S23 Ep12: NoSleep Podcast S23E12

WNSP

You're listening to The Darkness of the Night, WNSP's overnight programming.

DC back with you.

And as I mentioned before the last break, my efforts to reach out to the person most acquainted with Goat Valley Campgrounds have been successful.

I believe I have her on the line with me now.

Am I speaking with Bonnie Quinn?

Uh, yes, you are.

Excellent.

Thanks for joining us live on the darkness of the night, Bonnie.

Now, my friend tells me that you actually live in the Goat Valley area.

Is that right?

Well, I actually live in Columbus, Ohio, but I am the author of How to Survive Camping and the creator of Goat Valley Campgrounds.

Oh, oh, the uh uh creator of Goat Valley Valley Campgrounds.

Hmm.

My friend told me he lives up.

Never mind.

Well, I've been led to believe that when it comes to experts on Goat Valley and the campgrounds they're in, no one knows more about them than you, right?

Well, I would certainly hope so.

It started as a series of posts on Reddit where I was sharing stories about Kate and the campgrounds.

And there's a lot of different stuff that went into it.

There's a bunch of folklore, but also a a lot of original ideas that i came up with with all these different creatures that live on the campground hmm i'm starting to think my friend hasn't been completely honest with me i'm starting to wonder if there really is a goat valley campground um well uh bonnie since you wrote these stories about goat valley campgrounds I take it you have a lot of camping experience.

Yeah, I kind of grew up camping.

My parents started taking us at a very early age.

And for a while, I thought that was the only vacation that people went on was camping.

Disney was just a great surprise to me.

And of course, going camping so much, you start to see like all the different things that can go wrong.

You start experiencing the things that can go wrong.

And so when I started posting about Goat Valley Campgrounds, I wanted to kind of include some of that knowledge and this campground manager who has seen a bunch of mistakes and is just trying to keep people from having a terrible vacation.

Yeah, that makes sense.

You've done a lot of camping, seen a lot of creepy things, and started writing about them.

So can I assume you've seen many of the strange entities in your stories?

Surely you've encountered the man with the skull cup.

No, I haven't.

The man with the skull cup is, well, I like skulls.

It's kind of my aesthetic.

I have a lot of skull cups, but he's also got some inspiration.

I'm not going to be able to pronounce this correctly, but I'll try.

From Irish mythology, this person called Kukalane, who had to basically, due to hospitality, partake in something that would lead to his demise.

And so the man with the skull cup is kind of this idea of where, to be polite, you have to partake in something that you know will harm you in the end.

Oh, damn.

I was really hoping the man with the skull cup was real.

He would be very welcome down here in Cryptid Valley.

Anyway, so, uh, Bonnie, since you've written down so many of these tales about how to survive camping, where can our WNSP listeners learn more about your books so they can delve even deeper into the lore?

Yeah, so there is a book in the form of a guidebook that's been released.

It is How to Survive Camping, The Man with No Shadow, and that's out now in print and in audiobook.

And then in April, we will be releasing The Lady in Chains.

Well, Bonnie, we have to wrap up this call so we can can start our regular podcast segment on our show.

I think you're familiar with the No Sleep Podcast.

So thanks for joining us and sharing some insights into the mysterious world of Goat Valley Campgrounds.

Yeah, and thank you for letting me talk about House Schweft Camping, and I hope your listeners really enjoy season two on the No Sleep Podcast.

I sure hope they do too, Bonnie.

Thanks again for joining us.

Well, folks, I'm not sure there's any more I can say about Goat Valley Campgrounds.

I think it's time for you to experience them yourself.

So we'll be back to the darkness of the night right after this episode of 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.

Have you ever considered the word off,

as in the opposite of on?

Oh, it's a very versatile word.

You can back off, you can turn off, you can get laid off, you can break it off.

Tay told us you can shake it off, you can mouth off, laugh it off, and of course, you can face off.

There's an awful lot of ways the word off can be used in the English language.

But in the world of horror, the word off can be quite powerful.

Personally, I love horror stories where things are disturbing, not because of something huge and dramatic, like someone trying to lop off your head with a chainsaw or a demon trying to drag you to hell, but rather when normal, everyday things just seem slightly wrong, subtly different, just a little bit off.

The word off can be used to describe the tales in this episode.

Things seeming off, limbs coming off, whole cities and planets going off, and even places already being off, getting even

offer.

No,

more off.

An increase in offedness.

Off, offer, offest.

So let's kick off this episode with horror that's rather off.

Now tune in, turn on, and brace yourself for our sleepless tales.

In our first tale, we meet a daughter and her mom going about the regular routine.

Despite the usual hassles, a regular routine is comfortable for them.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Anna Gogia, When their routine becomes a little less routine, things start to feel less and less real.

Performing this tale are Ash Millman and Erica Sanderson.

So there's nothing routine when the daughter tells us about my mother and I.

On school days, my mother normally woke me up at 7:30 in the morning.

In late autumn, she would get up an hour earlier to turn on the heating, so the November chill that had settled into the walls of our house during the night would slowly fade away.

She would place a fuzzy robe by my bedside, which I'd jump into as soon as I left the warmth of my sheets and blanket.

As I zombied my way to the bathroom, spending far more time there than necessary to pee, wash up and brush my teeth, My mother would slice bread, spread butter and plum jam on top, and neatly arrange them on a platter at our small kitchen table.

She would put on a kettle, and while I quickly dressed in my most predictable outfit, a black hoodie and one of the two pairs of jeans I alternated between, she would prepare black tea for both of us.

She knew exactly how I liked mine, with three spoonfuls of sugar and half a lemon squeezed in.

Mornings were my favourite.

But only the part where I was already fully awake and dressed, ready to sit at the kitchen table in the dim light, darkness still lingering outside the windows, having breakfast and quiet conversation with my mother.

The talking mostly consisted of her asking questions about school and me answering, but I preferred our quiet moments, as if we were fully immersing ourselves in the stillness of the morning, feeling like we had extra time compared to everyone else, so there was no need to rush or feel anxious.

We could simply exist, and maybe daydream a little.

But that day,

the very last day of November, she woke me up earlier than usual.

I don't remember checking the time, but my internal clock told me it must have been around five in the morning.

Only in retrospect did I acknowledge that feeling of something being skewed.

Now when I think of that moment, I remember the strong sense that something was odd, but I didn't pay attention to that demanding, yet unnameable, easily dismissable feeling and casually went about my morning routine.

Everything was habitual.

In the kitchen, nothing was different.

My mother was a comforting presence as always.

The butter and jam sandwiches were delicious as ever.

The teacup warm and clutchable.

The same darkness through the windows.

Everything was the same, except it felt quieter.

It wasn't that my mother or I were quieter than usual, but the neighbouring buildings, apartments, and the environment around seemed to have gone still for no reason at all.

Once we finished breakfast, I put on my coat and headed to the door.

I went through our typical daily argument with my mother, her insisting I wear a scarf or I'd freeze to death, and me insisting my huge, fluffy coat with a hood would be enough to keep me warm.

I always refused to wear scarves.

I never even wore turtlenecks because I hated the feeling of fabric against my neck and throat.

But my mother, despite having to give up every day over these things, still found resilience and hope that this time would be different and I would submit.

She wished me a good day and I stepped over the threshold with my right foot.

I was never a superstitious person, but I couldn't help being cautious about such things.

It wasn't that I consciously believed in them as a logical person, but the anxiety in me convinced the irrational part of myself that every single mundane step could determine the events of the day ahead.

So I took that right step out and was immediately struck by the winter air.

Though it was the last day of the month, in my mind it was still strictly autumn, so the air, filled with the smell of biting cold and chimney smoke typical of mid-winter, came as a surprise.

I headed towards the bus stop, walking slowly, enjoying the fresh morning air.

The dim lights of the lampposts always made me sleepy and put an irresistible weight on my eyelids, which I normally struggled to fight, but that day I gave in.

I looked around to check there was no one to see me sleepwalking and close my eyes, continuing to walk in that state, hoping I wouldn't bump into anything or trip.

It was a straight path to the bus stop, so I didn't need to open my eyes to make any turns.

I wished it could be like this forever, so that I could just step into the infinity of darkness and walk without direction.

But I knew I had to open my eyes soon.

I was approaching the bus stop where there would be a few people as usual.

There were always the same exact people.

A mom seeing off her kindergartner to school.

She would make sure to put him safely on the bus and then head home in her casual clothes to likely start her housewife chores.

There were two lively kids who would rush to be the the first ones on the bus and take their favourite seats.

I developed a habit of sitting near them to listen to their childish and random conversations.

I found solace in their inhibited chatter, some kind of fun in it.

Much to my surprise, there was no one at the bus stop that day except myself.

It wasn't just the fact that no one was there that baffled me, but my strange premonition about it.

I stood there at my usual spot and got a feeling that I wasn't meant to see a human face that day.

I was convinced the bus wouldn't arrive.

I was so used to the routine that I completely depended on my internal clock that day.

So if in what felt like five to ten minutes, the usual time it took for the bus to arrive after I reached the stop, it didn't come, I would head back home.

It would be a sufficient excuse to miss school.

And what more did I want?

But everything felt so creepily abnormal.

I wanted to get back to normal as soon as possible.

The normalcy of the stuck bus, the normalcy of being surrounded by crazy school kids running around the corridors, screaming at each other, the loud buzz of quiet conversations.

Luckily, I saw the bus approaching in the distance.

If no one else, there would at least be a driver inside.

So I decided to look at their face, no matter what.

I suppose that way I would break the spell of isolation that had consumed me.

The moment before the bus reached my stop, I bent down to look at a crunchy brown leaf that had attracted my attention for no explicable reason.

That's when the bus rushed past me and stopped abruptly, forcing me to run and jump through the side door.

Breathing heavily, I made my way to the seat in the very back and completely forgot to look at the driver, although I could see their hand in the vehicle's side mirror.

I was right.

I was the only one on the bus, and nobody seemed to be around the streets in close view.

I could see the silhouettes of people from afar, but that wasn't enough.

It wasn't a long ride to school, so I convinced myself it was only normal that not many people would be found in such a small area so early in the morning.

I was still determined to look at the driver.

It seemed like an extremely simple yet unattainable task that had become a matter of principle for me to accomplish.

Eventually, at the bus stop before my school stop, I got up, gripping either chairs or poles as I swayed my way to the front of the bus to look at the driver, who seemed annoyingly unnoticeable until the very last moment.

And finally, I reached to look and gasped.

Mother, what are you doing here?

She looked away from the steering wheel to me.

Oh, honey, I will find you everywhere.

Do you want some sandwiches?

No, I'm good.

Though all of it was inexplicable to me, I didn't stress over it.

I felt safe within Mother's presence, so I just sat in the front seat and let go.

She drove us home.

I was so sleepy, I went straight to bed.

In about two hours, the time she normally woke me up, she woke me again.

It felt like the right time to wake up, but strangely enough, my bed was on the other side of the wall.

I did my normal routine and went to the kitchen, where mother was already at the table, drinking her tea.

Mom, did you rearrange my bed?

She looked up at me from the cup she held to her mouth and spoke without a hint of surprise.

No.

It was always that way.

I sat down without another word and took a sip of my tea.

It was black, no sugar, no lemon.

Just like she always made it.

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You want longer episodes, no ads, and lots of bonus content?

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

They say necessity is the mother of invention.

When something is vitally needed, someone will invent something for it.

But what about inventors who create things that aren't so necessary?

As we'll learn in this tale, shared with us by author Christian Riley, one brilliant inventor has a strange hobby, and he's manufactured something that really gives him a hand.

Joining me in performing this tale are Jesse Cornette, Matthew Bradford, Nicole Goodnight, and Atticus Jackson.

So try to avoid hand-to-hand contact when you meet the hand collector.

Andrew Gallo collected hands.

Hands to look at, to examine the soft wrinkles that folded over bony ridges and outlying tendons.

Hands with fingernails, short or long, brightly painted trendy colors or soiled in earthy tones.

Hands that held pens, phones, keychains, shopping lists, money, tits and cocks, little black books and guns and other hands, dead or alive, just like his.

Andrew was a smart, toad of a man.

He was a brilliant engineer in the middle of his life.

He had no wife or kids to bog him down.

No girlfriend or boyfriend to bother him with their needs.

Andrew had plenty of free time, which allowed him to collect bloody hands, freshly severed from unsuspecting victims who moved throughout their day amongst a sea of other rushing bodies, pacing sidewalks, dancing under strobe lights, shivering under wet bus stops, that sort of thing.

Theirs were premium hands, warm on the inside, never mind the outside.

Hands with thoughts, hands with direction, Hands that waited for their next task, their next move, their next scratch, flick, brush, or rub.

Andrew's hands.

He kept his hands in the basement, where they were appreciated.

A plump one there, Andy.

It's going to take weeks to try.

Yes, I know, mother.

Truck driver, most likely, I think.

Maybe a construction worker of some sort.

Careful not to nick the flesh.

Andrew turned on his rotary tool and nuzzled the grinding wheel into the wedding ring.

Seconds later, he dropped the ring into a mason jar.

He placed the jar on a shelf full of other mason jars that were full of other rings, gold and silver.

A small fortune, indeed, yet simply a byproduct of his real treasure.

Do I ever nick the flesh, mother?

You

are steady, my son.

Is it time for church yet?

The basement was also particularly special for the drying of hands.

As much as Andrew loved a fresh hand to squeeze and hold, to ponder and toy with, to do sick things with in the privacy of his bedroom, he was always quick to hang such hands from the wooden support beams under the house, with all the others.

Andrew was quick to get those hands up high, where they would dry and add more character to his collection.

Because, shit, there were so many hands in the world, it made Andrew fester with excitement each time he hung another one up.

Hang him

over there,

next

to Melissa.

The fresh, fat hand brushed against Melissa with her gaunt features, bumping her with its weight, making her sway slightly in the air.

That's right.

Not so lonely now, are you, girl?

She's dead, mother.

Been dead for three years.

I know, son.

It's just that, well, she's been up there in that corner by herself all this time.

A young, pretty little thing.

Living alone,

so helpless, and.

Listen to you

You sound crazy

I guess it's just comforting to know that Melissa's got somebody to keep her company now

Mother's instinct

you

wouldn't understand

Would you like me to make them embrace?

I can squeeze them together with a clamp and it'd be like they were fucking

Melissa's truck driver husband Malcolm on the road for weeks at a time

home at last to give it to her good and hard

Don't be smart Andy

Malcolm and Melissa Betty Horace Lilith, Josephine, Francine, Paul, Michael, Larry, Bob, Stuart, Myron, Mabel, and Annie Mae.

And so many more hanging from the beams by parachute cord.

Hands.

Andrew's brilliance as an engineer allowed him to work at home.

They called him.

NASA, the Department of Defense, even General Electric occasionally.

And between the three-car garage and the basement, Andrew had every tool a guy could ever want.

Tools such as metal lathes, bandsaws, jointers, shapers, everything.

Because of this, the entirety of his house was an aromatic mixture of sweet oil and musty wood.

burnt plastic and various chemicals.

Only a hint of rotting flesh, easily explained as dead rats in the attic.

And if Andrew was the type, had he thought about it, he might have concluded that all those tools and aromas came together to form the inspiration for his famous mechanical designs, perhaps even for his infamous one.

Her name was Shelley.

Made from titanium carbide with an aluminum casing, Teflon joints, operated and functioned solely by compressed air, Shelley was a miniature pneumatic guillotine.

She was Andrew's pride and joy.

She used to be a simple machete back in the days of hacking off kitty paws, but now Shelley sat comfortably in a glass case in his living room, openly naked for Andrew's few friends to scratch their heads at, wondering what the hell she was all about.

Just another one of Andy's cool designs, they supposed.

And during his free time, when Andrew pursued his hobby, Shelley sat comfortably in the large pocket of his trench coat, waiting.

I still think you should forget about the library.

Too quiet.

Oh,

but don't you see,

that's exactly why it's perfect, Mother.

People read

in libraries.

They browse.

They wander the aisles of favorite books and magazines, captivated by their thoughts.

They

would never suspect

Shelley.

Still, it seems risky.

There'll be cameras, you know.

A disguise of face and body is the simplest of creations for someone who designs remote-controlled reaching tools harbored on the starboard side of the space shuttle.

Andrew never worried about cameras.

And he was correct.

The library was perfect.

When he brushed against mentally absorbed patrons, squeezing past through aisles carrying books, clumsily dropped books while said patrons dropped hands to offer assistance, Shelley reached out and snatched those hands right off.

Plucked and dropped into her aluminum casing, they went, as as Andrew then swept away for the nearest exit.

Always, he'd be halfway out the building before the scream came.

I guess I shouldn't underestimate you, son.

You've been doing this for quite some time.

That's right, mother.

Andrew hung another hand next to Melissa, opposite side.

There now.

Every girl's fantasy.

A threesome.

Two guys to plug her up from both ends like she was a shuttlemouth angel gallo.

Do I need to get the bar of soap?

Over the years, Andrew had grown much bolder and more creative with the places he collected his hands.

For in the beginning, it was only sleeping hands.

Hands cuddled in blankets, safe in bed, deep in the night.

As another effortless task for someone as smart as Andrew was the breaking of an entry.

Apartment complexes were always his favorite, since they offered so many suspects.

A comical reflection for Andrew when he observed the many doors on his way out toward the streets or alleyway.

Yet now, it was libraries, bus stops, and dance floors.

Crowded walkways in the middle of downtown's bright and sunny day.

A simple challenge of where to collect his next hand.

I think you're just bored.

That's what this is.

Still doubting me, Mother.

The library is one thing, but the county courthouse...

They've been looking for you for years, Andy.

Every person in that building knows about you.

Every person in this

county.

And in Sedgwick, Homer and Fenton,

Brisbane, and a few others, I suppose.

But I'm heading for Tanner County, next state over Mother.

Don't think I've collected any hands from that place.

Have I?

Doesn't ring a bell.

Time and distance were an equation for complacency in the hordes of wandering hands of the world.

Andrew Gallow understood this, of course, which was one reason for his indomitable spirit in capturing his victims unaware.

Wait a few weeks, even months.

Drive far from home.

Enjoy the ride.

Pay cash, park the car, car.

Drink coffee.

Chew gum.

Read a book or two.

Stare out from the windshield and observe.

Simple as pie.

And effective, too.

Um, um, excuse me, sir.

Uh, can you tell me where the restroom is?

Right over there, down the hall.

Second door to your left.

Hey,

you're that judge that put away that gang of bank robbers, aren't you?

Who?

Me?

Uh, no, I'm just a.

It's good to have guys like you around.

Andrew reached out for a handshake.

Man reciprocated.

Natural response.

They shook hands, nodded, and smiled.

His teeth were pearly white with pink gums.

Andrew's teeth were stained yellow, gums that bled wantonly from lack of care.

And it's amazing, thought Andrew, how a person flattered from mistaken identity could become so defenseless with a false ego, so complacent, and so completely unaware.

Where was that bathroom again?

Just down there.

Andrew stared down the hall.

Man reciprocated stare.

Natural response.

Second door to the.

Shelley swept forward and grasped the shaking hand.

Titanium carbide teeth severed flesh, bone, and sinew.

Job finished.

The hand collector strikes again.

That's how the papers printed it, actually.

Finally.

And it made Andrew laugh with joy.

Pure, unadulterated validation.

Oh, you should have seen his face, mother.

And he wasn't a judge?

No,

not at all.

Just some random guy.

Had money, though.

That's for sure.

Andrew dropped a ring into a mason jar.

Princeton alumni.

First one of those.

Perhaps you should

start

a new

collection.

A pause.

What could be better than hands,

mother?

To his credit, Andrew wasn't a killer.

He wasn't even a full-fledged mamer, in that others of his craft might have sought the greedy path of attempting to leave their victims with no hands at all.

Andrew wasn't even that greedy back in the days when Shelly was a machete.

The reason for this was that he enjoyed watching cats get around the neighborhood on three paws.

Andrew appreciated his work.

He took pride in it, studied it, and observed it.

And so, every once in a while, Andrew took a vacation from his hobby to do just that.

Let's go see Melissa again.

See how she's doing.

Every once in a while, Andrew observed his past victims doing ordinary things in ordinary places.

I wonder if she has a boyfriend yet.

The pretty little thing.

Oh,

I do feel sorry for her.

And every once in a while, Andrew could be nothing but the nicest guy around.

Let me give you a hand loading those bags, miss.

Uh, excuse me?

Oh,

I'm terribly sorry.

Um, poor choice of words.

Andrew shook his head.

I can be such an idiot sometimes.

Oh, that's okay, and thank you.

No,

please don't mention it.

My wife lost her feet to diabetes young and early.

A real shame.

It tore her up something awful, but we manage.

We know how it is.

I'm sorry to hear that.

That's terrible.

Ah, it's nothing, really.

It is what it is, as they say.

But I gotta ask you, how in the world do you drive this car?

Um, well, I've got an attachment on the steering wheel.

Huh, really?

I wonder if they make something like that for people with no feet.

Do you mind if I look?

Uh, well, sure.

Okay, I guess.

How about

that?

And it's a handy little gadget, ain't it?

Well,

gotta be going now.

You have yourself a nice day, miss.

You too.

And uh, thank you.

Nothing but the nicest guy around.

An explanation of criminal justice in a nutshell.

Victims of predators are often the voters.

When incidents of crime violate enough of these voters, they tend to speak out.

Depending upon the political demographics of the assaulted region, statistics indicate liberals are often more passive to crime than their hard-nosed brothers.

If their voices are loud enough, local politicians reliant upon such voters shake, rattle, and roll.

The police chief might then receive a phone call from Jerry the Mayor.

Get your goons out on the street to bust some balls.

However, when the wave of violence bypasses the masses completely, ascending the hill to somebody like a state senator, that phone call goes something like this.

Hello, Jerry, and this is Fred Walker, senator.

Yeah, yeah, cut the crap.

Listen.

Last time my son got his hand cut off by that wacko of yours.

I said cut the crap, Jerry.

And don't even think to argue, cuz we all know this guy's from your jurisdiction.

So here's the deal: I'm gonna keep things simple by saying, if you don't find the bastard who cut off my son's hand, you're gonna learn what it really means to have a dragon breathe down your neck.

You think everything that happens in Vegas stays in Vegas?

Think again, Jerry boy.

Yeah,

that's right.

So make some calls and find this asshole.

And of course, Jerry knows a lot of people, federal people, who also know people.

And since Jerry also knows what happened in Vegas and that photographs never lie, he picks up the phone and calls these people.

And before long, there are much more than local detectives sniffing the neighborhoods of Jerry's jurisdiction.

Three weeks later, they busted Andrew's door down, and the first thing they found was Shelly sitting in her glass display case.

She had been buffed to such brilliance, it seemed as if the tool smiled in mockery at the police officers, the detectives, and the forensic lab rats.

They found everything in Andrew's house as it was, hands and all.

20 years worth of baffling crimes closed in a single day.

They even found the box of kitty paws up in the attic.

They found everything they needed to solve the riddle of the hand collector, except, of course,

for Andy himself.

For Andrew Gallo really was one smart toad of a man.

First sign of a federal agent knocking at his door.

recorded and alerted by hidden cameras stashed in the eaves.

And Andy turned into Larry, who was out the back door on his way to a motel room 50 miles away near his storage unit that kept a small stash of old personal belongings packed and ready to go.

Oh, I sure miss the gang.

Especially Melissa.

Old personal belongings included an old identity.

I miss Shelly.

Old identity included a passport, foreign bank account, and open airline tickets.

No, you would miss her, Andy.

And in Greece, on the small island of Nisos Samothraki, commonly referred to as Nissos, was Larry's hundred-year-old villa, bought and paid for with cash.

Call me Larry, Mother.

I'm Larry now.

Remember?

Larry Christakos.

Call me Larry.

Oh, whatever, son.

Could you put me up there near the window overlooking the sea?

Those Aegean sunsets were always my favorite.

Listen to you, mother.

Sounding crazy again.

Through that window, Larry observed an orange tabby gracefully walk along a brick wall.

A smile crossed his face as he went downstairs into the basement, carrying a mason jar.

Now, at a table that held a variety of old, rusty tools, Larry brought the mason jar to his lips.

A jar filled not with rings, gold, and silver, but with pink liquid and one bright and juicy hand.

Now

that

would be too risky.

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You want longer episodes, no ads, and lots of bonus content?

Find out more at sleepless.thenosleeppodcast.com.

Hey, sleepless.

I know how many of you are into true crime podcasts, but I want to let you know about a podcast that doesn't just talk about the crimes.

They seek to bring justice to the cases.

The Undisclosed Toward Justice podcast aims to exonerate innocent defendants by investigating wrongful convictions and the U.S.

criminal justice system.

Attorneys Colin Miller and Robia Chaudhry investigate and report on wrongful conviction cases in an effort to exonerate innocent incarcerated defendants.

Here's the trailer for their new season.

Robia here.

Colin and I are getting ready to launch the brand new season of Undisclosed Toward Justice, the state versus Amanda Lewis.

The new season drops September 1st.

Find us on your favorite podcast apps and check out the trailer for the season.

911, I need an angle.

What's wrong, ma'am?

My daughter fell in the pool and she's not breathing.

On August 8th, 2007, the small town of Esto, Florida was rocked by a 911 call.

in which Amanda Lewis said her seven-year-old daughter had drowned in their above-ground pool.

My assumption was she went over the side of the pool, went down, hid her head, and came back up.

But the case soon took a sharp turn when Amanda's six-year-old son spoke to the police that night.

Mama, don't forget.

What does that mean?

But is it possible that this is a case where there's more or less than meets the eye?

The Undisclosed Toward Justice podcast is available wherever you get your podcasts or visit undisclosedpod.com for more information.

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

When it comes to popular radio shows, there aren't many better than WNSP's overnight programming.

But besides that, there's a great morning show in Seattle.

Lots of callers and interactions with listeners.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Christian Hart, it's not a normal day when the host, Steve, arrives at the station.

Seems a lot of people are looking for answers, and that's only the start of the troubles.

Performing this tale are Mike Delgadio, Dan Zapula, Lindsay Russo, Graham Rowett, Sarah Thomas, Nicole Goodnight, Matthew Bradford, Mary Murphy, Aaron Lillis, Ellie Hirschman, Peter Lewis, and Jesse Cornett.

So if you're a first-time, long-time kind of person, just hold the line because you're the next caller.

The drive to the station that morning was verging on freezing.

The chilly weather had not blown through since the night before when thunderclouds rolled into town.

Thunder still rolled in the early hours of this morning.

The only good thing about my three o'clock journey to the station was the lack of traffic.

See, I didn't have to sit behind a gridlock and freeze my ass off.

Instead, I could freeze my ass off while driving at a steady 60 miles per hour.

Even after 30 years of being the host of Good Morning Seattle, the winter months never seemed to get easier.

Something about driving to work when it was dark and cold and then driving home when it was dark and cold was off-putting.

Our station's parking lot stood empty, except for a brown 1985 Oldsmobile Cutlass, my new producer's stylish ride.

He'd probably gotten there an hour or so before I did, and that would probably last another month or so before the new hire's motivation would wear off from the daily grind.

The unmanned front lobby had a pot of coffee already brewed.

The man had just started and already he was gunning for a raise.

With my coffee cup freshly topped off, my boot heels echoed on the tiled floor as I made my way to the studio.

The on-air sign hanging near the studio door was unlit as I pushed my way inside the small room.

I pulled the cracked black leather rolling chair underneath me and grunted the way all old men do as they sit.

This would be my home for the next eight hours or so.

I reviewed that morning's notes I took the day before, going through the predicted weather, traffic, upcoming events, and so on.

Smooth jazz played faintly from the loose headphones around the microphone boom.

We must have had at least a few more songs to go because Luke, our producer and new hire, was not in the production booth.

While finishing up the last of my notes, Luke had slipped into the production booth unnoticed.

When I looked up, he met my gaze and gave a sheepish wave, then motioned for me to put my headset on.

I swigged the last of my coffee and put on the headset.

We got a huge lineup of callers this morning, Steve.

The phone is ringing off the hook.

Something's got the morning risers in a stir.

Well, they can wait.

We got at least two more songs till bingo time.

Don't you want to finish your coffee?

Luke was still filling the shoes of the producer who had just retired, and conversation lately had been a little awkward

he looked at me in a shy way not wanting to push too hard but something was clearly bothering him

i'm serious steve there's a lot of people calling in today and not the usuals either maybe the shit weather has got everyone roused this morning or something

either way i don't think it would be a bad idea to start early

i had seen that before New hire comes in and thinks he knows how to fix everything.

With temporary but powerful motivation for a new job, they're, you know, eager to prove themselves.

Luke was probably still in his early to mid-20s, so I understood.

He'd still got the youthful energy within him.

You know, in some ways, I envied him.

I let out a sigh of acceptance with just a twinge of annoyance.

All right, fine.

Let's do this thing.

I swung the microphone in front of me as the last song faded out and my seriously dated intro began to play.

Steve in the morning.

Good morning, Seattle.

Good morning,

Seattle.

Man, oh man, we needed to change that soon.

As the last bit of music from the intro played, I then went through my daily morning briefing to the great city of Seattle.

Our show had a decent number of listeners, mainly morning commuters or early risers, and played from 4 a.m.

to around noon when the afternoon crew rolled in.

And it looks like the thunder showers are here to stay this morning and potentially well into the afternoon.

Now, what you've all been waiting for, let's get to those phones.

Luke pointed over at me, and the small flashing red light on the desk indicated we had someone on the line.

With one click of a button near the microphone boom, the first caller was on the air.

Hey, neighbor, how are we all doing this morning?

Steve, hi.

What's going on?

What's in the sky?

I don't want to look.

It wants me to, but I don't want to look.

Taken a bit aback, confusion roused my tired mind before what was happening finally clicked.

Uh-oh, folks, looks like we've got ourselves a prank collar.

I guess we'll have anyone on these days.

All right, pranker, I'll indulge you.

What's your name?

Mary.

All right, Mary.

What is in the sky this morning?

It sure as hell isn't the sun.

I'm not sure.

I'll just take a glance.

I think

it's beautiful.

It's looking right at me.

He is looking right at me.

For a second, I really didn't know what to say back.

The radio show Killer was dead air, and over the years I'd learned to improvise.

Oh,

Mary.

All right, you got your kicks.

Say goodbye to everyone.

I hope you had fun.

Steve, you need to look.

The line clicked as we cut off the caller.

A cuckoo bird played, and Luke and I smiled at one another coyly.

It's too early for this shit.

Plenty of prank callers make their attempts, but I admit this one made me a little uneasy.

We occasionally have the typical drunk frat kids call in, still awake from the bars that would have closed just a few hours before.

But this lady, well, she seemed right off her rocker.

Something about her voice, she seemed genuinely frightened.

We all love the prank callers, right?

But come on, folks.

Wasn't our Halloween special enough?

All right, people.

On to the next caller.

I clicked on the next caller as the light flashed red.

Hey there, Seattleite.

How's the commute this breezy November morning?

As we approach the 5 a.m.

hour, I know it's probably...

Don't look in the clouds!

Whatever you do, do not look into the clouds.

My poor son, he's gone mad.

Steve, you need to tell people not to look up.

I shot the producer a confused look.

How did he manage to get two loons back to back?

Something on my face registered with him, but Luke just shrugged in an I told you so sort of way.

Okay, very funny.

I don't know how you managed, but you and your friend Mary are pretty clever.

This will go down as one of our...

Listen to me, you dumb fuck!

I barely had time to flick my thumb over the button to remove the collar as the outburst happened.

Sorry, folks.

We obviously are having some hooligans on the air this morning.

We apologize for the obscene language.

I pointed to Luke.

We'll take a quick break and be back with some of your fellow morning commuters right after Sister Goldenhair.

As America started to strum their first few chords, I removed my headset and quickly got up.

I stormed into the production booth with a few choice words on my mind.

Luke, what the fuck was that?

You know the FCC can fine us for that kind of language.

I get it.

We're told to boost our ratings, but I doubt the big man upstairs is going to be happy with what we got going on this morning, huh?

Look, let's vet this morning crowd out a little bit more before going forward, yeah?

Man, I don't know what to tell you.

I have 10 callers on the line right now, and every one of them sounds about the same as the last two.

Did he just say 10 more callers?

We often only have three to four callers at most during the first hour of the show.

Jesus, was was this some sort of coordinated effort?

Was some pranking group trying to go viral?

Or were these real callers?

Some words flashed on the producer's screen.

New caller waiting.

Our phone line now had 11 callers.

All right, look, hang up the other 10 callers and just let me take this new call off the air, huh?

If the song ends, just, I don't know, throwing the Doobie Brothers or something.

He flashed me a quick thumbs up, tapped on some buttons on the production panel, and handed me an extra headset.

Tossing the headset on, I reached toward the screen with the one remaining caller and clicked through to the call.

Hi, this is Steve from Good Morning Seattle.

We just wanted to do a quick off-air check-in to see what you'd like to talk with us about today.

A voice barely registered on the headset.

A faint whisper was all that could be heard.

Look up, look up, look up, look up, look up, look up, look up, look up, look up, look up, look up, look up.

I clicked off the line.

What the hell was going on?

Bright flashes of lightning outside illuminated the shade-drawn window over the producer's shoulder.

Stepping past Luke, I hesitated before pushing my fingers through a flap of the shades, spreading two of the blinds to get a good look outside.

Peeking through, I looked looked down three stories to the street below.

The storm was still raging, and the early morning light had not come over the horizon yet.

The first signs of sun would not come for at least another hour or two.

Storm water had flooded the empty street.

Up the road, I spotted a car speeding, going at least 60, maybe 70 miles per hour.

That driver was crazy for going that speed on these small side streets.

Just a second after I noticed it, the car hydroplane and swerved into an adjacent building.

A person was ejected from the vehicle and threw 30 feet from the wreckage.

I looked up and down the road, but there were no other cars in sight.

I might have been the only one who had seen this terrible crash.

We had to call the police.

Christ.

Hey, Luke, call the...

But as I looked up toward the producer, something else caught my eye.

In the horizon, across the Puget Sound, above the Olympic mountain range, a shadow loomed in the dark clouds as lightning flashed.

Impossibly large wings slowly flapped down, appearing to brush the tips of the snow-capped mountains in the distance.

The flash faded and I peered harder out across the narrow seawater.

In my peripherals, Evergreen stood in the nearby park, whipping back and forth violently as the wind gusts picked up loose trash from the surrounding area.

Another flash of lightning illuminated the stormy sky.

This time, the midsection of the winged beast was clear.

Large, red eyes gleamed in the dark sky from a swirling tendril-covered face.

Even at this distance, I could tell it was looking right at me.

I couldn't look away.

My eyes began to water, but I couldn't blink.

A low, guttural voice began speaking to me.

It spoke so loudly that I felt my skull vibrate as it reverberated through my eardrums.

My vision began to blur, the red eyes swallowing my own.

A vast desert spread out in front of me.

The bones of millions and millions of people lay stacked in a grand pile.

Scanning my surroundings, I saw decaying corpses strewn all around me.

Looking down at my arms and legs, they appeared...

malnourished?

Skinny to the bone.

Rising panic began filling my chest, the horror around me culminating in an internal droning scream.

In the distance, the giant beast filled the yellowish-orange horizon, making its way back to its fortress of bones.

Wind began whipping the desert sand across my body, gashing away at my thin skin, ripping off all of what I had left on my wilting body.

I fell to my knees, realizing I would succumb to the beast soon.

Certain doom was inevitable.

It would take everything, for it was hungry, and that hunger was not yet sated.

I could feel its hunger.

A bottomless pit never to be filled.

A black hole sucking in the universe.

A hand yanked hard on my shoulder.

My own hand broke away from its fixed spot, opening the blinds.

I jerked around, fumbling back, and finally fell on my ass.

Shifting back to reality, I sat there, shaking.

How long had I been looking through the blinds?

How long had I been in that place?

Hours?

Days?

Months?

Years?

My perception of time had completely warped.

Reeling, I looked up at Luke, eyes stinging.

The last few chords of Sister Golden Hair finished playing in the background from Luke's headset, which he now clutched in his

I was back in the studio.

I had never left the studio.

What the fuck just happened?

Luke crouched to my level.

Steve, Jesus Christ, is everything okay?

Why weren't you responding to me?

Is

that blood?

Are

you bleeding?

I felt what I

thought were teardrops from my dried eyes rolling down my cheeks.

Wiping my hand at them,

a dark red liquid covered my palms.

My God, my eyes were bleeding.

Clenching my eyes shut, I rubbed them to soothe the sting.

Don't.

Don't look outside.

But, Steve, what happened to you?

What's outside?

He got up and took a step toward me and the window, hand outstretched.

I said, don't look, goddammit.

I smacked his hand away with force.

Luke looked down at me, puzzled.

The same sheepish look from earlier that morning.

Fine, Steve, but you need to see a doctor.

Your eyes, they don't.

they don't look good.

My eyes still burned like crazy.

That being the least of my concerns.

Luke, Luke, look, we need to get back on the air, all right?

There's

something.

Something is out there, Luke.

Something big is coming this way.

And it's hungry.

It wants us.

It wants all of us.

I'm not sure what it is, but...

We need to tell the people.

We need people to know.

They need to run.

What?

Are we being attacked?

Is it terrorists?

Another country?

No, it's...

I lacked the words to explain what had just happened to me, to describe what I had saw, to describe describe the hunger, to describe the black hole that was the beast.

Look, there's something out there that wants to kill us.

If you look at it, it will kill you.

Do you have family in the city?

Look, if you do, you need to call them right now.

Hell, you need to get them and get yourself out of town.

Steve, you're scaring me.

You know my family is from Philly.

I moved out here for this gig.

What the hell is going on?

Look, you need to trust me, Luke.

You need to leave town.

Get in your car, drive away, and don't look back.

But before you go, I need you to set me up to go live.

I need to warn the others.

Luke seemed to ponder this.

In the momentary silence, the single-pane glass windows shook in their frames as the wind picked up, howling just outside the studio.

The wind was getting stronger as it grew nearer.

I could still feel the beast's gaze on me.

It had seen me, and it would not forget me.

It wanted me.

It needed me.

I am going to stay with you.

I have nowhere to go.

He looked away, troubled, questioning what he had just said.

I'm not gonna lie, though, man.

I'm scared.

So just...

Give it to me straight.

Are we gonna be alright?

Or

are we about to die?

I don't know, but we might be able to save the others.

We both looked at each other for a moment, not sure what to say.

Luke held out a hand and helped me up.

I pulled him into a brief hug, trying to give what assurance I could to the young producer.

I won't leave you.

I walked out of the production booth and back into the studio.

Sitting down on the cracked leather chair, I put the headset back on and swiveled the microphone close, preparing myself as best I could.

Luke pointed in my direction.

The music from the headset had been cut and we were live once again.

Folks, there is no easy way to say this, but you must evacuate the city.

Drive east, north, south, it doesn't matter, but you can't stay here.

I repeat, you must evacuate the city.

This is not a joke or a hoax.

It's real.

I paused, thinking of what next to say.

Look, this is going to sound crazy.

There's a flying creature that.

Well, it's coming to kill us all.

You must pack up your family and leave now.

Leave as fast as you can.

Looking up, I saw Luke's expression had turned to that of a small, scared, confused child.

He looked helpless.

That's when Luke's words dawned on me.

Nowhere to go.

If anyone wants to call our studio, we are still here and will remain live for as long as possible.

Please call in.

Our lines are clear.

Call 206-555-0206.

Again, 206-555-0206.

Almost immediately, Luke waved and pointed towards me.

The red flashing light pinged on the desk in front of me.

I reached over and clicked in the first caller.

Hello, this is Steve.

Where are you and what are you doing?

Hi, I need help.

My parents are gone, and I just woke up.

I heard your voice on the radio, and you told me to call you.

Can you help me?

The blood in my face drained.

I was not expecting this.

Hi, sweetie.

Look, everything's gonna be okay, all right?

Is there anyone else with you in the house?

Do you have neighbors?

My older brother is here, but he's still still sleeping.

He told me to never wake him up.

Gets crumpy when I wake him up early, and will tick on me if I do.

Sweetie, you need to wake him up and put him on the phone.

It's important.

Danny?

Danny, you need to get up.

There's someone on the phone for you.

Danny, you need to talk to him.

Wake up.

Sadie, what's going on?

What time is it?

Sadie, it's still dark outside.

You should be in bed.

Where's mom?

What is that?

Oh, no.

No, no, no, no.

Oh, no.

Sadie, Sadie, don't look out the window.

Please, no, don't look outside.

Oh, no.

No, no.

No, no.

No, no.

Oh, no.

My mouth hung open and a lump swelled in my throat.

What am I even doing?

A thought came to me, but before I had time to process it, the red light started to flash.

I clicked into the next caller.

Hi, this is Steve.

What's your name and where are you?

Hey, Steve, I'm Ben, a longtime listener.

First time caller.

Hey, I thought Halloween was over.

I loved your guys' special a couple of weeks ago, but I didn't know you would keep the immersion going this long.

Great stuff, guys.

Keep it up.

No, wait, listen, this is real.

You need to leave the city.

Where are you at?

Oh, I'm in Baffle.

And hey, I am a huge fan.

Hell, my kids will love to listen to the playback of this.

I'm actually listening in on my phone.

About to head out the door for work.

Oh, and this is seriously great stuff, guys.

The headset picked up the door squeaking on his hinges.

He was leaving the house.

I cut him off in mid-sentence.

Listen to me, motherfucker.

Close your door and pack your things.

You and your family need to get out of town.

Look, this isn't a fucking bit.

Whoa, whoa, hey, easy there, Steve.

I know.

Um,

oh,

my neighbor is here.

Hang on,

Bill, Bill, it's too early for yard work.

What are you doing, pal?

Oh, guess what?

I'm on the radio right now.

What are you looking at, anyway?

I slammed my desk in frustration.

God damn it!

No!

The line cut out once again.

Staring up at the booth, Luke gave me a solemn look before putting his head in his hands.

I couldn't hear him, but I knew he was sobbing.

The red light flashed, and I clicked into the next caller.

With newfound determination, I thought to myself that I wouldn't...

No, I couldn't let anyone else die.

Hi, this is Steve.

Look, you need to listen to me.

Do not look in the sky outside.

Pack what you can and leave town.

A familiar voice came through.

Steve, this is Bella.

I can't reach your cell.

What's going on?

I've been listening all morning.

I won't look outside.

My mom and dad are awake, too.

But I haven't seen them since they told me to pack my things.

My door's closed, but I think I can hear them talking or chanting something out in the living room.

I'm scared.

My niece, sister, and brother-in-law lived only a few miles from the studio.

My stomach sank at the thought of something happening to them.

This was my chance.

I might still be able to save them.

Listen, Belle, I'm here.

Look,

just focus on my voice, okay?

Deep breaths.

Deep breaths.

My niece let in and out three long breaths.

The tenseness in my shoulders momentarily relaxed.

I was relieved that my niece was all right, but I couldn't help but wonder if my sister and brother-in-law were okay, too.

Okay, good.

Good girl.

Now,

you're gonna have to help me out here, hun.

Don't look outside any windows, but I need you to crack the door and see what's going on in the living room.

Can you do that for me?

Yes.

Yes, I can do that.

A twist of a doorknob could be heard as Bella cracked her bedroom door into the living room.

The chanting she described was now clearly audible.

Mom?

Cat?

I could feel the building shake, and I looked up from my stupor.

Luke was looking nervously towards the windows.

Flipping one side of my headset off, I heard the building crack and moan in its old frame.

I stared at the vibrating windows Luke's attention was on.

The glass would surely shatter soon.

The chant, now a shout, ripped my attention back to the headset.

We will serve.

We will serve.

We will serve.

Listen, Bella, hey, is that your mom and dad?

Yes.

They're looking at me, but they won't respond to anything I say.

They just keep saying the same thing.

They're walking right on me.

Bella, close the door.

Close the door.

A bang of a door came through clearly, dampening the drone of my sister and brother-in-law's voices.

The studio windows finally gave in.

Glass shattered inward, and heavy winds began flinging loose items around the small room.

A piece of glass gashed my already bloody cheek, and I shrank my face away from that side of the room as the blinds lifted from gusts of air.

Shielding my eyes, I glanced back at the production booth.

Luke stood dead straight, looking directly out the window.

His pupils dilated as his eyes grew wide and instantly bloodshot.

Blood began to streak slowly from his tear ducts and ears.

Luke then began mouthing something in the booth to himself.

We

will serve.

The building groaned and began to dip, the old brick building and wooden floor starting to crumble around me.

I held on to the fixed table bolted to the ground as the leather chair began to roll away on the shifting floor.

With one firm grip on the table and another on my headset, I cried out to my niece.

Bella, Bella, can you still hear me?

Bella, you need to get out of the house and leave the city.

Get in your car and leave.

Yes, Uncle Steve, I know.

I just don't know how to leave.

I can barely hear you.

What's going on?

Oh, Bob!

I think they're at the door.

They're trying to break the door down.

Bella, listen to me.

Climb out your window.

Help.

Break it open.

Go now.

Go!

Now!

The building began tilting in an awkward direction as the earth below shook its foundations.

I was losing my grip on the edge of the table.

My chair swiveled up and was now facing the busted-out studio windows.

My arm, fully outstretched, grasped the table as I hung on for dear life.

As the window shades flapped up and down, the winged beast went in and out of sight.

It had made its way past the Olympic mountain range, which lay burning in the distance, and was now directly over Puget Sound.

The impossibly colossal body completely filled the horizon, as far as I could see in each direction.

Massive cracks in the earth littered the surrounding area, swallowing whole city blocks.

Tendrils trailed down from the beast, not only from its face, but from all over its body, rolling down to the writhing, brackish water below.

The slow flap of its tremendous hooked wings surged down, causing tsunami-sized swells to form off the Seattle coastline.

Water began surging into the city.

Whole skyscrapers fell from the converging ocean and wind.

It was here.

I could no longer look away.

Its red eyes beamed at me.

Each time the eyes were revealed with the flap-up of the shade, I could feel my corneous flash cook from its leer.

A loud crack and bang came over the headset.

Bella screamed.

Glass shattered as a window was smashed on the other end of the line.

Chance came over the headset.

The headset slipped off my head and out of my grip.

The tilt of the floor finally pulled the chair out from under me and I thrust my free arm up to the table, still managing to hold on.

The blinds flew off the window frame and I could now fully see the beast's eyes, uninterrupted, emanating in the dark sky.

Had my niece escaped?

Was it too late?

Bella?

Bella?

I could only manage to murmur as I felt the beast's hunger fill my very soul.

The beast bellowed out as it crossed the coastline into the crumbling city.

The booming noise burst my eardrums and I felt a trickle of blood run down the side of my face as the unnatural, guttural language came from the winged horror.

My eyes set ablaze and engulfed in the red ire of the tendril-filled face, its eyes sank directly into my frontal cortex.

I screamed out as I let go of the table.

We

will

serve.

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 1.

Okay, here we go, folks.

It's very simple.

Hi, I'm the manager here at Goat Valley Campgrounds.

We have a lovely campground for you to explore with a variety of terrain and lots of places to set up a tent, sit down for a bit, and relax and reconnect with nature.

There's just one thing we need to cover first.

The pamphlet, the one I give to every single person that makes a reservation.

It's got all sorts of useful information in here.

Practical advice on how to pitch a tent, more campground-oriented advice like, don't split the hose more than three times.

The water pressure can't handle it.

And then there's the other rules.

I think you know some of them already.

The dancers, the man with the skull cap, why my family doesn't keep horses around.

These little scraps of information that were bought with blood, sometimes my own, in the futile attempt to arm people with just enough knowledge that if they were part of the very unlucky few that encountered the monsters out there in the darkness, perhaps they'd know what to do and how to survive.

Yeah, that's not how it works.

That's never how it works.

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

I wish I didn't have to explain this over and over.

I have a set of rules.

If you read them and do what they say, you'll be fine.

You'll be safe.

I have tens of thousands of people that camp here every year and they all go home with nothing worse than a sunburn and mosquito bites.

But every now and then, you get someone that doesn't stick to the rules and then mad things happen.

I suppose I'm a little more to blame than I'd like to admit.

Simply telling someone to do something isn't all that effective, after all.

I suppose there's more I could be doing.

It's just for my whole life, I've heard that we don't fight these inhuman things, that we can't fight them, and that all we can do is hunker down and pray for the morning light.

It's hard to change your mindset.

Yet, that's what I did.

I went into the vanishing house, the house that swallowed up the old sheriff so many years ago.

I went in there.

I faced the house's master and killed him.

I rescued the old sheriff.

I wonder if my parents would be proud of me.

For a brief shining moment, it felt like everything was going to be okay.

With the old sheriff back, I had an ally that could stand between me and the hostility of the town.

I was flushed with my triumph.

Things would just go back to normal, surely.

I

suppose they did.

But there's one rule in particular that gives me no end of grief.

Initially, I didn't think I even needed to include this again because it's so obvious, but apparently, it isn't.

Don't follow the lights.

But here we are, talking about them again.

Maybe you can tell me what I'm doing wrong because clearly people aren't capable of figuring this one out.

But before we get into my own personal hell of dealing with the general public, there is one thing of interest that changed after my excursion into the vanishing house.

Namely, my relationship with good old Sheriff Sabota.

Last time I talked, I stabbed you in the neck.

Now we're sitting here having a civil conversation.

Amazing.

Yeah,

real

civil.

Listen, I...

So we need to do something about the last camper that died.

You know, the one whose head ended up on your desk?

I thought your people handled that with the family.

We did.

I'd like for there to not be another incident.

Russell might be insisting we keep covering for you, but that doesn't mean he's okay with the campground's body count.

Yeah, I know.

The old sheriff, Sheriff Russell.

My parents got along well with him, which meant that I got along well with him when I took over the campground.

It didn't mean that he was permissive, though, that he tolerated the accidents that occurred here.

There was always an unspoken expectation that my family did better, that we didn't grow complacent in our management of old land.

It was especially pronounced with my interactions with Sheriff Russell.

Like he was pushing me forward, now that my parents were no longer alive to do so.

So, what's your plan?

Oh, uh.

You do have a plan, right?

Jeez, give me a moment.

Should have gone for the focal cords instead of the drugular.

Should have sharpened your knife more.

Shit hurt.

We just wrapped up one of our big events.

There's only a couple of them during the camping season, and we closed down for a week afterward to clean up the land.

We'll be closed all this week.

I'll have Brian turn the dogs loose and see if they can hunt down the man with no shadow during that time.

I'd ask if that's safe, but I don't really care about your safety.

I can't promise anything.

We've never gone after the man with no shadow directly.

We've never gone after any of the creatures with human-like intelligence directly.

They're a lot more dangerous than the others.

Well, Russell has gently suggested we provide you with some resources.

If you need help getting your land back under control, I'm obligated to make the offer.

No, I think it's best if I I handle this.

My staff are well-trained.

As long as we keep unqualified people out, there shouldn't be any incidents.

Glad to hear that.

I don't want to be near you when you're holding that shotgun of yours anyway.

You're never going to let the whole I tried to kill you thing go, are you?

Nope.

Ugh, fine.

There's something bothering me about that camper that was beheaded.

Oh, other than the fact that, once again, your campground got someone killed?

It's just that the man with no shadow doesn't typically act like this.

Yes, he gets other people to do his dirty work because that's what he's all about.

But waltzing in and depositing someone's head on my desk, I've never seen that from him before.

I don't even have records of him being directly responsible for any deaths because I couldn't pin anything on him.

There were incidents I suspected were his doing, but never anything this bold.

Well, what's your point?

I just...

I've got a bad feeling is all.

I think we're coming up on a bad year.

Oh, hell.

Before we go any further, we should talk about what what a bad year is.

I don't have a good explanation for what causes them.

Oh, I've looked for patterns.

I always do.

Is it the stars, the planets, or the seasons?

Or some other force, some current to the inhuman world that flows just beneath our reality?

I can't say for certain.

All I know is that things get bad.

It's like kicking an anthill.

All those inhuman things come churning out of the mire, hungry and vicious, searching for something to feast upon.

The creatures here already grow more active, unpredictable, and new things come to the campground, like a black hole pulling in the light around it.

That's a bad year.

I've dealt with a couple in my lifetime, even managed to stop one in its tracks, though I don't know if I'll ever be able to pull that off again.

There's been omens for previous bad years, small things like dead birds on my parents' gravestone, failed crops, or two-headed calves, the usual.

But over the years, my family has developed their own sense of things.

We just know.

Feel it in our bones and our chests.

Our interactions with the inhuman things feel off.

There's a tension just underneath the surface.

It draws them out of the shadows.

We've been taking some precautions, but I wasn't convinced it was enough.

I radioed Brian after Sheriff Sabota left.

Hey, what do you think about having two of your dogs guard the grove?

His grove?

I don't know, Kate.

Seems risky.

There was only one grove that mattered on my campground, the grove that belonged to the man with no shadow.

It changed locations, but you could always find it when you looked for it.

The staff recognized the trees leading up to it and knew to keep their distance.

He's up to something.

I just know it.

I want him contained.

Yeah,

and I want my dogs to be safe.

There's a bit of a difference between chasing down the inhuman in the open field and lying in wait right outside their home.

It's

personal.

All he can do is control human minds.

The dogs will be fine.

You don't know that's all he can do.

I'm not putting them on his own turf, Kate.

Find a different solution.

It was rare that Brian argued with me.

When it came to his dogs, though, he was uncompromising.

Ugh, fine.

This is going to come up in their performance review, though.

I don't believe you for an instant.

You wouldn't dare cut their treat supply off.

He's right, I wouldn't.

Until I have a better solution, I've instructed my staff to work in pairs, which is a typical procedure for a bad year.

But I've also started rotating the pairs so that two people aren't together for too long.

Additionally, anyone that enters the campground during our cleanup and repair work is accompanied by a staff member.

It's not sustainable, but it buys me a little time.

I've been looking through our records to see if there's anything that can be gleaned about the man with no shadow.

There's not much.

But I invited Russell over to review it with me.

He could pass it along to Sheriff Sabota for me and save both of us another uncomfortable discussion.

This is your mother's journal?

Yeah.

She didn't write a lot down, just tidbits of things she found important.

It's hard to make sense of it.

I don't think she intended for someone else to read them.

Is it difficult for you to go through her things?

Yeah, it is.

I've read through it a couple times now, and most of the time, it's not worth seeing her handwriting again.

But look, this time, I know what I was looking for.

I thought it was strange the first time I saw it.

Here, the page I bookmarked.

The man with no shadow.

And the two calendar dates.

That's all that's on this page.

Do those dates look familiar to you at all?

Hmm.

No.

Wait, that one.

I remember that year.

It was the first year Sabata ran against me for office.

He never seemed particularly excited during the campaign either.

At the time, I thought it was because he knew he wasn't going to win, but seeing how bittered he's gotten while I was trapped in that house, I kind of wonder if he didn't want the job at all.

Probably because he was only running to screw me over.

He kept running every year after that.

Never won.

Not until I vanished into that house.

But he kept trying.

He

was never happy about it either.

Like it wasn't something he actually wanted to do.

You need to ask him what happened.

No, no way.

You do it.

No,

you do it.

Your campground, and he's the sheriff.

You need to learn to work with him.

Figure it out.

I'll investigate that other date in your mother's journal.

See what was happening around town at that time.

Sure.

Thanks.

I didn't say it, but there was something I would need to investigate on my own.

And my mother came by those dates in her journal and what she meant by them.

The weeks after a big event are quiet, which is a welcome reprieve, but there's a lot of work to do.

Picking up the trash left behind is only the beginning of it.

Having a tent or a trailer in one spot for a week or more kills the grass, so we have to go reseed.

We fill the potholes on the road with gravel and put dirt in the ruts left by trucks getting stuck in the mud.

We check that everyone filled in their fire pits like they're supposed to and fill them in if they don't.

I make a note of who doesn't fill in their fire pits.

When they come back next year, they might find that their favorite camping spot has been given to a different group and they have been relocated to a less desirable spot.

Might even be in the deep woods where the monsters live.

Should probably stop doing that.

Perchdo wouldn't like it.

The day after my conversation with Sheriff Russell, I was out on the hill leading down into the deep woods, trying to figure out what to do with the trench.

The one that's right alongside the road and just keeps getting deeper every year.

This time it ate a pickup truck's back tire tire, and we had to get the tractor to pull it out.

So, kind of high on my priority list to fix.

Pouring dirt and gravel into it simply isn't working.

Alas, I never get a moment's peace, not even to fill in a stupid hole.

Hey, did you get the propane tank replaced?

The big one with all the rust?

Sure, did all my employees that put bets on it exploding this year will be disappointed?

Well, I think they're still in the running because I'm standing here next to it, and the replacement is still on the truck, but the driver isn't anywhere to be found did did we give him a pamphlet when he showed up would he have read it

no of course not okay we need to sweep the woods get the staff out there send your dogs out as well i'm gonna go check the grove the man with no shadow

do you think he got to the driver honestly i have no idea but he's the only monster sheriff sabota is breathing down my neck about

inhuman things are elusive They're not something you can hunt.

Oh, it's a common enough misconception.

Even the locals will say they're going monster hunting when we gather everyone up with our guns and our flares and go out into the woods to take on something particularly troublesome.

But the truth of it is, we hunt them just as much as a deer hunts the wolf.

We don't find the monsters.

They find us when they're hungry.

The man with no shadow is a rare exception.

He wants to be found.

His clearing is easy to stumble upon by accident and it is always there, waiting when you want to find it.

His clearing is surrounded with stones covered in moss, with thin, straight maple trees ringing it on all sides but one.

I took a deep, studying breath as I approached the entrance.

The man with no shadow was waiting for me.

He stood tall and willowy next to the missing truck driver, his red hair brilliant in the sunlight.

His arm was draped over the man's shoulder as if they were friends, but his nails dug into the flesh and a thin bead of blood trickled down the truck driver's chest.

He was stripped to the waist and five holes bled slowly on his chest, clogging with congealing blood.

The black crimson of a deep wound.

They were arrayed around where his heart was, like fingers had been thrust through his flesh.

From the dried blood on the man with no shadow's fingers, I have to believe that was exactly what happened.

Hello, Kate.

Speak sparingly or I walk away.

You'd abandon my captive to save yourself.

How very like you, Kate.

How did you get him here?

The lights can be coerced sometimes.

Seriously, how fucking hard is it to not follow the lights?

You shouldn't even have to read the rules to realize this.

It was a whole thing in Lord of the Rings, and everyone has watched Lord of the Rings, right?

I'll give him back if you like.

We had a good long chat, and I'm not particularly impressed with him.

You don't release people without asking for something in return.

Name your price.

Oh, no, you could have this one for free.

He shoved the truck driver forwards.

The man stumbled across the boundary of the Man with No Shadow's lair.

His eyes cleared and he looked about him, startled, bewildered by his surroundings.

He stared down at the wounds on his chest.

What's going on?

Where am I?

Why am I bleeding?

Here, come stand behind me.

I'll handle this.

He's all yours.

You don't let go of anyone.

I do when they're useless.

And this one is no good anymore, on account of the mark I put on him.

You know, the one that taints his soul with my presence gives him my

scent.

Who is that?

What is he saying?

I'll explain later.

Let's go.

Let's get out of here.

I grabbed the truck driver's arm and drew him away from the glade, back towards the house.

I could figure out what the man with no shadow had done, and why, later.

We didn't make it to the house before I heard the baying of the hounds.

When I hired Brian, his dogs came with him.

It was simply understood that they were part of him, that he wasn't whole unless they were nearby.

I remember growing up with him, how he was a quiet, reclusive boy, and how the dogs would wait outside the school.

At recess, he would play chase with them, far from the other children, eschewing human company.

He rarely spoke.

I never paid him much attention.

Not until he showed up at my campsite inquiring about a a job opening.

His dogs sat behind him during the interview, staring at me and wagging their tails.

They should have died of old age long ago, but I think we all know they are not normal dogs.

Sometimes when they're running as a pack, their barking sounds more like wailing.

Now their cries echoed from all around us.

What is that noise?

Just some dogs.

They're friendly.

Don't worry about them.

They're getting closer.

I hesitated, my mind screaming at me the last thing the man with no shadow had said.

The marks on the driver's chest.

His scent.

We were halfway between the grove and the house.

There was no other shelter easily available.

I tightened my grip on the man's arm, digging my nails into his flesh.

Run!

You need to get to the house.

It was hard to get him to move.

I pulled him along, breaking into a sprint myself, and after a handful of stumbling, reluctant steps, he fell into a trot.

Not fast enough.

Not nearly fast enough.

The dogs, they'll kill you!

That got him moving.

Some primal instinct finally shook itself free in his mind and he began to outpace me, drawing ahead with his longer legs, and my legs burned as I sucked in air in an effort to keep pace.

I caught a glimpse of a large shape in my peripheral vision.

Black-gray, and then it slammed into my side.

The hound threw itself between us.

I was knocked boldly aside by a mass of fur and muscle, and then the dog was over top of me, legs splayed, its head lowered and a growl rumbling deep in its chest.

I clodded its fur, searching for a collar, but it would not be moved.

It had to protect me from the man with no shadow after all.

I opened the channel on my radio.

Brian, recall your dogs.

Recall your fucking dogs.

The truck driver had managed to stay on his feet and he was continuing to run across the stretch of grass that led to the house.

Another black-gray shape peeled out of the forest.

Another came from the other direction.

And then the entire pack was bearing down on him, and I knew it was too late.

They surrounded him, running to either side, snapping ivory teeth at his legs, searching for an opening.

I could only watch in horror, helpless to stop this.

My radio clutched uselessly between my fingers.

One lunged for his leg.

The man leapt away, twisting his body out of its reach, and putting his back to another one of the dogs.

It stretched out its head and its jaws clamped down on his calf.

It spun its hindquarters, bracing against the ground, halting its forward momentum in one fluid gesture, and the man's leg bent sharply sideways at the knee.

His body jerked like a whip cracking, tumbling towards the ground, and then he vanished from sight under a mass of bodies.

His screams didn't last long.

At least they gave him the mercy of a quick death by tearing out his throat first.

Only then did the dog standing over me move.

I walked slowly towards where the rest of the pack were still dismembering the poor man's remains.

Kate?

Kate.

What's going on?

Hey, it's fine.

Everything is fine.

Can you meet me at the house?

I just need to take care of something and then I'll be there in a minute.

I covered the body with a tarp before Brian got there.

He still saw the blood and the muzzles of his dogs that were waiting patiently in the yard, and he entered my house uneasily, watching me and surely noticing the pained, resigned expression I bore.

He warily sat down and waited for me to speak.

There was...

An accident.

I thought I heard screams.

And the blood on their muzzles.

Yeah, the man was no shadow.

He put his scent on that truck driver.

Somehow.

And the dogs thought it was him.

There was a long silence, broken only by the whining of one of his dogs at the front door, waiting to be let in.

Sending them out was a mistake.

You couldn't have known.

We had no idea he could do something like this.

But we know he's cunning.

That he plans.

He

used my dogs to hurt someone.

I

can't let that happen again.

It won't.

We won't let them patrol alone anymore.

They'll stay with you and you can control them.

No, I...

I'm sorry, Kate.

I'm going to remove them from the campgrounds.

They're my dogs.

This is my decision to make.

I watched him leave from the window.

His dogs crowded around him and he started to pet one on the head and reflex, and then he hesitated.

He lifted his hand, stuffed it in his pocket, and continued walking without touching any of them.

They followed him, uncomprehending.

I regret calling them his fucking dogs.

I think he feels this is his failure to bear.

But I'm the one that told him to set them to patrolling the campsite, to chase down and kill the man with no shadow if they caught his scent.

I'm the one that knows the folklore, the stories of how the guise or essence of another can be transferred through symbolic acts.

A piece of clothing, an ointment, or in this case, a mark over the heart.

I just didn't make the connection.

This possible outcome eluded me.

I feel like I'm trying to outwit the man with no shadow, and it's just not working.

I'm not nearly so clever.

I know things, but I don't always see the patterns.

And I lack the cunning malice necessary for navigating the man with no shadow's web.

So few of its strands are visible.

It feels like I don't notice them until they're wrapped around my neck.

I called Sheriff Sabota because I had to.

I expected him to sound angry.

Instead, he just sounded defeated.

What am I supposed to do, Kate?

The town is upset.

Russell has them mollified for the time being, but there's still quite a few pushing for me to force you out.

How am I supposed to handle them now?

I don't know.

Try ignoring them.

That's what I do.

It's too late for that.

There's things that have been set in motion.

What things?

Checked the mail yet?

I hung up on him.

I ran to the mailbox.

Inside, I found a letter from a law firm.

Enclosed, you will find the completed quit claim deed.

What is this?

For the purchase of the campground?

As the granter of the property, please sign where indicated?

Like hell, I will.

This is bigger than just Suboda.

Way bigger.

Someone had the gall to impersonate me and negotiate the purchase of my land and my livelihood.

There's no way on earth I'm signing anything.

But I'm sure that's not going to stop them.

I'm not sure who I can trust anymore.

I've been able to ignore the town for the large part and focus on tending to the inhuman.

In a way, that's easier.

I have wards, I have rituals, and I have my shotgun.

But now, it looks like this is bigger than just one person.

It's not just Sabota, it's a whole lot of people, and all of a sudden, that town that I've liked to ignore is on my doorstep with evil intentions.

I don't like dealing with people even when they're not conspiring against me.

Maybe that's why I like being alone, minding my business and my campgrounds.

But what happens if those people take it away from me?

What happens to whoever takes it over?

What happens to the town?

And what would I do with myself?

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

Produced for the No Sleep podcast by Phil Mikulski.

Musical score composed by Brandon Boone.

Starring Lindsey Russo as Kate, David Cummings as Sheriff Saboda, Kyle Akers as Brian, Jesse Cornett as Russell, Graham Rowett as the man with no shadow, and Allie Hirschman as the truck driver.

Join us next week for chapter two 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 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.

Ad-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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