S23 Ep21: NoSleep Podcast S23E21

Welcome back to hour two of the darkness of the night, WNSP's overnight programming. DC at the mic for you.

Coming up, we have another episode of the No Sleep Podcast. But before that, I wanted to mention something related to what I spoke about on our last program.

The swamp area at the north end of the lake had turned green like it usually does near the end of the year, and that's fine until people started contacting me to say the swamp is turning black.

But not just the usual black water you see in wetlands like our swamp. They say it's like a swirly black with noticeable dark colors and speckles in it.

One person said they stared at the swamp for a long time and had what they referred to as a psychedelic experience.

That's very strange behavior for our normally ordinary swamp. I mean, sure, this is Cryptid Valley, but this isn't a strange creature doing something.

At least, not that we know of.

So, to anyone who lives lives in the Cryptid Valley area, if you find yourself near the swamp and want to check it out for me, let me know what you see.

This is a mystery I'd like to solve.

But until then, let's hear some stories that will give us thrills and chills without any swampy smell.

Here's a new 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 wild and wild.

Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast.

Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings.

I assume you're listening to this episode on your phone. So, open the calendar app and look where we are in the year.
That's right, December is upon us. The end is nigh.

I mean, the end of the year, if nothing else. And the end of our 23rd season.
Where does the time go?

And as all these ends coincide, we'll have lots of chilling horror tales for you as we race towards the new year of 2026 and our 24th season.

And since we're talking about December, that means the holiday season. And for many people, it means a time to do some traveling.

Taking trips to see family, attending holiday parties, or even just to get away for a while. Our normal routines change this month, so it makes sense that many of you will be tripping, so to speak.

And it's interesting to think about the concept of tripping. It doesn't just mean traveling or taking a trip from one geographical spot to another.
Some people experience tripping in other ways.

Psychedelic substances can alter our minds, change our senses, warp our perceptions. More and more, people are trying things like micro-dosing to affect positive change in their minds.

Psilocybin, LSD, MDMA.

Substances which were once considered mere hallucinogenic party drugs are now being used in clinical settings and are being shown to have positive psychological effects on people who have experienced traumas or other mental health issues.

Now, let me be clear, we here at the NoSleep podcast are not suggesting you turn to these substances for your personal use without consulting with a licensed physician first.

I mention these things only to draw the distinction between their clinical use and the use of substances like these in the context of horror stories.

Because, as you've probably guessed, our tales this week involve people who are experiencing strange trips. Some of the psychedelic variety and some of the, what the hell is happening?

Am I losing my mind? Oh my god, this can't be real, blah, blah, blah variety.

When circumstances or substances break our brains, the effects can most most definitely land a person square in the destination of horror.

So, care to join us on a journey? Let's trip the light Fandango and let reality melt away as we journey to the center of the mind.

Ooh, trippy, dude, trippy.

And so, as we like to do this season, we'll aptly paraphrase LSD guru Timothy Leary and invite you to tune in, turn on, and brace yourself for our sleepless tales.

In our first tale, we meet a woman at a rather hardcore party. It's loud, frenetic, and she's just not into it.
Certainly not while she's tripping on acid, but she's there because of a friend.

And in this tale, shared with us by author Aurora Ulvenquana, her experiences start becoming psychedelic, and she has to battle with what's real and what is a hallucination.

Performing this tale are Ash Millman, Jake Benson, Connor Larkin, and Penny Scott Andrews. So when the party feels like an inferno, it's no laughing matter.

You might find yourself existing in Ptolemea.

What?

I'm not sure if I heard him correctly, if he spoke at all.

The music is too loud, the room too hot and too dark, and the people squawking like hatchlings for a feast. Conversations and laughter altogether too loud.

And then there's him, silent and like a cuckoo amongst us all.

The feeling of my skin moving across my body is back.

The sensation of both being too big and too small. I can't tell which is hitting me faster, the acid or my drink.

He's too close. His knee keeps bumping into mine.
His elbow keeps jutting out into my space. He keeps twitching, itching the back of his shaved head and laughing sporadically at seemingly nothing.

Every time he does, he bumps into me again. The smell of him burns like sulphur in my nose.

What did you say? Did you say something?

My question hangs in the air. I twist my hands in my lap.
Maybe he didn't speak to me after all.

But then, right before I decide to try and leave, he turns his gaze to me.

I shudder. My smile grows stiffer, less polite, more strained.
He makes me uncomfortable in a a way I cannot put my finger on. Perhaps it is the way he looks at me, like he is hungry.

My skin feels too loose on my body. I wish I had some gum.

Eyes like black holes stare at me, a mouth spread a bit too wide. So many white teeth, I think.

His jaw works side to side, gnawing on the inside of his cheek, no doubt.

I feel cold. My teeth are clattering.
My jaw gnaws in the same manner as his.

I try something different, anything, to get his focus off of me and onto something else.

I like your tattoo. What does it mean?

His gaze travels from my face, rakes over my body.

Starved like a beast.

Tola Maya.

Yes?

Why can't I shake this feeling? My muscles twitch in response. It's illogical, irrational, even.
What could happen amongst a crowd?

He takes notice. My thoughts must be written on my face.
His gaze travels throughout the room, snags on details unbeknownst to me, before he once more turns those black eyes to me.

He smiles at me, like a cornered animal would show its teeth.

Who invited you?

It sounds like he's teasing me for missing something obvious.

You do not look like the type who would end up here.

Who grew up here?

I take no offense, really. I know what he means.

You do not look like the type of person to spend a night in a house that looks like it was cleaned, haphazardly, last year and never again, is what he means. Maybe a coke and bubbly type of girl.

Clean compact mirrors and bad bunny type of party.

Not vodka and this.

Not any mixer that was the cheapest type of girl. Not speed cut with something sticking in your nose like hairspray type of party girl

and i'm not not really

but becca is became one more like it once bad bunny and queuing for clubs didn't do it anymore and now she has this whole new circle full of people like the guy next to me people who fill me with unease and dread the type who makes me want to cut across the street if i were to ever see them out at night

They're all erratic, but they don't see it themselves. Quick to anger, to which they'd never agree.
Half friends, half strangers, with eyes like abysses and lungs full of tar.

They're all the same, and skittish, like rabbits.

Yeah.

Did I space out?

I'm just waiting for my friend. She went out for a smoke a minute ago.
Her name's Becca.

Maybe you know her?

Something in his features changes. He looks pitying now, like I'm sitting here a ditched bitch or something.
I don't have it in me to protest. Let him think I'm pathetic.

Maybe I'll get rid of him quicker then. After all, not even creeps want to hang out at pity parties.

I don't.

I don't really go outside.

His words don't make sense. But as my brain begins to put jumbled thoughts together in an attempt to form a response, the aircon above the window clunks alive.

Cold air hits my face like shards of glass. The temperature drops.
A fiendish smile spreads across his face.

I think it's time for you to leave.

His tones are soft, toying with me again.

No invite. No fun.

Go now, Shepherd. Find your friend.

And with that, the atmosphere in the room shifts.

The people are still dancing, still entranced by the music and their conversations. Everything is still too loud.
Too much like a scene of squawking birds. But the air is expectant.

The room awaits my reply.

I scramble to my feet. The floor moves beneath me like waves on water.
My heart rapidly thuds behind my ribs. It feels wrong.
I feel their eyes on me. Are they talking about me? Is he staring?

He has such a strange smile.

Have I been quiet too long? Shit, I am becoming paranoid. What was in this? I mumble something, my mouth too dry as I make my way out of the room.
The feeling of a hundred eyes on my body.

Walking over the doorstep into the kitchen, the music behind me changes, explodes into a cacophony of drums and flutes.

I turn to look, and the room feels a distance away. Now, everyone is on their feet, dancing to music, which to me sounds like the last dregs of a dying animal's scream.
It's hypnotic.

It's just the acid, I tell myself.

Still, I stare.

The way their bodies move together and come apart keeps me transfixed. And the longer I look, the stranger it becomes.
They circle each other, like hunters cornering prey.

People are cowering, they're looking scared. They crawl together only to turn their heads up and show their teeth in snarls.
Heads twisting, hands forming claws.

On and on and on in this strange circle they go. Prey becomes hunters, and hunters become prey.
Seems frantic, ritualistic.

It's just the acid, I tell myself.

I can see their breath cloud in the air as the aircon blasts on. It looks freezing.
And in the middle of it all, he stands. Arms raised towards the window, facing the moon hanging in the sky.

Slowly he leans his head back and howls.

Over and over and over, he screams out towards the moon, his voice guttural and ragged. What in the hell did they all take?

Something cracks behind me, and I turn in a daze. My skin is crawling across me.
It's climbing over my body. There must be insects all over me.
My ability to form thoughts into words is slipping away.

I try to ground myself. I'm in the kitchen.
Right. I didn't notice walking in.

But I am in the kitchen, right? I was in the living room before.

The air is warm. No signs of Becca.
The air is so warm. Parching even.
I'm so thirsty.

Am I?

The strangeness of the living room leaks from my mind like a faulty faucet, and I again look for Becca amongst the faces watching me in the kitchen.

There's five of them sitting around the table smoking and playing cards. The smoke clouds in the ceiling.
It hangs heavily in the air. They keep watching me.
Now I know I'm paranoid. I must be.

What's in this? What did I take? The voice won't shut up.

My hands are in my hair, pulling at my loose strands. My jaws grinding my teeth.
The noise reverberates inside my skull. I buckle over, breathing ragged, greedy breaths of the kitchen's smoky air.

I feel nails across my scalp like the crawling of insects.

Too much. Too much.
Sometimes you just take a bit too much. I need to ground myself, regain control.

A bathroom?

I turn my head to the strangers once more. Something is off about them, isn't it?

They're too stiff. Look too uncomfortable.
They're sitting up too straight.

I can feel time dripping from my nose onto the floorboards. It's running away

over there.

One of them points towards a hallway to my left. The floor crashes against me like waves over a rock wall as I trek toward the bathroom door.
Their gaze weighs heavy upon me.

Their voices whispering sound like cicadas in summertime. It is both so cold and so warm.
It's too dark and too light.

Inside the bathroom's four tiled walls and with the door firmly shut and locked, I stare.

There's me in the mirror. Except different and wrong.

Too much. It is too much.

What is too much?

What did I take?

Their hollow black pits staring back from the mirror a smile too stiff too wide too full of teeth hair clings to my neck in tendrils and sweat gleams on my face Becca's words of caution reach me from somewhere deep inside

what did she say

remember that you might feel strange looking in the mirror it's almost like it's flat like it's not real

but this isn't anything like that is it It's just that I look wrong.

I touch the mirror cautiously, almost expecting to pass right through.

But nothing happens. And the mirror is cool under my touch.
I try to get my breathing under control.

It's no use.

It's just too much. Wait it out here, wait it out, and then leave.
But what if it never ends? There's insects crawling under my skin.

I can't can't keep still. Every sound makes me twitch.
Even the sounds which might be imagined make me skittish.

A shiver rakes across my body like nails on chalk.

Becca. I'll just find Becca and then we'll leave.

I exit the bathroom, unsure of how long I've been inside.

Maybe I didn't leave at all. Perhaps I'm stuck behind the mirror.
But I shake that feeling off. Too much.
It's just too much acid.

On my way back toward the kitchen, I stare at the moon through a window as I pass by. It stares right back at me.

And the slain lamb will triumph.

Wait, what?

I have thought that before. Heard it before? My brain won't allow me to put the thoughts in an order in which I understand.

The slain lamb.

I make my way back into the kitchen, slowly and methodically, sticking close to the wall. Just in case the floor feels too soft.

Someone's cooking. They have their back to me.
I listen to the rhythmic sound of a knife chopping on a cutting board. My vision is blurry.
I don't think I've ever taken this much before.

The room feels so blue. The others must have left.
And it's just me and this new stranger in here now. He's so scrawny, I think.

And I read the word Ugolino tattooed across his hand before my thoughts run down my spine and settle in my kneecaps. My heart is beating so fast.
I need to get myself under control. Wait it out.

Find somewhere safe and secure. Find Becca.

And what was that?

My neck twitches. I heard a noise.
I twitch again, shaking my head, trying to get the noise out of it. It's just the acid.
It's not real. Get a grip.

The smell of smoke and sulphur brings me back. The person cooking is gone.
The house is silent. Only the humming of the air con can be heard.
The cicadas outside are so loud. What was I doing?

Did I space out again? Right, the slain lamb. The lamb?

I feel movement on the floor, like rings on water. I wade toward the kitchen counter, looking at all the red lying scattered on the cooking board.
The knife rests before me like an answer to a prayer.

My hands twitch.

Wait, what was I doing? A lamb? No, wait.

Wait. What?

Am I looking for a lamb?

My jaw hurts. My teeth feel like they might fall out.
My skin is crawling over my body. The floor won't stay still.
It's too much. I'll just find the lamb and then we can leave.

There are only birds in here, I tell myself. It must be outside then.
My eyes find the moon in the window. It stares back like a giant eye.
My hands find the hilt of something.

Slowly I reach the window. Carefully, I unlock it and climb out.

It's only me and a thousand eyes in the sky, all staring down at me. The big eye doesn't blink.

Maybe it wants to watch.

Watch what? What am I doing?

Something snaps and catches my attention. The lamb.

The smell of smoke reaches me. The grass climbs up my legs as I move closer.
There sits a lamb before me, back turned, perched on a bench. And the swine lamb shall triumph.

I hear his voice in my head and can hear the flapping of his wings like vice shards on my back.

I creep closer until I am right behind her. A slain lamb, I think to myself, as my knife meets something soft.

It screams so long and so wet and raspy.

I stab and stab and stab and the noise won't shut up. Everything is wet.
My skin is bathing and the world is red.

I stare at the the giant eye watching me.

They're all watching me. A thousand eyes.

My arms are tired. The lamb is silent.
The world is red.

It's such a strange lamb, I think.

But now there are footsteps behind me. There are cicadas buzzing in the trees.

A hand on my shoulder. I turn to face him.
His eyes are so black. His teeth are so white.

He strokes my head. The tattoo on his neck is stark against his skin.

All shepherds eat their sheep in the end.

What?

I'm not sure if I heard him correctly. If he spoke at all.

Slowly I turn back,

staring at all that red.

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This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. When holidays like Thanksgiving roll around, the days are shorter and our mood might not be at its best.

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

When someone who is beloved to you passes away, it can be healing to plant something in your garden to remind you of them. We often associate flowers and bushes with grief.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Jess Gofton, we meet a woman who has lost her beloved. And when a rosebush springs up, it doesn't feel as healing because she didn't plant it.

Performing this tale are Kristin DiMakurio, Danielle McRae, Sarah Thomas, and Aaron Lillis.

So stop and smell the roses, as they say. Just take notice if their fragrance is as sweet.

Deep down, Pearl and I both knew she was going to come home in a box.

I also knew when Pearl was past knowing anything, how the town would talk when I dug a hole for that box in the backyard, Pearl and all.

I didn't know a rosebush would grow from the grief-tilled earth, though, so quickly that the space where I'd imagined a headstone became a fairy tale thicket, blushing with cloyingly sweet roses.

Pixie like roses.

I frown, even though my mother can't see my expression on the other end of the phone. She's been discovering herself in New Mexico since I was 15.

Thirteen years later, I continue to imagine her eternally swimsuit clad, an unnaturally bright cocktail in each hand. That's not exactly the point, ma.

I glare at the rose bush that's now almost taller than I am. Not that it's hard to be taller than I am.
I haven't even planted any roses.

Not to mention that, no, Pearl had never liked roses. Her favorites were always snowdrops.

I only ever picked them for her once, but it was enough to know not to give her flowers again, or to expect any.

No flowers, no chocolates, no holding hands when we were walking along the shore, welcoming the sand between our toes.

I didn't need any of that, though. She was enough.

I wish I'd been the same.

I hiss when I prick my finger on a rose thorn with enough force to draw blood. When I go to suck my fingertip clean, the stem absorbs what my capillaries have left behind as voraciously as a sponge.

A nearby bud unfurls into full bloom before my eyes with the slow relief of a last breath.

I was six years old the first time I noticed another girl was pretty. And I pinched myself so hard, I left a bruise.

The voice is an echo of pearls, a whisper through an empty glass, and I swallow the shocked lump in my throat. Ma,

I say, holding the phone so tightly the plastic creaks in my ear.

One of the roses just spoke to me?

There's a beat of silence. Then my mother sighs.

She speaks as though I've told her it's raining and there's washing on the line.

Honey,

you look a Tippity Witch.

I believe in many things Pearl never did. Santa Claus, mermaids, happy endings.
But the Tipiti Witch always seemed too homespun to be real.

If Pearl were here, while swampy mud seeps through my hole-ridden sneakers until I might as well have set out barefoot, she'd say something logical like, how the Tepeeti Witch is probably just a strange lady who lives on her own in the marsh.

A lady I don't know enough about to presume it's safe to approach her. Stinking of roses and sweaty bereavement.

How are you gonna run away in those shoes if she's dangerous?

Her voice is so clear in my head, I almost lose my footing.

One of these days, you're gonna get yourself killed, Sunia.

You already beat me to that.

I say before I can stop myself, and immediately regret it when my head quiets. Turns out I can't even keep Pearl when she's imaginary.

I brush hair I didn't bother tying up out of my face.

There's a fresh mosquito bite in the crook of my elbow, and a wave of grief, like I've swallowed my own tongue, hits me, thinking about how Pearl will never see it.

Never again will she apply cream or kisses to my hurts, or find a new gray hair or a laugh line.

In a couple of months, my skin cells will regenerate and there will no longer be any part of me left that she touched.

I suck in humid air and push myself forward.

I've barely eaten a thing since the police arrived at my door, bearing solemn-faced news that's made me feel as though I'm constantly missing a step in the dark ever since.

And I can't remember when I last drank anything either.

Pearl was forever reminding me to stay hydrated. Even back when she was in Afghanistan.
She stuck post-it notes around the house before she left.

Inside cutlery drawers, on the fridge door, under the desk, reminding me to drink more water. The irony of wading through a saltwater marsh with the tongue as dry as a ginger snap doesn't escape me.

But there's no stopping until I find the Tepeeti witch.

You'll find her soon enough, Ma had told me. Just look for the mouths.
She didn't clarify further after that. She was already late for Pilates and mindfulness with Joyce.

But I understand her soon enough when I stumble into a clearing, as though I've just discovered the center of a labyrinth and spy a pink and green mound twice my height that looks as though it's breathing.

I creep closer, salt water sloshing over my socks as I disturb a small crab that quickly scuttles away and realize the mound isn't a mound at all. Not really.

It's a small house, almost entirely covered with yawning Venus flytraps. Some are closed around their latest meal.
Others patiently await curious insects like baby birds frozen in their wand.

A tickle on the skin between my sock and frayed edge of my jeans has me looking down just in time to see a small one pulling away. I stumble back, hands clenching and unclenching by my sides.

I've almost given up looking for a way in or any sign of life that isn't botanical. When I spy a brass Venus flytrap that appears to be devouring itself,

It's not fossilized or a rare breed mimicking in animation, but a door knocker. That's the only indication there's an entrance there at all.

I'm reaching for it when the door swings open.

The woman standing on the other side of it only looks a few years older than my mother, her silver hair haphazardly tied up with the assistance of a pink polka dot scarf.

There's a not entirely unpleasant stench of sweat and soil coming from either her or her house.

Uh-huh. Are you the Tipiti witch? I blurt out the words before I can ask them with any attempt at grace, and she looks me up and down, wiping her hands on dungarees saturated with grass stains.

I prefer Audrey.

I can't remember what I said to Audrey, if any of it even made sense. But I suppose it must have.
Show me, was all she said before she began to lead me back through the marsh to my own house.

She holds my hand like I'm a lost child, and I watch her feet. They're bare, her soles dirty and calloused, and I swear the marsh's flora and fauna leans out of her way to offer us a clear path.

The rosebush has almost doubled in width in the hours I've been gone, creeping beyond Pearl's resting place towards the rest of the garden, which is mostly wildflowers, aside from the small row of radishes Pearl had loved adding to her salads, covering her food like bullet wounds.

The petals are a luscious organ red, the thorns abnormally long and spindle-sharp.

And this was here when you woke up this morning?

I watch Audrey watching the rosebush. She's clearly surprised, and I thought that would make me feel better, like I'm not going crazy.

But it only makes me more uneasy that a woman who lives in a cocoon of Venus flytraps thinks my garden is strange.

Yes, but listen. I offer my thumb to a hungry thorn that sinks into my skin like a tooth, and another bud flowers.

In second grade, I told my best friend, Martha McGinnis, that I wanted to marry her someday. She told everyone, and I was bullied so badly, I had to change schools.

I remember this story. Pearl and I spread eagled on the grass after too much wine and not enough sleep.
watching the clouds drift past while the sunburned skin on our noses peeled.

A slurred, quiet confession from Pearl, only a week out of her second tour of Afghanistan, about Martha and her nastiness.

I don't think Pearl ever knew I once went searching for Martha online, only to find a beautiful photo of her and her wife on their wedding day. I never told Pearl.

Now I wonder if Martha thought about her at all when she got married, or if she even remembers the hateful poison she dripped into Pearl's ear.

If she'll ever know that she got a ring on her finger, while my Pearl fashioned one for her neck. Audrey crouches down, knees cracking, to rub the soil between her fingers.

She licks a fingertip and then spits into the grass away from the grave and examines the leaves as though she's reading a palm.

She doesn't really start frowning until she presses her fingers against the thorns.

I wait for the whispers, but nothing happens.

She presses with so much force, her arm shakes, and still her skin won't break. This ain't her.

She pulls her hand away and looks at me.

It's...

it's you. What do you mean? You ain't let her go.

Of course not. How could I? Why should I, when I'd spent the best part of a decade watching the woman I love punish herself for not being enough for her parents who didn't deserve her?

Why, when I loved Pearl so damn much. and knew Pearl loved me too, she'd have been happier, after all, if she hadn't.

And yet none of it had been enough to steady her balance on mortality's knife edge. What happens if I can't let her go? Then there ain't much I can do for either of you.

I feel the burn of tears behind my nose.

Am I hurting her?

Audrey shakes her head, offering me a smile just short of pitying.

She's past pain now.

It can only mean I'm a terrible person, that I'd rather she was in pain, if only it meant she were here. If only I'd found a way to convince her not to do what she did.

But she faded like a sun-bleached book spine, so gradually that I didn't notice the difference between what she'd once been and what she'd become until it was too late.

And then there was me, perpetually joking, hoping my happiness could save her. I never really wanted anything before I met Pearl.

I stayed in the home I was born in, in the town I know so well I could walk the streets blindfolded, and left school with no great accomplishments to work whatever odd jobs I could find.

Even when Ma fled and it was just me and Pa in the rickety house his great-grandfather built, until his pickled liver saw him exit stage left when I was 18, I was content.

Then, two years later, I saw Pearl, a military belle fresh from her first tour in Afghanistan, hiding out in a bar on the other side of town in the hopes she might unsee some of it.

She drank whiskey like it was communion wine, shied away from the drunkards who patted her shoulder and thanked her for her service. And I wanted.

I refilled her glass for free. What service can I offer you tonight, soldier? The words tumbled out before I could stop them, and she finally looked at me.
I grinned, and she gulped. And I wanted.

We all grieve differently.

I bat Audrey's hand away before she can rest it on my shoulder.

I don't want to fucking grieve. I want her.

She's gone.

Audrey speaks as gently as she can, but her eyes are steely.

This

will fade when you're ready for it to fade. And right now you ain't ready.

To Audrey's credit, she tried to comfort me before she left, with a promise to return when the roses stopped talking. But I have no patience for sympathy.

I weep until my throat is raw and pound the dirt with my fists. A thorn as eager as low-hanging fruit scratches my wrist, just sharp enough to draw blood.
And I hear Pearl.

Sometimes I hated Zania for how much I loved her.

And I wish she'd meet someone else when I was away.

There was a strange sound, like an old car that won't start. It takes me a moment to realize the sound is coming from me.

I'm laughing.

You'd love that, wouldn't you?

That would have made everything so easy for you, wouldn't it? Because we both know you love the easy route. Maybe I fucking hate you too, alright? Did you consider that?

Did you ever fucking think about that, Pearl?

I slam my hand against the thorns, seeking an answer I know I won't get.

I thought the army would make me braver, but all it really made me was more ashamed.

I rip roots from the earth and a thorn spears my palm.

I spent my life afraid. Like, like my whole existence was a matinee show performed by an understudy who forgot to practice.
But I swear, I loved Zania, even on the days I couldn't prove it.

I'm crying so hard I can barely breathe as I rip clumps from the rose bush and crawl in.

My fingers sinking into the soil that separates me and Pearl as thorns rake along my arms, pierce the spaces between my ribs and tangle in my hair.

I'm sorry, Sanaya. I'm so sorry.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.

I scream.

And the roses bloom.

The rose bush is gone when I come to in Pearl's arms. We're so close our noses are almost touching, and I can see the earth caught in her hairline.

For a moment, I'm frozen with the fear that someone has been cruel enough to dig her up and leave her beside me.

But then she blinks. It's the quickest I've ever sat up, loath as I am to leave her embrace.
Pearl?

A thorn protrudes from the right corner of her right eye, clogging the tear duct.

It doesn't seem to bother Pearl, when the petal her eyelid has become snags on it, with each slow blink until the edge tears as easily as tissue paper.

Yes.

And no.

She sits up and looks at her arms, running trembling fingers over her collarbone, bulging with thorns. A spiny peduncle has wound itself around her throat like a necklace, hiding the bruises.

I don't know what I am.

I cup her face in my hands.

You're alive. You're here.

Pearl's fingers curl around my wrists, the clammy kind of cold, of something thawing out. I can smell the fear on her when she looks me in the eye.

You can't love me like this, Sunia.

But my head is already shaking. I bring us close enough for our foreheads to touch, heads bowed in a shared prayer.

Stay, stay here where you're planted. A thorn, jutting from her scalp, worms its way into mine.

Stay with me.

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It's not an occupation we think much about these days. A gravedigger.

And for someone who spends their time around the dead so much, you can imagine they would experience things which would challenge our perception of life and death.

And in this tale, shared with us by author Tim McGregor, a gravedigger sets off an investigation by a group of monks after he notices a woman's body seems incapable of rotting away.

Performing this tale are David Alt, Andy Cresswell, James Cleveland, Connor Larkin, Penny Scott Andrews, and Guy Woodward.

So, while most of us come and go as ashes to ashes and dust to dust, perhaps those that remain whole are considered incorruptible.

I don't remember who first suggested the dead woman was a saint, but I remember it silenced the room. A few scoffed, but others looked frightened as the notion festered.

She lay on the slab floor on a bed of mildewy straw. A young woman of marriageable age with dark hair and an oily birthmark on her left cheek.
She looked underfed and was dressed in rags, barefoot.

The winter had been harsh for everyone. Her tunic had fallen open, revealing one flat breast.
Brother Paulus knelt to cover her up. Modesty was his only redeeming virtue.

Brother Turan tapped a finger against his lips as he studied the corpse.

This is some joke the gravedigger is having. There is nothing special here.
I've known Otho my whole life. He is not a lion nor a drunkard.

Otho was the village gravedigger, as was his father before him. An honest man, as far as I knew.
He buried our dead, working with his son who would someday take on his mantle.

In winter, when the ground is frozen, the dead are placed here in the charnel house until the spring thaw.

Besides the dead woman on the floor, there should be five shroud-wrapped corpses stacked in the corner like bushels of grain.

Now that the April sun was here, it was time to honor these souls, penniless as they were. Otho had burst into the church earlier this morning breathless and upset.

He was a man of few words due to a crippling stutter. Agitated as he was, all Otho could do was grunt and stammer, confounding us as to the reason for his upset.

He finally just motioned for us to follow him to the stone charnel house to show us the dead woman. Brother Turan looked at us.
Where is Otto now? Outside. He refuses to come back in.
Fetch him.

We need all the facts here.

Brother Paulus went out and came back with the gravedigger. Otho removed his rancid cap and wrung it in his big hands as he sputtered out his story.

He kept his eyes averted from the body on the floor. It taxed our patience as Otho spit and spasmed, but the gist of the story was this.

The dead woman was not a recently deceased. She had perished six months ago, before the first snow fell.
That, of course, was impossible.

The young woman before us looked as if she had expired within the hour. The brightness in her grey eyes had not dulled, dulled, nor the roses in her cheeks, the soft puddle of her belly.

Otho insisted it was the truth. In October, the feast of St.
Clippendipper had been a raucous affair, as it is every year, with revelers singing their drunken songs.

The morning after, Otho discovered the dead woman at the cemetery gates. Someone had left her there with no explanation.
no note.

He brought the body into the vault, hoping someone would come to claim her and pay for the burial. But Otho's day was overwhelmed by a wagon cart with four corpses fished out of the river.

All young men who had decided to celebrate the feast day by swimming to the far bank. They were all good boys from good homes, and Otho had prioritized their burials to console the grieving families.

In the bustle of that day, the young woman had been set aside and covered with a potato sack. No one ever came to claim the body or explain who she was.

Poor Otho was in tears for having completely forgotten she was there under the burlap until today, the 1st of April.

With the ground thawed, he had opened the charnel house to air it out before burying the winter's dead. His son had discovered the body while sweeping out the rats.

Six months.

Six months, and the woman on the straw was as fresh as a tulip.

Brother Paulus lifted a delicate wrist and sniffed it.

You must be mistaken, Otho. There is no smell at all.
She's not even cold. Otho swore on the Virgin that he was telling the truth.
He crossed himself and stepped outside again.

Brother Churun pursed his lips. The winter has kept her fresh.
There is no mystery here. But she should be cold to the touch.

Do you think Otho murdered the poor thing and concocted his story to hide his sin? Even Otho would not be that foolish. We all knelt and placed a a hand on the body.

Her calf felt no colder than my own. We rolled her this way and that, moving aside the rancid garment to look for blood or signs of violence.
There isn't a mark on her.

She's thin, but there's no wound or sign of illness. It's confounding.
My eyes met my brother's. What should we do? Do

there is nothing to do besides bury her in the pauper's ditch. End of story.
Otho hollered to us from outside, saying he would not touch her, nor would he bury her in his cemetery.

She was a witch, and he wanted nothing to do with her. The three of us stood and scratched our heads while Otho begged us to take the evil thing away.

By now, a few villagers had gathered, peering into the stone house, asking why the gravedigger was in tears.

Brother Turan took the litter from where it stood against the back wall, and we rolled the body onto it.

Paulus complained about his poor back, so Turan and I carried the litter past the cemetery gates.

On the bridge, Turan suggested simply dropping her into the river to get rid of the burden, but the villagers had followed us. We carried on to the abbey, and Paulus closed the heavy door behind us.

We brought her down to the crypt and laid her next to the wine barrels. Turan brushed the dirt from his hands.

Give it a day or two, then we'll stitch her up in cloth and bring her back to the cemetery. It will tell Otho she has has been blessed and is no longer any threat.

I brushed the damp hair from the woman's face and searched her eyes before thumbing the lids closed. They were the colour of dry slate without a trace of milkiness.

When I touched the odd birthmark on her cheek, I realized it was actually a scar.

The skin was coarse there, unlike the downy softness to the rest of the cheek. Who do you suppose she was? Does it matter?

Brother Paulus and I followed Turan back up the stone steps to the chancel, where the light coming through the stained glass restored our spirits.

Two days passed, then three.

The spring rains kept all but the most ardent parishioners away. My brothers and I prepared for the feast of St.
Lydvina, which none of us cared for. No one spoke of the woman below.

A problem I think we all hoped would just go away.

Sunday evening, Paulus had gone down to the crypt to fetch a fresh cask of ale. He came running back a moment later.
The woman...

something is amiss.

Brother Turan put down the flail. He had been tutoring me in the proper method of mortification.
Wiping the blood from his hand, he frowned at Paulus for the interruption. Did she wake up?

She may as well have. Come see.

I lit the lantern, and we followed him down to the cells. The woman was unchanged since we last saw her.
Eyes open, staring at the ceiling beams. They had not sunken into the sockets as expected.

Her flesh was still warm, and there was no rank smell. Paulus fidgeted in some strange agitation.

See?

Could it be some miracle? Be still.

I looked at my brother. Are you suggesting she is incorruptible? How else to explain it? The gravedigger was telling the truth.
Seven months and not a whiff of rot.

I reached down and touched her foot. The skin was grimy, but it was dry and warm.
He speaks the truth. The lines in Brother Turan's brow deepened.

He pressed his fingers against her neck and then flinched as if stung and withdrew his hand.

This isn't right. When I asked him what he meant by that, he didn't reply.
Brother Paulus was petting the woman's greasy hair in a tender manner. When he looked up at us, his eyes sparkled with tears.

Bring the lantern closer. Look at her.
She is beautiful. No?

Turan was already at the door. Don't touch it.
Come away. We can't leave her down here.
It's cold and damp.

I looked at Brother Turan. Our abbot was Brother Hugo, but he had been bedridden for weeks and, in his absence, Turan presumed a leadership role.
He enjoyed telling others what to do.

Perhaps we should find out who she is.

Turan scowled again.

And how would we do that? There is nothing to tell us that. No jewelry, no adornment.
She's clearly a beggar like all the rest. Paulus finally tore his gaze from the dead woman.

Someone must know who she is. My hand went up.
We could ask the congregation to come see her. The councilmen first and their families.
Someone is bound to recognize the poor girl.

Brother Turan was already shaking his head. But then let every pauper and degenerate swarm the abbey.

Think again, Brother Gwylam.

At midnight we carry her to the bridge and toss her over.

Paulus threw himself on the body.

No,

she is someone special.

You would throw God's mystery away like rubbish.

The elder brother's face darkened. He did not like being scolded.
The stone cell was quiet save for the sound of water dripping somewhere. He has a point.
Saints do not decay. Their flesh is pure.

What if... Be quiet, Brother Gwillem.
You're not helping. A saint?

Paulus pressed his lips to the scar tissue of the dead woman's cheek, kissing it over and over until Chiran kicked him and told him to stop. The drip-drip sound went on.

Our acting abbot folded his arms and sighed.

In the morning, we will ask some of the merchants to come. Hopefully one of them will recognize her.
In the meantime, come away. I looked down at the rags she wore, the tangled hair.

Her hands and feet were grimy. Perhaps we should clean her up first.

The superior did not like this this idea, but Paulus clapped his hands. I'll have no part in it.

Brother Turan left the crypt. Paulus warmed some water over the hearth while I scrounged a swath of rough linen from the storehouse.
We cut away the rags and began scrubbing the grime from her flesh.

Paulus seemed enchanted as he worked, humming some hymn. His hand lingered over the spike of her hip bone.

Stop that. He looked at me, confused.

Her flesh is so soft.

Don't you think?

It is perfect. Don't linger.
Just scrub her down and then we'll wrap her up. I soaked her limp hair and wrung it out, but I had no comb.
I tried to claw it straight as best as I could.

Paulus took out his little pairing knife and scraped the dirt from under her fingernails. When he thought I wasn't looking, he bent and kissed her knuckles.

I considered her face again, but this time there seemed to be some familiarity to it. Had I seen her before on the village streets? If anything, she seemed to resemble a girl I knew as a boy.

She died of the pox when she was 14.

Brother Kiryami, are you alright?

I said I was fine, and we wrapped her in the clean fabric and took a step back. The sad creature looked much improved by our efforts.
She could be anyone now, a noble woman or a gentle milkmaid.

A mystery, thrilling and wondrous. Let's bring her upstairs.
Turan won't like that. Too many rats down here.
He slid his arms under her. Help me.

We ferried her up the steps and into the chapel. Clean and dressed, she weighed next to nothing now.
How filth drags us all down.

We settled her under the chipped statue of the Virgin. Brother Paulus offered to stand vigil for the poor girl, but something about his sweaty face made me uncomfortable.
Leave her.

I nodded to the statue. The mother will watch over her.

In the morning, we sent Brother Clovis out to ask the merchants and tradesmen to come see our guest. They arrived throughout the day, mincing timidly through the door to look at the dead woman.

They shrugged and shook their heads. No one recognized her.
Brother Turan had ordered us to say nothing about her incorruptible state, but Paulus must have flapped his big mouth.

The next morning saw a stream of people coming through the doors. Villagers crowded around the girl in wonder, speculating on who she was and where she came from.

They touched her hands, her hair, her lips. Beautiful, said one.
Angelic, said another.

Children squealed to be lifted to see her. It distressed me to see their grimy fingers leave soot stains on the clean linen we had wrapped her in.

No one could identify her, but many claimed to have seen her before.

Stories were spun out of thin air that she was a nun who had lost her way and perished in the woods. Others said she was a princess who had fled a tyrannical father.

Brother Paulus grew agitated, watching those greedy hands fold and caress the dead flesh. When someone claimed her to be a lost saint, Brother Turan ordered everyone out.

Paulus took a switch and whipped those grubby hands away. I braced the door after the last one was chased out.

I told you she was trouble. Tonight we drop her in the river.
You can't!

Paulus began stroking her hair. She is a blessing on our house.

I crossed the window. The sick and the lame were camped outside the church doors.
Some were already claiming to have been healed by her touch. Too many people.
There's no way to do it now.

Charan threw up his hands and turned to leave. We'll figure her out in the morning.

I told Paulus to leave her, but he wouldn't listen. He said he wanted to pray over her.
I went up to bed, wishing we'd never seen the poor thing in the first place.

There was something in his eyes that didn't sit well with me. A sort of glee that made me uncomfortable.
When I woke in the night and saw his cot empty, I feared the worst.

Creeping back down to the church, I found him on top of her, doing things to the dead girl. Terrible things.

He shrieked when I threw him to the floor and kicked him. Paulus looked up with tears in his eyes.
Look, her smile. Don't you see?

Her love is pure.

I didn't want to look, but what choice did I have? The dead girl was in a state with her legs akimbo and her hair disarrayed. Her skin was slick with his sweat.
You've defiled the poor girl.

My God, Paulus, she's dead. Dead!

Paulus shook his head vigorously. No.

No, she is something more. And her love is a blessing.
Open your eyes, Kiliyami. Look at her smile.

He smoothed the hair from her face and caressed her cheek in a way that made me shudder. But something was terribly wrong.
Her smile.

God help me, she was smiling, and it was beautiful. Her eyes were open and those grey orbs locked onto mine and now she was smiling at me.

I have seen countless depictions of the Virgin's gentle face, but nothing held a candle to this dead woman. She unnerved and warmed me at the same time.
I was changed.

Blessed.

It was the most unsettling thing I'd ever felt. Seeing Paulus's grubby fingers touch her cheeks sickened me.
I pushed him away and chased him upstairs.

Brother Turan would deal with him in the morning. I straightened the skewed limbs and folded the linen over to cover her nakedness.
I softened her hair with my tears and clawed it straight.

Her face was a sun that I dared not look at for too long. But that smile was too beatific, and I was afraid of what came over me.
I stayed by her side and prayed.

My anger at Brother Paulus melted away. I understood, without condoning, his strange ardor.

I was awoken by a voice so full of fury that I thought an archangel had come to punish us. But it was only Brother Turun.

He was flinging holy water at the dead woman, condemning her as a devil, as Eve herself.

He commanded the evil spirit inside her flesh to go back to hell. He took up a flail and began to mortify her flesh.
I tried to stop him, but his fury turned on me and I felt the stings of that whip.

She's no saint, you fool. The devil himself is inside her, and we let her in.

You're wrong. She's here to save us.
Look at her face.

That smile was still there, and when Chiran saw it, the cat of ninetales fell from his hand. He started to cry and didn't stop until we heard the pounding on the church doors.

He wiped away his tears. Are they still out there?

The mob had only grown larger, and now, with the cocks crowing, they began to stir. The oak doors were swaying as they pressed against them, eager to get inside.

We must see her. Only she can save us now.
She must heal my child.

Brother Paulus had joined us by then. Turan looked to us for answers that we didn't have.

What have we done?

Dust fell from the lintel as the mob pressed on the door. The wood creaked and a hinge popped.
Brother Turan pounded his fist on the oak and hollered at them to go away.

There is nothing here for you now. She is gone.

The howling on the other side only grew louder. She vanished in the night.
Your greediness chased her away, and you have no one to blame but yourselves. Go home.

A glance between Paulus and myself, relaying a bad feeling at his condemnation. Another iron hinge popped its casement, and then, to our horror, the oaken slab fell in, almost crushing Chiran.

Thrown to the floor, he was trampled as the unwashed stampeded over him, hungry for their unknown saint.

Paulus moved to shield Our Lady, but he was pushed aside as they swarmed the bier, grabbing and kissing and touching her immaculate flesh.

I watched in horror as she was pulled and tugged, every hand greedy for some piece of her, some relic to rub on their own diseased flesh and seeping wounds.

Her hair came away in handfuls, and when that was gone they went for her fingers, her toes. Her eyelids were peeled away, those precious lips bitten off, her nose, her ears.

Her sacred blood ran to the flagstone floor where old women soaked their garments in it and little boys lapped it up like honey.

I tried to tear them off, but there were too many and they chomped their teeth at me. I could not save her and that smile would be seen no more.
They had taken her face from me.

I clawed my way back in to save some small part of my beloved before she was gone. These animals, these greedy cretins, they had taken almost all of her.

I found a foot, and even that I had to fight for. I bundled it into my robe, holding it close to my heart, and fought my way out of that stinking rabble.

Paulus was on his knees, his face buried in his hands as he wept. Brother Turan rose wobbly to his feet, his face bloodied by the mob.

They both looked at me and somehow knew the secret hidden near my heart. Thief, they called me.
Selfish prick.

I ran.

A sally gate at the rear of the abbey spit me out onto the village gutters. I didn't know where to go or who to turn to, so I just kept running.

When I came to the bridge, I clambered over the footwall to the riverbank below.

It was a while before my heart stopped knocking. I withdrew my precious relic and washed it in the river.
The toes were all gone, the shin chewed clean through to the bone.

It was all that was left, but I loved her all the more. I would never learn her name nor where she came from, but that no longer mattered.

She had come to save me, and I would protect and cherish her forever. I knew where Brother Turan hid the church coffers.
He thought he was so clever.

When it was safe to do so, I would sneak back to the church, pilfer the vault, and flee town.

Somewhere north where the people aren't so vicious and ugly. I would establish a new church with the relic of my beloved as its glowing heart.

I would build a shrine to encase her so that all could worship and bask in her glow.

Even now, holding this lowly piece of foot in my hands, I could feel that benevolent smile. Rest now, my beloved.
You are safe, and by tomorrow, we will be far from this terrible place.

I was so tired. I wrapped her back into my robe and snuggled against my heart to keep her warm.
A little rest before I snuck back to the church, so we could start our lives anew.

The cold woke me. I was confused and didn't know where I was because it was so dark.
But it all came back with a finger snap. My robes were disordered, my chest bare and chilled.
My beloved was gone.

When my eyes adjusted to the moonlight, I saw her bobbing on the water like she was trying to swim away. Could she swim? Was she running from me? No, this was not the cause.

The fish were eating her, swarming in the river water and pecking her to pieces. I lunged for her, but there was little left but bone and slimy tissue.

She slipped through my fingers and the fish fought over the scraps of my love.

I wept and clawed my eyes and tried to drown myself.

Condemning the cruel fish for their wickedness, I collapsed on the riverbank in my grief and moaned to the moon at how unfair it had all turned out. A noise from above.

The wretched villagers on the bridge had spotted me. There he is.

They howled, descending like lice.

On the river, my brothers floated past on the muddy ripples. Brother Charan's head bobbed after a moment later.

I said a prayer and closed my eyes as the first hand took hold.

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 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 11

The Man with No Shadow came at midnight. I'd given myself one last sunset before going inside for the evening.

The sky was muted by clouds, a hue of mauve deepening to puce along the ridge of the ebony trees.

I watched from my front porch, wondering if it would be the last sunset I would see, here in my family's house where I was raised, and where my parents died, and where all my prior generations have sheltered from the terrors of the night.

I thought I'd spend the hours until midnight in my study, digging through my records and my mom's journal in a last-ditch attempt to find a way out of this.

I did sit down at my desk, staring at the open journal. But I wasn't seeing the pages.
Not really.

I was listening to the little girl crying outside the window, and all I could feel was anger and resentment. Angry at my mother, for her bargain and where it had led me.

Angry at her for doing something so foolish as to leave the window open. Angry at her for leaving me all alone.
If my family is cursed, I don't think it's because of any power hanging over us.

It's our parents' mistakes, passed down through the generations.

Close to midnight, I moved to the living room. I waited by the window, watching.
Two figures approached from the road. The man with no shadow's hair shone, catching the moonlight.

Beside him was a shorter figure, the buyer, his shadow stretching long beside him. The little girl waited for them at the fence, and the man with no shadow spoke to her, and she turned and left.

her steps dragging reluctantly in the damp grass. Then he came and knocked on my front door.
Invite us in, Kate.

I let them both in.

The buyer glanced around him in delight, taking in the aged wooden cross beams of the ceiling, the dated wallpaper, and the photographs of my family from when I was a child that I didn't have the heart to replace.

I haven't been inside the house before. This is quaint.
It's very charming. I can see why you've been so reluctant to part with it, Kate.

But I think it'll be for the best. That incident with the town hall was horrible.
And now, everyone can put this all behind them.

Weren't you in my office earlier today telling me about monsters? Now you're just waltzing in here with this thing? Don't you remember the town hall?

Uh, I guess you don't like lawyers, but please don't be calling someone I hired a monster. I don't believe this.
I've been wondering all along if you were under his control or just stupid.

Guess it's the former. I have no idea what you're talking about.
Of course you don't. Behind him, out of the eyeshot of the buyer, the man with no shadow gave me a thin, warning smile.

He set a stack of paper and a seal on the table. Let's get this all signed.
I normally don't work this late. Of course, of course.

The buyer hastily sat me down at the dining room table and waited patiently. I joined them more slowly, my back to the wall.

The man with no shadow flipped over the first page and shoved it towards me. I took it, mechanically.
And there was something tight in my chest and my fingers were numb.

It's all pretty standard, sale of a property. I had some associates at my legal firm write it up.
Give it a read, and then initial at the bottom. He pushed a pin in my direction.
I took it.

I initialed. I couldn't not initial.
Like a hand was over my own, guiding my motions. I wanted to scream.
I wanted to weep.

But I only stared stupidly at the papers that the man with no shadow shadow was handing me, one by one, dryly explaining what each one was before asking for an initial and then collecting them to form a second stack of completed paperwork.

Across from me, the buyer waited anxiously, excited in his ignorance as to what was happening here.

So, how'd you two meet anyway? The words came with difficulty. It was like my mouth was full of sap and my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.
The man with no shadow's eyes narrowed with annoyance.

The legal firm recommended him. He's been gracious enough to walk me through every step of the process.

Sorry for doing this so late, but after that altercation at the town hall, we felt it was best to get this done before you changed your mind.

So you don't remember when the old sheriff shot your lawyer in the head? I don't remember a gunshot. See, nothing happened.

You and your fucking mind control. I'm gonna make tea.
You want some tea? Oh, that sounds lovely. I got up and went went into the kitchen.
Behind me, the man with no shadow excused himself to help.

I forced myself to focus on filling the kettle, even when he came up behind me and stood at my back, near inches apart. I felt his breath on the back of my head.

You're stalling.

Damn right I am. What happens if I stall long enough to get past the midnight hour, huh? A special time of night, when the day ends and the new one begins.
The significance was not lost on me.

That won't happen. You agreed to finish before then.

I stepped back, forcing him to move lest I step on his toes. He hovered close by, looming over me as I turned on the stove and began pulling out cups while the water heated.

Did our agreement stipulate that I had to get this done as easily as possible? No.

I regret that now.

What happens after the campground belongs to the buyer? I turned and found myself face to face with him. He stared down at me with a hatred that I suppose I had earned by by now.

I drag you back to my grove and devour your shadow, bit by bit.

I'll rip your shadow's legs off first so you can't escape and then take my time with the rest of you.

Perhaps if you hadn't been so difficult, I would have given you a quick death, but I'm not inclined to do so anymore. It could be days.

Weeks, even.

He half raised his hand and I felt something brush along the back of my arm, like the touch of a moth's wings.

I glanced aside and saw his hand poised so that his shadow, if it existed, would be touching my own. The kettle began to scream on the stove.

I turned to take it off and pour and briefly thought I could just fling the boiling water right in his face. None of that now.
We have an agreement.

He returned to the dining room. I was a little slower to follow, carrying a tray of tea.
There was enough for everyone.

The man with no shadow, clearly resigned to me making this as difficult as possible, didn't refuse a cup. He took one sip and began coughing violently.
Oh, was that not to your liking?

It's a local herbal blend, given to me by someone that lives out in the woods. He doubled over the table and I lunged at him.
My hands were around his neck and I threw him to the ground.

I planted a knee in his chest and bore down, locking my arms and putting all my weight into the act of holding him down.

His coughing turned into silent spasms, his heels kicking on on the hardwood floor and his fingers prying at my hands over his throat. This time, the buyer did not interfere.

He huddled in the corner, his hands over his mouth, watching with wide, frightened eyes. He'd also drank the lady's tea.
He once again knew the man with no shadow for what he was. A monster.

The man with no shadow reached for my shadow and I shifted, putting the light further in front of me and bringing it further out of his reach. His struggling was growing weaker.

This time, I wouldn't hesitate. I was angry.
He'd hurt my campers. He'd come into my house, and I hated his gloating, smug superiority, his manipulation, and his cruelty.

My arms began to shake. My stomach twisted with pain.

The man with no shadows struggling suddenly found a foothold and he wrapped his hands around my wrists, shoved, and my arms, trembling with sudden fatigue, relented.

He shoved me aside and I tumbled into the wall, staring at my hands in shock. My anger churned helplessly inside me, subsiding under the weight of disbelief.

I had you.

Can't fulfill our bargain if I'm dead.

But

how?

Bargains are binding, and perhaps humans can break their word with impunity among each other. But that's not how it works with us.
The world itself will enforce our agreement. You You can't kill me.

Your own body will betray you if you try.

He stood and returned to the table, setting the scattered paperwork right again. I got up from the floor more slowly.

The buyer remained huddled in the corner, watching me with naked desperation on his face. After order was restored, the man with no shadow's gaze fell upon the terrified young man.

Get over here. You have a campground to assume ownership of.
No, no, stay away from me! I don't want to be here! I don't want to do this!

What choice do you have? What chance do you think you have to defy me?

Look at her. Her family's entire purpose is to keep us in check, and they can barely do that.
You?

You're nothing.

Just some weak, terrified, sniveling piece of sentient meat that's only survived this long because you got lucky.

Myself or any of my kind would consume you without a thought should you cross our paths in other circumstances.

The only reason you're alive right now and will continue to be alive is because you're useful.

I suggest you strive to remain useful.

Now get over here.

He doesn't control you right now. You can leave.
Take my car keys if you want to. Get far, far away from here.

Please, I have enough people under my control that he'll never make it out of this town alive.

The buyer swallowed hard. For a moment, I wondered if he would take the invitation, if he'd bolt and try to save himself.
It would be the smarter choice.

The man with no shadow had proven again and again that his tools were disposable, and that was all the buyer would ever be to him.

But then the man dropped his gaze, unable to meet my eyes, and returned to the table. Well, can't blame me for trying.
How can one person possibly be this frustrating? It's kind of a family tradition.

Your mother was as difficult to deal with as you are. Which is incredible, really, seeing as she married into this family.
This town is full of frustrating people.

The buyer signed a few documents, and then the man with no shadow turned and shoved them towards me. The last page.
I stared at it, startled to see my own demise in such an innocuous thing.

A single piece of paper. An empty line where my signature was to go.
My fingers rested on the pen.

I know it's overwhelming, but you're almost done.

Maybe if you ask nicely, I'll forgive all the trouble you've given me and let you leave town. You can even go back to school and finish your degree like you wanted to, right?

Lies.

All lies. He'd already told me what he was going to do.
He was just trying to keep the buyer under control. I wasn't paying attention.

My focus entirely on the single piece of paper that would put an end to all of this. Do you hear someone

crying?

That's the little girl. The one you saw at the fence.
She killed my mother. Don't worry about her.
She can't get inside.

The buyer stared in consternation at the window behind me. The little girl's weeping came from the other side of the glass.

The man with no shadow was silently digging his nails into the surface of the table and staring at me in outright hatred. I picked up the pen.

And as the little girl wept behind me, I had a moment of clarity. I stood.
I turned towards the window. Here, I'll close the drapes.
That'll block some of the noise.

I did not close the drapes. I opened the window instead, throwing back the latch and ripping it open in sparse, quick motions.

The one thing I was told to never do as a child, I let the little girl in.

Stop.

It was too late. She was climbing in, her shoulders heaving with her sobs as she stretched out her hands to clutch at either side of the wall.
No.

The man with no shadow lunged for me. His fingers closed around my wrist and he began dragging me away from the window.

I watched the buyer stand there stupidly as she reached out a hand and grabbed his wrist. I haven't worked this hard to let you win.

He wasn't speaking to me. I realized this distantly as he pulled me through the house and towards the front door while the crying of the little girl drifted after us.
He was speaking to her.

Move, Kate. Damn you, move!

Behind us, the buyer began to scream, a long, uninterrupted shriek. I know it well.
It's the scream of someone that's in the process of dying and can't do anything to save themselves.

But nor can they hasten their demise.

The man with no shadow dragged me through the house and to the front door, ripped it open, and switched his grip to the front of my shirt before dragging me behind him across the yard, getting me over the property line.

Only once we were past the road and in the field that led to the forest did he pause and spin to face me, his hands still tight in the fabric of my shirt. New plan.
I rip you apart right here.

You get a fast, albeit agonizing death after all. Then I start this all over with your fucking brother.

I laughed, hearing the touch of hysteria in my own voice.

Your buyer is dead. She's probably spreading his intestines across the wall.
What are you gonna do about that?

Pain shot through my abdomen. I doubled over, but didn't fall.
Some terrible pressure holding me up. I doubled up around it, like a spike in my gut, the pain lancing all the way through to my back.

I coughed and tasted blood. I'll figure it out.
You might want to save your breath for screaming. It might help with the pain.

Another burst of agony higher up just below my ribs. I did scream, like the buyer had.
Or perhaps it won't.

And then he pitched backwards with a cry of his own. I was dropped to the ground, and a gunshot echoed through the night sky.
The old sheriff isn't one to abandon someone.

He knew that I wasn't going to ask for help, but he would still keep watch with his rifle. I struggled to stand.

My fingers clutched at my abdomen as pain lanced through my body and my lungs seized up in reflex. Nothing but unbroken skin.
My shadow was what he attacked, I told myself firmly. Only my shadow.

I could survive it, but only if I kept moving. I took a second while the man with no shadow was reeling to take stock of my surroundings.
He'd dragged me out the front and down towards the woods.

The tree line was only a few yards away. He'd taken cover behind it, keeping low to buy enough time to put the trees between him and where the shot had come from.

The sensible choice would have been the road. The path to it was free of trees, hopefully giving the sheriff another shot.

Following it would get me off the property and out of the man with no shadow's reach. But his gaze followed mine, narrowed as they guessed my intention.

He was panting hard with pain, but his eyes were bright and remained focused on his quarry.

Russell wouldn't be able to get in another shot before the man with no shadow closed on me, and he wouldn't dare shoot if he might hit me by accident. I chose the woods.

The man with the skull cap had said that old land is no place for the weak. This was my fight.
The woods are where we defeat our monsters and emerge from them changed. Or not at all.

I stumbled through the trees, catching myself on their trunks to keep my balance. The man with no shadow followed in a dash, but he was not directly chasing me.
He was trying to get undercover.

Another gunshot broke the silence and I used the noise to move quickly, just enough distance to break line of sight between us. Then the hunt was on.

The man with no shadow pursued, but quietly, as a hunter stalks their prey. I too tried to stifle my breathing and step carefully so as not to give away my position with an errant branch.

I can be quiet when I need to be. We grew up in the woods, after all, and my brother and I played our games of chase and hide and seek.
When I was older, I hunted through these woods.

I learned my lessons well.

Still, despite the darkness and my silence, I couldn't quite shake the man with no shadow. His pursuit was not entirely by human means and I could do nothing for his preternatural senses.

My strength was waning and the pain of my injuries was threatening to drag me to my knees. If I stopped now, I wouldn't be able to get up again.

You're only delaying the inevitable, Kate.

Where to go? Our bargain was impossible now, so it wouldn't stop me if I tried to kill him one more time. If I had the strength.
If I got the opportunity.

Or I could continue to flee and try another day.

And he would try another day as well. I put my hand out for support against a nearby tree, and while I could feel my fingers touching the cool bark before me, I could no longer see them.

I could no longer see anything at all. All light had gone out.
Something was coming. Something that consumed all light as it passed by.

And I knew exactly what it was. An unassuming pile of sticks and leaves located right next to the senior camp's plot of land.
It was docile for most of the time.

But late at night, when even the most dedicated partiers were in bed, it would rouse itself from its lair and wander the campground. A thing in the dark.

It had no malice in its heart, so long as you did not look upon it. Instinctively, I squeezed my eyes shut.
Somewhere behind me and to the right, I heard the man with no shadow stop as well.

His hiss of indrawn breath was stunningly loud in the forest, and I knew exactly what his direction was. You're scared of that thing, too?

Silence. He didn't dare reply as the thing in the dark approached.
I could wait for it to pass. And then what? Resume the chase? One that I was losing by inches as the minutes slid by?

I'd broken his line of sight, but I couldn't simply hide and wait for him to pass by, as he seemed to be following through senses other than sight and hearing.

And while injured, He was not weakening as quickly as I was. It was only a matter of time until he found me.
Or...

I turned. The man with no shadow's ragged breathing was faint, but there was no other sound in the woods at this moment.
I honed in on it.

Breaking into as fast of a run as I dared, my hands stretched out before me and I ran tree to tree, pulling myself forwards by touch alone. All around me, the forest began to shake.

It was like a strong wind, rattling the leaves and snapping the branches.

I heard the man with no shadow cry out just enough sound to push me forwards those last few feet, and then my hand closed on his shirt.

No,

what are you doing?

We tumbled to the ground. He struck at me and I felt his blows, but there was no strength behind them.
He couldn't dislodge me.

We fell together and he landed on top of me, his body almost weightless against mine. I hooked a knee over his legs to pin him in place and then I opened my mouth and yelled at the top of my lungs.

Here! We're over here!

And I opened my eyes. The wind intensified.
I saw the dirt and leaves of the forest floor rise up around me in the gale. But there was still no light.

It was like they were outlined on top of the darkness and somehow I could see regardless. And there was something alive in that wind.

Small pieces of debris struck my exposed skin like the sting of a wasp. The man with no shadow shrieked and squirmed, trying to free himself.
But I did not relent.

We would die together. Then we were falling.
I couldn't keep hold of him any longer and we separated, blown about in the tumult like specks of dust.

All time seemed to stop and I froze, waiting for that final impact. And I did land, hard, on dry leaves and brittle branches.
But I was alive. The wind was gone.

The air around us was cool and tasted damp.

There was no light. My eyes widened, instinctively trying to find some spark of luminescence.
But there was none. What have you done?

I don't know.

What were you trying to do?

Kind of expected us to die.

I struggled to my feet. It left me breathless, and I clutched at my abdomen and waited for the pain to pass.

No,

this is much worse.

I raised a hand and walked forwards until my fingers touched something.

I traced its contour gently, feeling the seam of wood stripped clean of bark, felt it curve upwards and downwards like the rib of a ship. Then I felt it move away from my hand and I froze.

And then after a few minutes, it drifted back and my fingers were once again touching its cool surface. Like it was breathing.

I knew where we were. We were inside the thing in the dark.

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 Lindsey Russo as Kate, Graham Rowett as the man with no shadow, and Alante Baraket as the buyer.

Join us next week for the final chapter 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 or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc.

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