too much.

She scrunched her nose and grabbed her ears again.

Maybe when I'm grown up and I want to go to a fancy wedding.

Not mine.

I'm never getting married.

She hopped on the couch and reached for the remote control on one of the cushions.

I plopped down beside her and smiled as she leaned against me.

Mom said I could watch Casper tonight.

She recorded it for me.

Sounds perfect.

As the opening scene erupted onto the oversized flat screen, I thumbed away at my phone and googled Coco the Clown.

Right away, I felt like a moron for searching for Danny's imaginary friend online.

The search results showed me pictures of everything from Ronald McDonald to John Wayne Gacy.

There was a birthday party clown named Coco, but his business address was several states away.

It was Gacy's disturbing black and white mug shot that promptly ended my search attempts.

I wish Casper was real.

I smiled and draped an arm around Danny.

It was about a third of the way into the movie when a scraping sound on the back patio made my head whip in the direction of the door.

Danny glanced over more casually inside as she hopped to her feet.

Finally.

Finally, what?

I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck.

Coco's here.

Danny?

I called to her in a voice a little too loud.

From the way she suddenly froze in place, I could tell that it startled her.

What uh, what are you doing?

I'm going to say hi to Coco.

He's right over there, I pretended, pointing to the corner of the room.

Danny's eyebrows pressed together, and she looked, but immediately shook her head.

There's no one over there.

She resumed her journey to the back door, and I trailed her there.

When she reached for the door handle, I put my hand over hers.

I don't want to go outside right now.

But Coco!

I don't think we should talk to Coco tonight.

I tried not to let my mild panic show in my tone.

Danny looked up at me.

Disappointment was written all over her face and was highlighted in her suddenly solemn eyes.

He's going to be so mad at me.

If he's your friend, he shouldn't be mad at you.

Would your best friend be mad if you were supposed to play but you didn't show up?

I opened my mouth to speak but hesitated before continuing.

Maybe a little disappointed, but my best friend is...

real.

Coco is real.

Danny, he's not.

I hated the times I had to be a little stern with her, but her insistence that this imaginary clown was actually outside had me on edge.

Yes, he is!

Look!

She hurried to whip open the door before I could intervene.

That brief speck of time before the door actually opened was when I was most frightened.

I half expected this deranged clown to be standing there at the back door with a giant knife and a mouthful of pizza.

In my panic, I grabbed Danny's arms and pulled her back inside.

Danny, stop!

I held my breath when the two of us stared out at the empty patio.

Danny scowled at me and flicked on the back light.

Coco!

I shook my head, pulling her back inside with me.

He's not here.

Get back inside.

Look!

She pointed and I felt my heart rate pick up again.

This child was going to give me a heart attack at age 17.

He ate the pizza.

Coco doesn't like the crust.

I take it back.

This is when I was the most frightened.

I felt like my soul had quite literally left my body as I stared at the half-eaten pizza beside the empty glass.

Did you drink that soda?

My bottom lip developed a tremble and I bit down on it until it hurt.

How could I have drank the soda?

A parade of curse words words filtered through my mind, but never left my lips.

After two or three seconds of feeling paralyzed, I finally yanked Danny the rest of the way back in and slammed the door.

What are you?

Is there really a cocoa?

I felt like I was losing it.

Yes!

Do I call the police?

I wondered before an opposing voice silently chimed in.

And tell them what?

That a six-year-old's imaginary friend ate pizza on the back patio?

It sounded crazy, and I was certain the police would feel the same way.

Can I give him another piece?

No.

I tried to calm my voice again.

No, Danny.

Why are you being mean?

I'm not being mean, I just.

I don't like this Coco thing.

I pulled my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans and found Mrs.

Mathers in my contacts.

I breathed heavily knowing I was about to spoil the couple's night, but I had to talk to them.

Something was off.

Come on.

I prayed that someone would pick up.

Am I in trouble?

No.

I shook my head and hung up when the call went to voicemail.

I tried to smile.

No, you didn't do anything wrong.

I sent out a text message next, simply saying, could you call me when you get this?

When I glanced back up, I swallowed hard when I saw Danny waving out the window.

She then pouted and shook her head.

Rather than ask, I tiptoed beside her to follow her gaze.

At first I wondered if I might truly be going crazy, but I knew that wasn't the case.

A seesaw behind the back patio moved up and down as the patio light made the effort to stretch out into the yard.

It managed to cast a low light over a shadowy figure with big, red shoes and polka dot pants.

My entire body suddenly went numb.

He needs someone to play with.

I couldn't speak.

I just stared.

I don't even think I could blink.

Waves of adrenaline began alerting my brain to do something, fight or flight.

I screamed when my phone went off in my pocket, and Danny screamed back, putting her hands over her ears.

Nikki!

There was the first hint of panic in her voice.

I fumbled for my phone and pulled Danny away from the window, forcing her to duck down behind the couch with me.

Why are we?

Hello?

I shouted into the receiver to answer Mrs.

Mathers.

Hey, honey, is everything okay?

There's something going on.

I felt my voice hitch as my breathing picked up.

I fought back the urge to cry.

What?

Is Danny all right?

Danny's fine, but I think we need to call the police.

It's Coco.

He's real.

There was a long pause on the other end, and I could hear music thudding in the background.

What do you mean he's real?

I can see him.

I crept my body up to peer above the top of the couch.

When the clown was an inch away from the back window, peering inside, I slid back down behind the couch with a low gasp.

I am scared.

I cradled Danny to my body.

Mrs.

Mathers, you need to come home right away.

I struggled to hold back tears.

Please?

Okay, okay, okay.

Nikki, what do you mean you could see him?

There's a man in a clown suit in the backyard.

The door handle made a loud rattling sound, and I screamed again.

Nikki, we're coming home.

Call the neighbors, their numbers on the fridge.

Steven!

Steven!

The door handle jiggled again, and I looked at Danny.

Has Coco ever been in the house?

Danny gave a hurried nod.

Oh my god.

I couldn't breathe.

He's mad because I didn't go on the seesaw with him.

I pulled Danny into a hug as I struggled to maintain my composure.

Nikki, I'm calling the police.

Lock yourself in our bedroom upstairs.

He's trying to get in the house.

I heard Mr.

and Mrs.

Mathers talking frantically on the other end of the line.

At the same time, the back door continued to rattle.

When it was accompanied by loud bangs, I rose to my feet and grabbed Danny, running through the living room with her in my arms.

The line went dead when I assumed Mrs.

Mathers hung up to call the police.

Nikki, I'm scared.

I was too.

When I looked towards the back door, my eyes met Coco's.

He smiled big and wide and then gave a friendly wave.

Coco!

Danny outstretched an arm as he wiggled his fingers, encouraging the two of us to come to the back door.

I forced myself to think rationally and snapped a photo of the neighbor's phone number on the refrigerator before rounding out of the kitchen.

When I started running up the staircase, Danny began to cry.

Coco just wants to play.

Danny, Coco is bad.

No, he's not.

Trust me, please, honey.

I'm sorry.

We have to go into your mom and dad's room and stay there, okay?

My phone rang again when we reached the top floor.

I hurried into the master bedroom, closed and locked the door, and then had the phone at my ear as I pressed the green button.

It was Mr.

Mathers this time.

We're on our way home.

Are you in our room?

Yes.

I breathed the word aloud, encouraging Danny to crouch behind the king-sized bed.

Alright, Nikki, listen.

He hesitated, breathing so hard into the phone that he struggled to get a sentence out.

There's a safe in the top of the closet, okay?

I knew where this was going.

The thought of holding a gun in my hand heightened my anxiety.

Look, there's a revolver in there.

The code is 24, 12, 32.

Mr.

Mathers,

I can't.

He went on still, huffing and puffing as if he was running.

Just barricade yourself in the room, okay?

Keep Danny behind you.

And if he gets in the room, I can't.

Could I?

I'd never held a gun in my life.

There was no way I had it in me to point one at somebody and pull the trigger.

I was clamming up.

And then I heard it.

A soft giggle from the hallway.

Danny's head snapped up.

Coco!

I threw my hand over her mouth.

It was a knee-jerk reaction and I immediately felt bad for doing it.

A shadow fluttered in to break up the lighting that peeked in from under the door.

I still kept my hand over Danny's mouth and hung up the phone in an effort to keep quiet, though I knew for certain our cover was blown.

Danny?

There was a gentle knock on the door that made me jump as if it had been a loud bang.

I struggled not to make a noise.

For the first time, I recognized how uncontrollably my body trembled as my overactive nervous system alerted me to the imminent danger.

There was another childish giggle from the other side of the door, and then a scratching sound that lingered on for several seconds.

Danny squealed beneath my palm, and I looked down to meet her stare.

I couldn't tell if she was as scared as she should be, or if she was sad to hurt Coco's feelings.

I raised my index finger to my lips and slowly took my hand off her mouth.

Silently, I prayed that she would be quiet.

A loud pound on the door made me scream, and I slapped a hand across my own mouth as if I could take it back.

The clown laughed again, and I flung the closet open.

24, 12, 32.

24, 12, 32.

My voice trembled as fiercely as the rest of me.

I clawed at the dial on a safe above a row of collared shirts.

What are you doing?

I wanna play with you.

There were more loud bangs, and Danny screamed now.

Who is that?

I struggled with the combination as she tugged my shirt.

24, 12, 32.

Nikki, who's out there?

Coco!

I twisted the knob in a panic as a red light blinked to indicate I had done something wrong.

Damn it!

Danny!

I'm sick!

I just wanna play with you!

20 fucking 4, 12!

Tears continued to sting my reddened cheeks.

32!

Finally, a green light blinked and the front of the safe popped open.

I reached blindly into the small cubicle and felt my hand fit around the silver revolver.

The door slammed with a force that made us both scream again.

I shoved shoved Danny behind me and waited.

It finally barreled open, sending small shards of wood flying in all directions near the handle.

What stood before me was the product of every nightmare I had ever had.

Coco, who took up what felt like the entire doorway, waved at the two of us.

His friendly mannerisms contrasted with the violent outburst that sent him sprawling into the room.

I positioned Danny behind me as the revolver rattled around in my trembling hand.

At the same time, I felt a warm liquid begin to creep down the insides of my legs.

Coco put his hands on his face and opened his mouth in a silent scream.

He then giggled in a childish manner.

You pull the trigger and a black comes out that says...

BANG!

He yelled the last word in a deep voice that made Danny yelp behind me.

Coco gave an overemphasized pout that stretched down to his jawline with the help of the red makeup that outlined his lips.

Stay right there!

I tried to shout, but my words came out in a voice just above a a whisper.

My hands were outstretched in front of me and I had a finger firmly on the trigger.

Bang!

Bang!

Coco made a gun with his finger and then grabbed his chest.

He collapsed dramatically to the floor.

Coco!

Danny went to run toward him, but I grabbed her at the last second, yanking her back so she was behind me again.

He's fooling around, Danny.

I assured her, trying to keep my cool.

Coco lay motionless for a moment before slowly sitting up just his upper half.

He wore an exaggerated smile and, without warning, jumped to his feet.

The abrupt nature of his move forced my finger back to the trigger.

And then, as if putting on a show, Coco held up one finger and did a cartwheel.

He smiled again before doing another back in the direction he came.

When he bowed, Danny began to clap.

It only made my hand shake further.

Go away!

Coco cupped his ear with one hand as if he couldn't hear what I was saying and stepped a few feet closer.

Stay back!

Another step.

I cocked the gun back.

The maniacal clown let out a terrible high-pitched laugh.

It was accompanied by sirens from somewhere in the distance and made me want to put my hands over my ears.

Coco froze, and his jovial demeanor turned off like a switch.

Relief poured out onto my limbs, overpowering the adrenaline, though I knew we weren't out of the woods yet.

The police are coming.

So unless you want to leave in handcuffs, I suggest you go.

I thought I was in control.

I thought I had all the power.

The cavalry was coming over the hill to save us.

Coco's twisted game was over.

But I realized within the course of just a few seconds that it wasn't over.

Despite the gun still raised in his direction, Coco charged where we stood, rushing toward me.

It all happened too fast.

I froze.

He called my bluff, and I froze.

I failed.

I thought as he pinned me against the closet door behind me.

I failed to protect Danny.

The somehow rancid smell of pizza filled my nostrils as it migrated from the mouth of the unhinged jester before me.

He hissed through gritted teeth that I could see, clear as day, were partially rotted and stained a dark yellow.

You ruined everything!

I couldn't speak.

Everything else in the background was suddenly muted.

The sirens, Danny's cries, my own whimpering.

All I could focus on through teary squinted eyes was the blur of stark white and smeared red makeup, and Coco's stomach-churning breath.

He let out three or four more angry breaths through gritted teeth, huffing like a rabid dog, and I finally managed to turn my head to the side.

Go away!

Danny stood bravely at my side.

I had almost forgotten she was there.

Coco whipped his head in her direction.

Blue and red flashes were visible through the window now, highlighting the curls of his red wig and dancing across his grease paint-clad face.

In those last few seconds before he disappeared out of the room, there was a solemn expression on his face.

A genuine, melancholy stare at the little girl beside me.

A single tear streaked down his cheek, smudging the white paint, and then Coco was gone.

When Danny threw her arms around my midsection, crying with both fear and relief, I was a statue.

My body felt permanently frozen in place.

I couldn't hug her.

I couldn't physically do anything.

I didn't know how much time had passed in between Coco's abrupt departure and the police rushing into the room.

It could have been 30 seconds or 30 minutes.

For the first time in my life, I knew what it felt like to have time stand still.

I'm gonna need you to place the gun down on the floor.

The policeman's voice sounded distant and echoey.

A second officer approached cautiously.

Miss, could you please place the gun on the ground?

I heard them.

I saw them.

I just couldn't physically complete the simple task they were asking.

The two men looked back and forth between one another before the older of the two crept in and gently took the revolver from my hand.

For whatever reason, it prompted a single sob to escape my lips, followed soon after by another, and then a flood of tears poured out of me.

Danny's parents were on the scene soon after.

They comforted me right along with their daughter as if I was one of their own.

Feeling Mrs.

Mathers' motherly embrace finally provided me with the comfort I needed to steady my breathing again.

Representatives from the local police force took our statements, while other officers began a search of the area for whoever it was behind the Coco Coco the Clown persona.

Eventually, a balding man who identified himself as Officer Stanley approached me.

I know it's late, but we may need you to give a few formal statements down at the station.

I nodded and looked down.

Yeah, okay.

Mr.

and Mrs.

Mathers.

He handed them a card.

Danny has been a great help.

Officer Stanley looked right at her.

I think she could even make a great police detective one day.

Danny managed the tiniest smile from where she lay against her father's chest, but it quickly faded.

Officer Stanley turned back to me.

We've contacted your parents.

I told them we'd escort you to the station.

They're meeting us there.

My eyes were burning, and the thought of more questions being thrown at me felt exhausting.

Still, I knew for Danny's sake, I had to.

Months had passed since the episode with Coco the Clown.

I regretfully gave up babysitting, and my parents refused to let me be home alone at night.

Sometimes it felt silly, given my age, but a part of me hadn't healed up enough to be by myself once the sun went down.

Coco was still living rent-free in my head, and if my thoughts lingered too long, I could almost smell his breath.

The worst part of it all was that he hadn't been caught by the police.

I turned up the radio on my car notched in an attempt to drown up my thoughts.

When I rounded onto my street and my house came into into view, I saw something colorful on the front step.

Almost immediately I could see it was an oversized arrangement of balloons of all colors.

I pulled my car into the driveway and took the small set of steps to get to the front door.

Just in front of it were the balloons I saw from down the street.

What the hell is this?

I grabbed the collection of strings and pulled the weighted bottom up.

On it was a small white envelope with my name written in cursive.

My fingers pried it open, ripping the paper nearly in half as I exposed the card inside.

All at once, I felt felt like I was in the moment again.

The card fell from between my hands and landed face up near the toe of my left sneaker.

Much to my horror, the message that stared up at me read: To my new best friend, I can't wait to play.

Love

Coco.

Welcome to Goat Valley Campgrounds.

Looking for a place to escape your busy life and reconnect with nature?

Goat Valley Campgrounds features 300 acres of quiet forest and peaceful scenery for you to enjoy.

Come meet Kate.

She runs the place like her parents before her.

We know you'll enjoy your stay as long as you behave yourself and follow the rules.

Your survival depends on it.

The No Sleep Podcast presents Goat Valley Campgrounds Season 2 by Bonnie Quinn.

Chapter 2

Part of maintaining a campground is knowing the plant life of it.

If left unchecked, the forest could very easily be overrun by less than desirable plants.

Poison oak, poison ivy, really everything that starts with the word poison is something we try to cull.

We also rip out all varieties of plants that have toxic berries, just in case some little child starts putting things in their mouth that they shouldn't.

We certainly don't get everything, but we try to keep the more populated areas clear of dangerous plants.

The deep woods,

we tend to leave that one alone.

I think the people in the town view my campground much the same way.

It's a poisonous force that steals the life out of so many living things, and the only reason they permit it to exist at all is because my family is here pruning it back.

We keep it contained within the borders so it doesn't reach out and choke the life out of the town and everyone else in the surrounding area.

That's my job.

That's why the town tolerates me.

Except my borders aren't as firm as I once believed.

Because if this is a bad year, it's spreading.

My name is Kate, and this is Goat Valley Campgrounds.

I'm not the easiest person to get along with.

I suppose that's what happens when you grow up without any close friends.

Or any friends at all, really.

I'm not the kind of person you invite over for dinner.

Not unless you want something from me, that is.

It's astonishing how many dinners over the years have ended with, hey, there's weird noises coming from the basement.

Could you check it out for us?

There's a couple of people I do manage to stay on good terms with, though.

Probably out of necessity.

My neighbors.

I help them out when something winds up on their land, be it monster or random drunk camper.

They help me out by not complaining.

They're some of the few allies in town I can reliably count on.

So when one of them gives me a call, I always drop what I'm doing for them.

My most important neighbor is the only one with a direct border against the campground.

Everyone else has a road between us and them.

He owns quite a bit of land, and over the years, I've toyed with the idea of making an offer on it.

It's just, there's a lake on it.

I'm not sure I want to deal with absorbing a lake into old land.

There's a mess of trouble that comes with that, and today was no exception.

Hello?

The Shulikun are out of the lake.

I'm sorry, did you say the Shulikun?

Yeah, saw them galloping around this morning.

Have I mentioned how much I hate dealing with horses?

What are they doing out of the lake?

They're Christmas demons.

It's not Christmas.

Maybe they heard Perkta was in town and figured

good enough.

Things

are getting kind of weird around here, here, Kate.

Yeah, they sure are.

Alright, I'll come over and see what I can do.

The bad year.

It was waking up the creatures that were supposed to be sleeping until their time of the year rolled around.

What's worse, it appeared to be spreading its influence outside the campground's borders.

It called Perta here from wherever she spends her time during the off-season.

It was waking up the monsters that lived in my neighbor's lake.

No one in town would like this.

Well, they couldn't force me to sign that document selling my land.

They sure could make my life miserable until I did.

I got in the car and drove down to the camp entrance, then across the narrow access road to my neighbor's property.

I didn't have a good plan.

The Shalikun normally aren't that dangerous.

I thought I'd just go take a look, maybe even see if I can talk to them and find out what they're doing out of the lake.

They're not as murderous as some of the other creatures around here.

They originate in northern Russia.

We've got a family from that region living around here, and they brought their beliefs with them, and that brought the monsters.

Shalikans show up around Christmas by breaking out of frozen lakes using their pointy metal hats and then ambush Christmas revelers.

Mostly they just play pranks.

Sometimes they shove people into snowbanks or frozen lakes to freeze to death.

They're banished by the celebrations leading up to Lent.

This is why I hate bad years.

Everything gets turned upside down.

Still, I wasn't exactly worried.

It's not like my neighbor's land is old.

It's just the lake we need to worry about.

It was an old lake, for a little bit, but the timer got reset through some shady business that caused it to change hands for a few years and then change back.

That happened several generations ago, and there's not much common knowledge about exactly what went down.

It was probably the inspiration behind the town's attempt to force me to sell my land.

I'm a little resentful of that.

Thanks for coming out here.

I

don't know what to make of this.

Well, no need to be so anxious.

I'll see what I can do.

I appreciate it.

I really do.

It's kind of my official job, you know?

My contribution to the town.

Any idea where they are right now?

I'd like to hang up our charm bundles if they're not around.

Will those actually work?

No idea, but they've got everything my family can think of in them.

All kinds of plants, stones with holes in the middle, evil eye charms from...

I forget how many cultures at this point.

Even threw in a Roman fascinus for good measure.

Well, I heard...

I think, I saw them leave an hour ago.

They're circling town.

You sure?

Yeah,

I got a phone call from the family that bought Luis's old farm.

That's on the other side of town.

Great.

I'll be able to get these up in the trees well before they return.

Say, I was wondering, have you heard any rumors about me selling my land?

Oh,

you're really considering it?

And despite his anxiousness, he smiled at me.

It wasn't his usual smile.

There was something off about it.

It felt like I'd seen someone else smiling like this before, but I couldn't quite place it.

Hell no, I'm not selling.

Just curious as to who started the rumor.

Uh, I uh

well, I overheard it at the grocery store.

Didn't think to see who was talking.

I

was in a hurry, but maybe it's a good idea.

I mean, we

uh my family kept our land from getting old.

Don't make me regret being a good neighbor.

Right.

Sorry I mentioned it.

The lake is quite large.

There is a narrow strip of land leading out to an island off one bank.

The land mass is too symmetrical to be natural, at least by my judgment, and I do wonder when and why my neighbor's family constructed it.

It had to have taken a lot of dirt and work, as the pathway is fully big enough to accommodate a car, and the island could hold probably 20 campers, depending on the size of their tents.

Yes, I think of things in terms of campground usage.

It's a habit.

I circled it once, hanging bundles of warding materials in the branches as I went.

I don't know what repels shalikin, if they even can be repelled, so I just went with the full assortment of materials known to affect various other creatures from the same region.

If you're wondering why my neighbor didn't do this himself, well, the materials aren't easy to get a hold of.

It's not like you can buy stones with holes in them and masks at the town hardware store, for example.

My family has invested time and money into building a stock, and so I have ready access to everything I need and am willing to loan it out on occasion.

I was walking back up the path leading to his house when I was stopped by the sound of something behind me.

A noise that shot terror through my blood.

Ice cold, freezing my muscles and robbing me of my breath.

I stood there in horrified immobility.

realizing that it was futile to run.

And behind me, the horse walked closer, the thump of its hooves on the packed earth unmistakable.

I turned around, expecting to see one of my worst nightmares waiting for me.

Instead, I found five shalikin waiting on the trail.

Now, when I said that they prank revelers, perhaps you were imagining something a little more benign.

Mischievous gnomes, Christmas elves, certainly not warriors with pointed iron caps mounted on war horses, right?

Oh, thank goodness, you're not the dapple gray stallion, but weren't you on the other side of town?

Like an inhuman thing would ever give me a straight answer.

Do you not fear us?

Uh, yeah, I absolutely do.

It's just you don't eat people, you know.

You're not honoring the Christmas spirit?

Because it's not Christmas.

I suppose I could have made a better excuse.

What are you doing here anyway?

The earth is stirring.

It woke us.

He stared down at me, stone-faced, his lips and the corners of his eyes tinted with the blue of frostbite, and his gloved hand rested on the pommel of his sword.

His four companions were arrayed similarly, straight-backed in their saddles, their stares cold and unyielding.

The Shalikin don't just prank revelers.

They are also the enforcers of the Christmas spirit and will drag anyone unfit for the season to a watery grave.

A malaise follows you.

There is no joy in your heart.

No compassion.

Just fear and anger and resentment.

First Perta and now the Shalikin.

It seemed every unnatural thing was coming around town just to remind me what a bad person I was.

I was starting to get tired of it.

I've kind of got a lot going on right now.

Maybe come back in the winter when you're supposed to.

I'm sure I'll be in a better mood then.

Or we could rectify this situation now.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!

I was yanked off my feet and then I was being dragged half my body on the ground as the the warrior leaned over in his saddle, allowing only enough slack so that I didn't tumble under the hooves of his horse.

I kicked, trying to get my feet under me, for all the good that would have done with a horse in full gallop, trying to get away from the stones and debris that tore at my jeans and bruised my flesh.

I twisted in my jacket, clawing at the zipper, choking on the pressure just under my chin.

And then we hit the lake.

Their momentum slowed some.

The water supported my body and I could breathe.

But the warrior did not stop dragging me further out, towards the deeper part of the lake.

I yanked savagely at the zipper of my jacket and the damn thing got stuck.

This isn't fair!

Do I need to be wearing fucking mistletoe around my neck 24-7 or something?

Maybe an ugly Christmas sweater?

The warrior glanced down long enough to give me a disgusted look.

Christmas is something you hold in your heart.

The water was to the horse's chest.

I began to take deep breaths of air, preparing myself to be pulled under.

Maybe I could still break free.

Maybe I could swim to the surface.

The water churned around me as the four other Shalikin surrounded us, and then they plunged forwards in one leap, and I was yanked down sharply.

And there was nothing but water around me.

The cold of it almost shocked the air from my lungs.

I held my breath through sheer force of will and continued to tug at the zipper savagely until it came loose and I tore my jacket open.

And for one brief, exultant moment, I was free.

A hand closed over my throat instead, and it forced me further down into the water, and I could only claw helplessly at those fingers, my gaze locked on the receding sunlight above me.

All I could think of was how unfair this was.

I dealt with monsters every single day and got no thanks for it, no consideration, nothing but hatred and scorn from the town.

What reason did I, or any of my family, have to be happy?

Finally, as my body strained to release an inhale, the warrior let go.

I immediately started swimming up towards the distant ball of sunlight that marked the surface.

In my heart, I knew it was futile.

He wouldn't have released me if I had any hope of survival.

Still, I had no intention of dying quietly.

I would not so easily resign myself to drowning.

And I kicked and pulled myself through the water.

And then it was too late.

I remember red spots dancing in my vision, and then agony, and then nothing.

I woke with one abrupt convulsion, like my entire body was crawling inside itself.

And then I was shoved over onto my side as I began to vomit uncontrollably.

I brought up everything in my stomach and then some, coughing and retching until I was spitting blood.

I dimly felt comforting hands on my back and a voice telling me it was okay.

I was going to be okay.

And finally it was.

And I could breathe again.

I began to shiver violently.

I looked around me and found that I was flanked on either side.

To my left was Brian.

To my right was the man with the skull cup.

I stared at him incredulously.

Your uncle gave me permission to accompany Brian on a small errand.

I turned to look at Brian.

Skullcap man over here found me and said you were in danger, and that he'd be needed to save you.

So I got your uncle to give permission.

Since he's family and all, I figured it'd work.

And then we came here and he waded out into the water and pulled you out.

Waded?

He's awfully wet for someone that simply waded into the lake.

It took a little more effort than your employee is implying.

You swam in after me.

That's

something.

Well,

uh,

so to be honest, I thought you were dead when you came out, but he said you weren't.

And then he poured the contents of his cup down your throat.

And that's when he started coughing.

You're welcome.

I

need a moment.

I took a couple of deep breaths.

I've done some dangerous things around here, but the list of times I've actually almost died is pretty short.

This, unfortunately, was going to go on that list.

Brian, can we talk over there for a moment?

Please don't be angry.

But my dogs were at home when he said you were in danger.

I didn't know what else to do.

You know I'm not good at these things.

After what happened at the town fair, what on earth made you think an inhuman thing can be trusted?

I'm still here, you know.

Well, you weren't breathing, and he fixed that with his cup, so I guess your uncle and I made the right call?

There's CPR, Brian!

Everyone on the campground is trained in CPR!

I suppose I wasn't being fair to him.

He's been working on the campground just about his whole adult life and knows how things work better than anyone.

If he and my uncle thought it was the right thing to do, then it probably was.

I was just rattled from being pulled from the clutches of a watery grave.

It made me shiver just thinking about it.

So So, to avoid losing my composure any further, I found something else to distract myself with.

I turned my attention back to the man with the skull cup.

Your cup is almost empty.

I eyed it uneasily where it sat on the ground.

There were only a few drops left inside.

Old blood from what was there before.

Sheriff Sabota's blood.

So it is.

He considered in a moment.

Then his hand shot out and seized Brian's wrist.

No!

Blood forcibly taken.

The man with the skull cup cut Brian's palm open with his thumbnail and held the open wound over the cup long enough for a few drops to fall inside.

Then he let go of my employee and he clutched his hand to his chest in shocked outrage.

Surprise counts as taking blood by force?

The creature gave me a pained look.

It does when I'm in a hurry.

Could you not be so difficult about this?

I'm doing you a favor here, multiple favors if we're keeping track, and believe me, I am.

He cut my palm open the same way he'd done to Brian as soon as I held out my hand.

I waited until he was satisfied and then took a handkerchief out of my pocket and turned it into a makeshift bandage.

I guess I'll go back to the campground now?

And take him with you?

We both turned to stare at the man with the skull cup.

He was contemplatively swirling his cup, mixing the contents together.

He seemed unhappy with the results.

Oh, very well.

My task is done and the agreement is concluded.

I said I would save you, and so I have.

However.

He produced his knife from somewhere.

He wears jeans, and I swear it looked like he pulled it out of his back pocket, which isn't possible.

It wouldn't fit.

I tensed at seeing it, but he only leaned forwards and set it on the ground in front of me.

There's something else you should consider.

Your dear neighbor has been lying to you.

The ground is soft enough that the horses have left hoof prints.

You should follow them.

They tell an interesting story.

Are you giving me your knife?

Goodness, no.

It's merely a loan.

Free of interest, even.

I'll come by the house later to retrieve it.

Inhuman things don't give stuff out for free.

Oh, I think you'll wind up doing me a favor with this one.

I'll see you back at the campground, Kate.

He stood and walked away, leaving me alone with his knife.

I reluctantly picked it up and then went to investigate what the man with the skull cup had suggested.

When an inhuman throws you that big of a clue, you're obligated to follow up on it.

It's rare that they speak so directly.

I found hoofprints at the edge of the lake, sunk into the deep mud.

I found where the Shalikin had exited the lake and then rode around it in a vast circle.

Then I found where they turned up the trail to intercept me as I walked along it, and then turned back to drag me back into the lake.

That was all.

The hoofprints went no further than the trail.

The Shalikin didn't even leave the property, much less ride all the way to the other side of town.

I stared at the marks for a long time, feeling anger bubbling inside me, and finally, when it was roiling and my blood was hot and I no longer felt the cold around me, my fingers curled around the handle of the man with the skull cup's knife.

It weighed nothing in my hand, and there was something like warmth ebbing through the weapon, receding each time I exhaled.

Then I went to my neighbor's house.

Oh, uh,

Kate!

You're soaking wet!

Yes, yes, I am.

Shalikin are definitely out of the lake and they're having a grand time going after people that aren't in the Christmas spirit.

But it's not Christmas.

Quite the problem, isn't it?

At least they're staying on the property and not going towards town.

Oh, yes.

Small blessings there.

What do you think that family on the other side of town saw then?

Uh,

you know, the ones that bought Louisa's farm.

You said they called you about some riders on horseback.

Couldn't have been the stallion.

That thing doesn't tolerate riders.

I, uh,

I can explain.

Oh, you better.

I thought we were friends, but you sent me out there to die, didn't you?

Silence stretched between us.

He was frozen in place, his eyes darted back and forth, searching for the nearest exit.

I never gave them the chance.

I lunged into the hallway, extending my arm to put the knife I carried to his throat.

The point angled towards the hollow just under his chin.

He backed away and I followed him, my steps even, until he was pressed against the wall and there was nowhere to go.

They know I've killed people before.

They all know this.

They try to forget so that they don't have to be afraid of me.

You called me out here so that the Shalikin would find me.

You wanted me to drown.

I'm sorry.

I'm so sorry, but I...

I was told.

Told what?

To invite you over and then just...

let

things

happen.

Who told you to invite me?

Is it the people in town trying to get me to sell my lionha?

Are they taking a more direct route by getting me killed?

He tried to answer.

He really did.

But the words stopped up in his throat and then he collapsed, like his muscles stopped working all at once.

And he hit the floor, hard.

He began to seize, his body snapping about like it was being shaken.

And I called 911 and then tried to interject myself between his body and the wall so that he didn't hit his head.

The paramedics would stop it, I told myself.

They could stop it, if it was due to natural causes.

But the man in front of me was jerking violently, his head snapping back and forth like a doll, and and blood began to leak from between his clenched lips.

There was nothing natural about this.

I knew in my heart they couldn't save him.

He was told.

Someone told him to invite me over.

It could be the people in town that want me to sell my land.

They don't have this sort of power.

They can't silence someone that is about to reveal their secrets.

There is a creature that can, however.

The man with no shadow may not be able to leave the camp, but my neighbor has visited it many times, and he has cast his net wide and snared far more than unwitting campers, and he would not let them betray him.

The man with the skull cup's knife lay nearby where I had dropped it in my haste to assist my neighbor.

The blade caught the light, and thus my attention.

I'm not sure how I knew what to do.

Perhaps all that folklore I've read gave me the idea, all jumbled up there in the back of my head.

Sometimes agreements are sealed with a piece of flesh.

Sometimes a similar sacrifice must be given to break one.

Or perhaps it bubbled out of that secret well of the human shared subconscious, that moraz from which monsters climb, and with them the answers to their undoing.

Regardless of the source, I grabbed hold of that idea and wrapped my fingers around the hilt of the knife.

I cut off the index and middle finger of my neighbor's right hand.

His convulsions stopped.

He lay unconscious on the ground, a thin trickle of blood mixed with the froth coming from his open mouth.

Alive.

At least he was alive.

The hospital kept him for 24 hours and then sent him home.

They weren't able to reattach the fingers.

The sheriff was not informed about this incident by either my neighbor or the hospital staff, which was a relief.

I didn't get any calls about the Shalikin being out either, so I can only assume they considered nearly drowning me a job well done and went back into the lake to sleep until winter.

And as as he promised, the man with the skull cup returned for his knife.

You said I'd do you a favor with this loan.

It's the man with no shadow, isn't it?

You've got a grudge against him.

Let's just say I relish any opportunity to make his goals a little more unachievable.

I'm kind of relieved to hear you didn't save me out of the goodness of your heart.

There's enough things changing around here.

I'm not sure I could handle that.

Also, you're still indebted to me.

I am?

You are.

Are you gonna tell me?

Nope, you're just gonna leave.

Thanks.

Thanks a lot.

My neighbor doesn't remember anything after I showed up on his doorstep with the knife, and he certainly doesn't remember his conversations with the man with no shadow.

This doesn't surprise me.

I think I'll forgive him.

He is my neighbor, and it's important to maintain good relationships with the people closest to me.

Besides, with both Perda and the Shalikin threatening my life, I feel it's time to practice the more noble virtues, like forgiveness.

However, I am less charitable towards the person that is truly responsible for this incident.

I don't know what to do about the man with no shadow, but the fact he's recruiting from among the town worries me.

It's not like I can go door to door cutting off people's fingers or whatever else it takes to break his hold on everyone.

But that letter I got.

The legal paperwork to sell my campground to some buyer I've never heard of is...

is sitting on my desk, worrying me.

If I sell my land, then it stops being old.

All those inhuman things will lose their home.

But no longer will they be compelled to stay here.

No more asking myself or my uncle for permission to leave.

I think the man with no shadow is trying to escape.

Goat Valley Campgrounds Season 2 was written and adapted for audio by Bonnie Quinn.

Produced for the No Sleep podcast by Phil Michulski.

Musical score composed by Brandon Boone.

Starring Lindsay Russo as Kate, Alante Berequet as The Neighbor, Kyle Akers as Brian, Mick Wingert as the Man with the Skull Cup, and Guy Woodward as the Shulikin.

Join us next week for Chapter 3 of Goat Valley Campgrounds Season 2.

Our tales may be over, but they are still out there.

Be sure to join us next week so you can stay safe, stay secure, and stay sleepless.

The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media.

The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone.

Our production team is Phil Michalski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornette, and Claudius Moore.

Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McInelly, 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 joining us and seeking safety from the things that stalk us in the night.

This audio program is Copyright 2025 by Creative Reason Media Inc.

All rights reserved.

The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc.

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