S23 Ep18: NoSleep Podcast S23E18

This Ramadan, the first plate isn't for you. It's passed across the table. And when the first bite is for someone else, what you cook with matters. V.T. Megabasmati extra-long premium rice. Chosen for its quality. Extra-long grains. Soft texture in every dish. And chosen for moments that matter. V.T. Megabasmati extra-long premium rice. Made for sharing. WNSP Good evening, everyone. I'm D.C. and I'm back at the mic for WNSP's overnight programming. Thank you for joining me for the darkness of the night. I want to apologize for being off the air for a few weeks. I know things got weird there for a while. And I've been asked by the station's management to issue a formal apology to all my listeners. I'm not sure what was happening with me. Maybe something about Halloween messed with my head. Maybe one of the cryptids put a spell on me. Or maybe all the old legends about how cryptid valleyist cursed got to me. Yeah, maybe I am cursed. But if so, all I can do is stay on the air and keep sharing the darkness of the night with you. And thanks to anyone who heard the livestream on the internet that I tried a few days ago. Not sure how that went, but it was a fun experiment. Otherwise, I hope everyone enjoyed a fun and spooky Halloween season. And we've got the holiday season coming up. It'll be a busy one, like always. But I'll be here at the mic in the overnight hours. I'm sure you'll be able to see the fun. One, like always. But I'll be here at the mic in the overnight hours. If you find yourself sleepless amidst all the hectic festivities. So, you know what? I think I'll ease myself back into this show by starting off with a new episode from our friends over at the No Sleep Podcast. It's great to be back, folks. Thanks for sticking with me. Now, enjoy the sleepless horror. 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. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. We're now into November, and for most of our audience, that means a time of Thanksgiving. And so, I want to say thank you for your help. You help us in many ways. Just listening to our show is very helpful. Many of you subscribe to our sleepless universe. Extremely helpful, especially during these times of economic uncertainty. Some of you take the time to check out the companies who sponsor our show. Even just visiting their sites with our code helps a ton. A lot of you follow us on our social media channels. That's helpful, too. So no matter how you engage with us, we are very thankful for your help. And on this episode, we feature tales about people who need help from others. You might be wondering how horror can weave its spell into something that sounds rather beneficial. A person needs a helping hand, needs a favor, needs some assistance, and getting that help can make them feel good. But as you can imagine, in horror stories like ours, it can be the things a person needs help with that can make the entire endeavor anything but wholesome. But your help isn't horrifying. It's much appreciated. So help yourself to some horror as you tune in, turn on, and brace yourself for our sleepless tales. In our first tale, we meet one of those diabolical creatures known as a horror writer. Stop screaming. In this story, it's Marcus, and he's in a creative writing group. But in this tale, shared with us by author Richard Dean, Marcus is trying to do research for his novel. And the rest of the group isn't keen to help him out, especially because of how much he's focusing on death. Performing this tale are Jesse Cornett, Sarah Thomas, Mike Delgado, and Kristen DiMecchio. So it takes hard work to write a novel, and if you help the author enough, you might end up in the dedication. I'm killing someone does not make you a bad person. Think about it. And what about a soldier killing a member of an opposing army? Or what about a cop who shoots a bad guy who's robbing a bank and is about to start killing the customers? But still, isn't it? I don't know. Like distasteful? Claudia is sitting directly opposite me in the circle of eight people. The nimbus of blonde hair around her head like one of those weird dogs they'd all like over in Hollywood. About 12 feet away. At that distance, I think I could shoot her through whichever eye I wanted. Left or right? Tonight, she talked mostly about how she was struggling with ideas. Like, I don't know. Never having a fucking original one in her life? Life. I say, pointing, noting the slight tremble in my index finger. It's about life, and therefore death. You can't have one without the other. Interesting point, Marcus. Dave, the leader of our little group, tints his fingers and leans forward, and I can see he needs to trim the hair in his nostrils. It looks like a family of spiders are trying to escape, but are scared of what they might encounter outside of the safety of his face. A bit more. Expand on that, would you? Death. I say, trying to ignore the way Claudia is examining her nails and jeeking her leg up and down like she's bored, or needs to take a leak. Is an essential part of any story. A book, a TV show, a movie, hell, a relationship. We're obsessed with death. We just don't acknowledge that we are. This draw some polite nods of approval from the others in the circle. A guy called Jeremy, who has written seven sci-fi westerns and still hasn't managed to snag an agent nods with gusto, and Emma, who is intensely shy about her work. Shy about everything, really. And also extremely beautiful, is making notes in a spiral-bound notebook. Claudia makes a noise, a passive-aggressive snort of derisions that sounds like one of those shitty little dogs farting. I wonder if I should kill her next. Never start with a body. That's the advice Dave gave us on the course. It's a rule I have to break in telling my own story since that's exactly how it started. Not my novel. That starts with a wedding party and Montreal. But that's beside the point. Standing over the body, dripping a mixture of rainwater. It's full on winter outside. Sweat. Mine. And blood. Not mine. On to the floor. This, in so many ways, is where I start. I've read about this. I know what to do. I know there are several options to allow me to get away with this whole thing without anyone ever knowing I was even here. I know there is an in-e-c-c-tv or whatever. Despite the growing trend for doorbell cameras and anacams. I know the victim. Let's call her that for now. Although there are better words. Lives here alone and isn't expecting any visitors. So, with that in mind. The bathtub. A selection. A power tools. Very small pieces. Multiple toilet flushes and four gallons of bleach. Or a hacksaw from the garage. Suitcase from the closet. Plastic sheets and duct tape. Neatly packed. Walk out easy dispose of any number of ways. Forest burial. Landfill dump. River toss. Building foundation. Loosely covered with soil. Waiting for fresh concrete. I weigh up my options. Picking the drying blood from under my fingernails. Anyone know where Claudia is today? I picked the last bit of blood from under my thumbnail. No? Okay. He says it like that. Like it's two words. So, um, let's see. Marcus, what progress have you made since our last session? I want to say. What progress have you made, Dave? I know you self published a Dickish crime book about an alcoholic PI who has PTSD and blah, blah, fucking blah. I know I nearly duct taped myself into my car with a hose connected to the tailpipe and stuffed through the window when I finished reading it because it was so fucking dickish. I know I nearly got in the hottest bath I could stand and use a razor fresh out of the freezer to slice down from the wrist to my elbow. Not the other way. Across the wrist. That rarely works. I know I nearly stuck a plastic bag over my head and wound tape around my neck and then... Marcus? Yeah, so, I mean, I don't know where Claudia is. I laugh and guess that's a problem based on the looks I get. Scratching my head, I say. I've been thinking about methods of disposing of bodies. Jeremy, sci-fi western guy rolls his eyes and grabs a handful of his balls and Dave shoots a malook that says something like, we're all entitled to our opinions, Jeremy, and you can talk about your lame-ass Martian detective or whenever the fuck when the adults have finished talking. So close that pink seam in the middle of your misguided goatee. The seam you call a mouth. All right. Okay, Jeremy. I like Dave for that. When we talk about, like, the use of acids and about fire and about how hard it would be to get a body into the furnace and a hospital with security and everything, versus the viability of a home furnace. I mean, I mainly do the talking, but bones come up as a common problem again and again, and I'm tempted to talk about how you could chop someone up in a bathtub with power tools, which are readily available at many local high street stores, and you could flush the whole thing bit by bit down a domestic toilet over a number of days. Then, but figure, maybe that would be a problem too. Maybe if there are questions later down the line. Official questions from officials. Flakes of dried black blood. Tiny, but enough for the CSI guys to pick up and convict me with. Fall in a tiny drift between my shoes, like a negative of snow. I tell Dave I've written 40,000 words of the book so far. He smiles like his kid came home with a new swimming badge. Alright, you... He thinks for a while. Yeah! Dave... You sweet art. So, Jeremy lives in a trailer on the edge of town, 1.3 miles from a bar called the Midnight Blue. I know this, because I waited in the shadows after riding class and then followed Jeremy home. He takes the bus. He does own a car. I find out, but it's under a moldy green tarp lane outside the trailer. Hence, the bus. A cat sits outside Jeremy's door and I stroke its ears as I climb the steps which are stacked center blocks. To a thick metallic sheet of a door through which I can hear the heavy, clack, clack, clack of Jeremy's typewriter. An actual typewriter. He has a paper rolled into it and a chrome bar to move the paper around and a little bell that tells you when to crank the thing and start a new line. Honestly, Jesus Christ. Was the subject matter not painful enough? He needed to write the stuff lined by line on an antique. I bet the neighbors loved him. I'm starting to take this personally. Dave eyes the empty chairs and I feel bad for him. I also see that I need to widen my selection criteria. People will start to talk. Or maybe the opposite. Maybe narrow it. Focus. Emma. Dave clears his throat, wipes his lips, wrinkles his nose, and the spider legs wave hello. What do you have for us this week? What news? He tries a smile which is meant to be encouraging but it falls short. And we all see it. Emma has on a huge thrift store coat and buried in it the way she is looks malnourished. I want to offer her soup. I...uh...yeah. Dave nods encouragingly. You know? Nope. Kind of why I was asking. A pause in which I decide something about Dave. Not a sweetheart. Oh Dave. I thought we had something. Emma turns red inside the enormous coat and rings her hands painfully together. Her knuckles are like a bunch of fighting crabs. Dave watches but I can't after a while. I have something. Okay. Is it about disposing of bodies, Marcus? Or maybe concealing DNA evidence? No. Really? When the gun comes out, first Emma sees it and then Dave and then the others. The ones who are left. Dave starts to cry instantly like a toddler at Christmas except unhappy. You know? Whatever Dave. Emma does not cry. She just looks at me from the cocoon of her pre-loved coat. Insanely pretty. I was thinking if you should never start with a body. Maybe you should end with one. The cops take forever to show up. I hurry like hell over to Dave and put the gun in his hands. Press the muzzle against the fleshy part of my calf. Press down on Dave's still very warm index finger. The gunshot feels like a hot, darkening needle. Then warm and wet. And I put it out of my mind. I crawl back through everyone's blood to my own place in the circle. Lying still by my overturned chair and breathing shallow breaths. Expecting EMT or SWAT or police to charge in at any moment. Maybe before the echo of the last shot Dave fired. Which he did technically. Has faded. But instead I'm just lying there, cooling and sticky. And damn it. Bored. I start to worry that the self-inflicted gunshot wound, meticulously researched obviously. Might have gone south on me if I have to wait hours for the ambulance. It's bleeding a lot and starting to hurt. Also a lot. Just as I'm wondering if I should place a call to the police myself. Since no one else seems to have bothered. I hear sirens. And then distant doors slamming open and then boots, studying on the tiled floor, and then I'm saying. I'm in here. I'm alive. Please. Help me. And people burst into the room. But I'm passing out. And someone says, you're okay. Don't worry. We'll get you out of here. And the panic and fear in the person's voice is an observation in my writing notebook. He went crazy. I say, then I pass out. I have an agent before I even get checked out of the hospital. I'm not the creative writing group leader who killed all but one of his students' nationwide news. CNN wants to know all the gory details. I sign an exclusivity contract. People want to talk about the novel I'm working on. People want to know where I get my ideas. And I tell them I was part of a good writing group. We all encouraged and helped each other. Haven't Dave before he flipped his shit. Was a good guy. A sweet heart. With a dark heart. I tell them. I tell them my novel. Which in my own heart I am sure will be a bestseller the first of many. Will naturally be dedicated to them. Hi, I'm Eleanor. Just your average walk and talk and dancing thing and puppet. A puppet that loves an Eleanor train journey. It beats the C-A-R every time. I'm free to do all the things I love. Get lost in a true crime series. Type away like an office ninja. Order yummy food and drinks to my seat. Or just have a cheeky power nap. And all the way with Eleanor. Selected root only. Visit Eleanor.co.uk slash timetable for details. One way you can be really helpful is by providing lost and cold people some refuge and food. Like the way Dortheia did when a couple stumble across her cozy B&B. And in this tale, shared with us by author Christy Hartman. Dortheia's delicious homemade preserves and pickling make the couple feel quite welcome. I'm sure they'd be happy to help her out with that. Any way they can. Performing this tale are Nicole Dulan, Sarah Thomas, Dan Zapula and Aaron Lilis. So lick your lips and settle in for some delicious mustard pickles and potato pies. Genevieve Slider skis won after the other, over the untouched snow, staring at the limp bundle of hair protruding from Marcel's beanie like the damp tale of an elderly marmot. Only a sliver of orange on the horizon remained of this miserable day. Genevieve vowed to finally tell him how much she hated that ponytail as soon as they were safe and warm. They drew closer to the little cabin on the horizon. Its cheerful plume of smoke and a waste-ness in the never-ending white. A figure in a checked flannel coat and patchwork skirt swept snow from the porch. Her long gray hair twisted into an intricate knot on the top of her head. As they approached the cabin, Marcel addressed the woman. Well, good evening, ma'am. My wife and I got turned around on our ski day and are in a bit of a pickle. Oh, you little potato pies must be frozen right down to your picklets. The beaming woman ushered them into the house, instructing them to leave their skis propped against the door, below the rise and brine B&B sign. What a relief. Lucky for you there is a room left at the inn. Calm, warm yourselves by the fire. You look frozen as a snowman's nose. Marcel pulled at one of Genevieve's pack straps. She shrugged off his hand and stripped off her own gear. I'm Genevieve. She held out a hand toward the eager host. And this is my husband, Marcel. Sweetie, anyone staying here is family and who shakes hands with family. Genevieve caught a whiff of vinegar and cloves as the woman pulled her into a tight hug. My name is Plano Dorothea. Genevieve could be a royal name. You're the picture of a magical snow princess with all that golden hair and rosy cheeks. Dorothea reached up and pinch Genevieve's face. Dorothea turned her attention to Marcel. You're a lucky duckie to have such a pretty peach. She pulled his likey frame into a crushing embrace. Genevieve's head throbbed with the change in temperature. And Dorothea's exuberant welcome. She flopped into a recliner facing the crackling fire, trying to steal the spinning room. She focused on the portrait hung above the mantle. A slightly younger Dorothea in a white gown, grinned next to a dimpled man with a thick mustache. Her apron red. In this house we do it with relish. Dorothea released Marcel and yanked a stunned Genevieve to her feet. Oh! Oh, no, dear. That's where Jackson's. She dragged a wooden rocker across the pine floor and pushed Genevieve into it. He'll be back soon. He'll want to dry his boots by the hearth. Marcel settled into the other recliner, rubbing the chill out of his hands. We are so lucky to have stumbled upon your being beat in night. Well, I'm happy as a puppy with two tails that he found our little spot in the woods. Dorothea tossed a log on the fire, stabbing it aggressively with an iron poker, sparks exploding from the embers. Now how long have you and Jack been running this place? Oh, dear. Let me think. Dorothea touched each of her fingers. At least ten years. Not enough curtains to keep Jack past that. Her laughter tinkled like a hundred silver Christmas bells. I'll fitly flop on the most terrible hostess. Your poor bellies must be touching your backs. I'll round up a little snack and something hot to drink. Dorothea scrambled to the kitchen. Through the open door, Genevieve watched her fill the kettle and prepare a tray of tea things. That old lady's an odd duck. Look at this. Marcel Pastor the Lace-Trimmed pillow. When life gives you pickles, deal with it and move on. Was cross-stitched in every shade of green from sharp truce to veridian to emerald. Oh, you're speaking to me again? Genevieve tossed the pillow aside. I thought you'd had what were the exact words you used? Enough of my incompetence and stupidity for one day. I didn't say that exactly. But you were supposed to be keeping an eye on the compass. Then I guess I'm a liar as well as stupid. Genevieve scooted the wooden chair closer to the fire. I told you three times we were going to far south. But your navigation wand knew better. Genevieve gestured towards her husband's crotch. You should have said it louder. Marcel stretched his legs taking up the space in front of both chairs. Your wand is as useless as that ridiculous rap tale. Genevieve kicked away his leg. Was that loud enough? Dorecya coughed from the doorway. Well, well, aren't you too just cozy as my mom is quilted on a snowy Sunday? She set a loaded tray on the table between them. I baked the buns fresh this morning, made a rose from our sweet, pigly, piggy buttercup smoked ham, and as a special treat, some of my famous homemade mustard pickles. Well, this is very kind of you to take us in, especially with no notice. Marcel sat up straight, running fingers through his frizzy ponytail. You're an absolute angel, Dorothy. Hot tea and delicious food took the chill off Genevieve's body, but her feelings for Marcel remained solidly frozen. When the last drop was drunk, Dorothy allowed the couple upstairs. She flitted around the small bedroom, turning on antique lamps and pulling towels from a pine cabinet. Genevieve admired the rustic furniture, handmade quilts and feather pillows. This room is so charming! She flipped through a leather guest book laid open on the dresser and read the last entry aloud. Sandra and Stephen Rockbone, January 5, 1988. Has no one else stayed in this room in two years? Dorothy has snatched the book and moved to the door. How dare that old thing get in here? I'll get you to sign the new one in the morning. Sleep well, potato pies. Breakfast will be ready whenever you wake up. Marcel collapsed onto the bed as soon as Dorothy occluses the door. Hey, can we just speed through the apology and forgiveness nonsense so we can cut it up in this bed and fall asleep? Genevieve crawled under the layers of quilts and turned her back to his chest. Marcel spoke to her neck. Oh, come on, we were both being assholes out there. You want me to beg for forgiveness? A massage would be a good start. My neck is killing me. Oh, good idea. You go first. Marcel flipped over. I have a knot on my left shoulder blade. Good night. Genevieve turned off the bedside lamp. And I meant what I said about that ponytail. I see air filled the space between their backs. Sleep came instantly from Marcel. Genevieve lay awake listening to the rumble of his moist snores until exhaustion claimed her. The draught must have come home late last night. Marcel addressed Dorothy through a mouthful of pancake and syrupy melted butter. I didn't hear a thing. Is he still sleeping? Poor man got stuck in town. Dorothy adjusted at the window. It's like God shook a snow globe out there. I'm trying to figure out how he got out in the first place. Any trace of a road is completely covered by snow. Dorothy is juice glass smashed on the floor, shards skittering across the linoleum. Oh, what a silly Billy Clutzie nutsy I am. She disappeared down the basement stairs, reappearing with a corn husk broom. Here, let me do that. Genevieve took the broom from Dorothy. Oh, thank you, sugar pop. I'm going to the barn to see if Blanche, Rose and Sophia left many cackel berries overnight. My stock is getting low. Dorothy adjusted to a half full glass jar of white eggs, bobbing and greenish yellow liquid. Help yourself to one of my famous pickled eggs. She bundled up in her thick flannel coat and fur-lined boots. Pulled the basement door shut and slog through the snow drifts to the red barn. Okay, that was weird, right? She's just eccentric. Genevieve placed her plate in the sink. I'm going to have a shower. We'll probably need to stay here for a couple days. Don't do anything stupid. The kitchen was empty when Genevieve came back downstairs 30 minutes later. Marcel? Dorothya? Neither responded. A thud from below, Drew Genevieve's attention to the open basement door. She picked her way down the rickety staircase. Shelves lined the dirt walls of the cold room, sagging under the weight of jars filled with jam, vegetables and pickles. So many pickles. A single bulb dangling from ceiling beams cast a dim light on dozens of large ceramic crocs. Marcel knelt on the dirt floor, peering into one of them. His pathetic pony tail lay limp on his neck. What are you doing down here? Can't you ever just do what I ask? Marcel didn't reply. She stepped toward him. Her sock slipping in something warm and wet. She placed a hand on his shoulder to steady herself. Marcel toppled on his side, head lolling unnaturally. His slit throat gaped, still steaming blood glistening in the dim light. Predictability is the sign of a weak character. Dorothya's whisper reached Genevieve at the same time the older woman placed a blade against Genevieve's throat. A closed door is just an invitation for a man like that. Dorothya's voice was flat and frigid as the snow covered fields surrounding the cabin. I only had to complain about trying to open a jar of my famous crout. And he flew down here like Superman rushing to save Lois from a burning building. Genevieve's eyes flicked into the croc. Hey, he just wanted to help. I'm sure. Let's go back upstairs and talk. Dorothya, keeping the knife close to Genevieve, reached over and dipped a finger into the open croc. Isn't he handsome as a billy goat on a first date? The head floating in the pickling liquid had an eerie metallic pallor, but was otherwise perfectly preserved. A thick mustache pointed at matching dimples. Glassy black eyes stared lifelessly at the women. Jack loved when we had guests. Dorothya tapped Genevieve on her nose. Especially pretty ones with burky oinkers. Dorothya pointed at a croc further down the row. That horse and a wrathbone had a pink piggy nose too. Tee-hee-hee! She'd giggled at all his stupid jokes. Genevieve's insides clenched. The pancakes, coffee, and homemade preserves she'd eaten for breakfast roiled violently. Her ridiculous blonde head isn't that one. Dorothya clicked her teeth together. I usually mind my own soup instead of sprinkling salt in someone else's, but I could tell. Your man was cut from the same sprig as mine. Squeeze in me when I was just trying to give a friendly hello. And all those shamefully flirtatious compliments right in front of his own bride. Genevieve stared down at the older woman and twisted her mouth into a smile. I did you a favor, potato pie. So what do we do with him now? Great galloping gazelles. I knew we'd be bosom buddies. Dorothya lowered the knife and handed Genevieve a recipe card from her apron pocket. You mix up the brine in that empty crock. And I'll get Marcel's noggin ready for bobbin. Genevieve shuffled across the room on shaky legs. As Dorothya made short squelching slices through Marcel's neck and listed the other cold room inhabitants. Of course, Steven was an innocent byproduct of his horish wife's behavior. I put the poor puppy next to her so he could keep following her around. Dorothya wiped bits of flesh from the knife before discarding it to pick up a hand saw. The far one covered in cobwebs is my mother-in-law, Prony Juni. She came sniffing around looking for her precious baby boy. Beacon off about my famous bread and butter spears being too salty. Dorothya dragged the teeth of the saw along Marcel's vertebrae. How said brine coming along, sunshine? Genevieve replied over the chalky snaps of her husband's delicate bones. Just measuring the salt. Dorothya's sing song voice filled the gaps. Pickle, pickle, putt for nickel. I'll give this guy a little tickle. What for have a little class? One for acting like an ass. One for the way he treats his wife. And a final slice to end his life. With a final grinding crunch, Marcel's head hit the dirt and rolled away from Dorothya's satisfied squeals. Seizing the moment of distraction, Genevieve took three quick strides. Plucked the discarded knife from the blood soaked floor and held it in a trembling hand over Dorothya's crouching frame. I had such high hopes for you, potato pie. She reached up and slid the saw across Genevieve's throat before the younger woman knew what happened. Oh dear, that girl in cut the sense God gave a goose. Dorothya wiped a splatter from her face. And now I have to clean up on my own. She looked at Jack's beautiful face. This is all your fault. The drop of blood rolled off her chin and bloomed into a beautiful purple cloud over his left dimple. Dorothya lifted Marcel's head by the ponytail, twirled at three times and flung it expertly into the waiting crock. She wiped Genevieve's blood from the recipe card. A rooster one day, a feather duster the next. Now where'd I put that vinegar jug? Large batch preserving, pickling fermentation method, gather ingredients and tools, large crock or food grade bucket cleaned, one half cup sea salt, handful of oak, grape or cherry leaves, organic matter to be pickled, large rock or weight cleaned. Steps. Clean items to be pickled, needs to be free from dirt and any extraneous fluids. Place organic matter in crock. Dissolve salt in one gallon of water and pour into crock. Add leaves. These are important for crispness. Use the weight to submerge. Add more if necessary. Cover crock with a clean cloth to keep out flies and debris. Check once a week, skim any visible mold from the top. The first time I've ever seen a! I've never seen a! Is there anything better than the help you can get from your loving grandmother? Kenny will attest to that? He loves his grandmother and she loves him. And yes, I can still use the present tense to say that, even if Kenny is no longer alive. And in this tale, shared with us by author Brandon Greer, another family member arrives in grandma's life, a person very much alive, someone who is far more trouble than even a ghost. Performing this tale are Ellie Hirschman, Mary Murphy, Kristen D. McHurrayo and Mike Delgaudio. So if you visit grandma and want to get to the lake, it's easy. It's just straight through the backyard gate. Grandma had forgotten that I'd died, though I couldn't remember it clearly either. Yellow shimmers had shown on the lake behind her house. And after my cousins had called me a wimp and a chicken and a scaredy cat, I dove into the water with them. Mommy and daddy had always told me I shouldn't swim in the lake. But Davey, Sandy and Johnny had come to the house in their swimsuits and they'd dived into the water as soon as our parents had gone. When I got in, Sandy, who always picked up the mosquito bites on her arms, dunked my head under the water for forever. I was under the water for a long time, longer than I'd ever held my head under the water before. When I came out of the lake, everyone was gone and the white paint on grandma's house had flaked away. When I made it into grandma's kitchen, she stood at the counter, older than I had remembered. Her hair was pure white instead of black and gray. And her teeth looked different, all straight and white. I could have sworn they had been crooked the last time I'd seen her. But even bent over and hobbling, she fixed me lemonade and her special, secret ingredient chocolate chip cookies. Even though I could taste grandma's sweet and sour lemonade, no matter how much I drank, the amount of liquid in the cup stayed the same. Grandma's special secret ingredient chocolate chip cookies tasted like the best cookies I'd ever had. But when I set them back down on the plate again, no matter how big of a bite I took, the cookie still stayed round. Even after all this proof, I didn't figure out I was dead until I saw the handout from my funeral stapled next to grandma's calendar. Kenny Kirby in Loving Memory. Every time grandma saw it, she cried. So I asked her to take it down, and soon she acted like I'd never had a funeral at all. Mommy once told me that when somebody dies, their souls go away, but their loved ones keep a big piece of them inside forever. But she didn't know that ghosts are real, so I'm not mad she was wrong. Grandma and I lived in her house at 1668 Calhoun Road. Lake Han was straight through the backyard gate. The neighbors paddled by on their boats, and I waived to them, but they couldn't see me. Daddy never visited grandma anymore. Mommy spent the night sometimes, but unlike grandma, she couldn't see me. She just gazed around the house, her face all worn. Her hair turned grayer and grayer each time she came. And whenever she read her books, the ones with men and women holding each other while their clothes fell off, she had to put on a pair of glasses. After dinner, she brought up how grandma should live in a home, which made no sense, because grandma already had a home, and she and I lived in it. One time, Davey came to see grandma. I thought he was my uncle Kenneth. The last time I'd seen Davey, he was 6 inches taller than I was, and now he was almost tall enough to hit his head on the awnings of the doors. His hair was longer than Uncle Kenneth, and he was skinnier with muscles like a superhero and a curly tattoo of some girl's name. Mommy and Daddy had told me to never get a tattoo or grandma would die, but grandma didn't die when she saw Davey. She gave him a big grin when he knocked on the front door, and she wrapped him in a gentle hug as soon as he said hello. He spent the whole time at the kitchen table with grandma. He picked at the lacy tablecloth with his fingers and talked about getting married. Davey had told me he'd never get married because of how icky girls are. But I guess Mommy and Daddy had to stop finding boys and girls icky when they fell in love. All grown up, Davey was boring because he did what every other adult does. Just sit around and talk about how tired and miserable he was. After their conversation went on for hours and hours and hours, I ran upstairs to the guest bedroom and played with the toys I'd left there before I died. It got boring because I couldn't move any of them, so Buzz Lightyear, Darth Vader and Scooby Doo just sat around a table and talked. When I came downstairs I found Davey and grandma's arms. His shoulders heaved and tears ran down his face. She said she's never coming home. Not as long as Daddy's alive. The whole time Davey couldn't see me. He made a confused face when grandma said I was in the room with them. I jumped up and down, made lots of noise and ran all over the room, but he never heard me. The same thing happened with mommy, though whenever grandma talked about me, mommy made a face like she was going to puke. Nobody else in the family visited grandma, and she was retired, which she said meant she was too tired to go to work anymore. So we stayed at home, played around the house and watched TV. Since I was dead, I could eat as many of her casseroles as I wanted and still have plenty left over for her. I couldn't sweep the floor or wet the mirrors for her, so she had a lady come by and do that for her. And I didn't need to sleep, so when she went to bed, I sat next to her until the morning. In the fall, when the days cooled and the leaves turned orange and brown and fell from the trees, someone came to the door. We had to search for grandma's glasses because she couldn't remember where she put them, and they continued to knock and knock on the door. I couldn't see who it was through the window, and even though I was a ghost, I couldn't do something cool like walk through a wall and see who was at the door. When we found grandma's glasses on the mantle above the sink, grandma fastened the chain lock and opened the door. Sandy. She undid the chain lock and let her in. The lady who walked in did not look like Sandy. Sandy was a ten-year-old with brown hair and glasses so big and thick I couldn't tell what color her eyes were. She had scars all over her arms from picking at her mosquito bites. And her two front teeth were big, like a beavers. This lady had black hair, blue eyes, no glasses, and regular looking teeth. She wore makeup and it looked all smeared, and I couldn't see any scars on her arms because she wore this big green army coat. I'm not here to stay, at least not for long. She didn't even say hello or smile or ask grandma how she was. She just scratched the left side of her neck, which looked all red and itchy. Mommy would have called Sandy Rude. The teal parents know you're here? No, and they shouldn't. They were quiet for a few seconds. Sandy rolled her eyes. Go ahead, call them then. I'll just leave. I won't. Mommy and daddy would have wanted grandma to call them if she found out I was missing, and I would have wanted them to know where I was. Grandma hobbled to the side of the door and Sandy pushed her way past her, the backpack she slung over her shoulder slapped against the door frame. I guess she don't recognize her, huh? I shook my head. She's at a hard time lately. Grandma ruffled my curly hair. That we can help her out. Can't tweak any. I smiled at grandma and she smiled back, but I had what daddy used to call a gut feeling, that something strange had happened to Sandy if it really was her. Grandma's house had four bedrooms. Hers, the guest room upstairs, which we called the upstairs bedroom, Mommy's old one, which we called the red bedroom, since its walls were red, and Uncle Kenneth's old one, which we called the blue bedroom, because its walls were blue. Duh. When grandma went to sleep that night, I walked through the open door of the red bedroom to see that Sandy had thrown her backpack on the floor. A pile of clothes seeped out of it. She had closed the closet door, too. Grandma always kept the closet in this room closed, because I used to think monsters and ghouls and ghosts hid in there before I died. Sandy herself lounged on the bed with the white wooden bed frame and let out enormous snores that sounded like a chainsaw. No matter how loud I giggled at her snores, she didn't wake up, and when I tried to open the closet door, my hand went through the handle. When I turned around again, I saw grandma in the doorway. She gave Sandy this real sad look, and then hobbled back down towards her bedroom. Grandma always misplaced things, went on a frantic search to find them, and then found them again with my help. But in the next few weeks, she misplaced more things than usual. Her porcelain jewelry box with a little grey kitty on it disappeared first. No matter where I looked, whether it was in the red bedroom, the blue bedroom, the upstairs bedroom, grandma's bedroom, the kitchen, the living room, or the attic, I couldn't find it. Grandma said it would turn up, but then some of her medicines vanished too. Grandma told me she had just put them in the wrong place, and we'd find them again. But we had never misplaced her medicine before Sandy arrived. I told grandma I thought the lady in the house was an imposter, but one afternoon when Sandy woke up and walked into the kitchen rubbing her tired face. She wore the same thick glasses she used to wear. In these glasses, I could see her eyes were brown, but before she left the house that evening, she put in a pair of special contacts that changed her eye color, like the kind Daddy said the guy who played Darth Maul War. Even if she was the real Sandy, she still acted weird. She slept late into the day, then came into the kitchen and ate breakfast in the afternoon. Sometimes she would talk to grandma nice and polite, and sometimes she would mutter that she was a senile old bitch, especially when she saw her talk to me. Sandy's neck itched all the time, and so did her head and her arms, but she never rubbed ointment onto her itches, and she never wore short sleeves. Late at night she swam in the lake. Sometimes she dove into the water in all her clothes and stayed there for a long, long time until she came up gasping and sobbing and slabbing herself on the forehead. The colder it got outside, the more she swam. I needed clues to solve this mystery, so I snuck into her room and watched for suspicious behavior. Since I was a ghost, I didn't need to hide, though if I could have opened the door, I would have picked the closet. Good thing I didn't, because the minute she entered her room, she opened the closet. I wanted to leave because playing detective isn't very fun if there's no way to get caught, but she had closed the door to the room and trapped me. She kept her secret things in a green metal box. She dumped the contents of the box onto the bed and sorted through them. She had a long rubber band, a shot like I used to get at the doctor, a spoon, and a little bag of powdered sugar. She took all her secret things into the closet and shut the door. Why she needed her shots, confused me, but I figured that since she slept all day, maybe she was sick. She looked as skinny as a Halloween skeleton, and her nose always ran. But it was the spoon and the sugar that proved to me what she wanted from grandma. Everything she had stolen was practice for her goal. She wanted to steal grandma's special secret ingredient chocolate chip cookies. Grandma kept the recipe in her recipe book, one with a frilly cover that had yellowed as it grew older. Grandma had said her mommy had given it to her, so it was extra special. The minute I realized Sandy's true plan, I asked Grandma to move it from her hiding spot in the cabinet above the stove. Grandma told me she would have a tough time finding it otherwise, but I held my breath, which, as a ghost, I could do for forever. As a compromise, she hid it in the next best place in the cabinet above the microwave. She said nobody would even think to look there, and I agreed with her. That night, I sat next to Grandma's bed. She pulled her green and white quilt up to her neck, and I sat in my chair next to her. Her wrinkled face grinned at me, and she reached for the night table, which held tons of books, like the baronstein bears, and where the wild things are. Want me to read you a bedtime story? I shook my head. I think Sandy is stealing from you. Grandma's grin fell away. Slowly she sat up in her bed, and placed another two pillows under her back. Her curly hair meshed with the soft linens under her. For the first time, I missed what it was like to lie in a bed until I floated out of it, and drifted into a pleasant dream. Sandy needs us. She and her parents are fighting right now, and she needs a place to stay with people that love her. What happened? Oh, quite a few hard chips. I can't remember them all myself. Why? Well, when you get to be my age, you forget everything you don't have your eyes set on. I thought of all the forks and spoons we searched for every day, and the remote for the TV and Grandma's glasses, and the milk she sometimes left on the counter. I don't want that to happen to you. For a second, I forgot what I was, and added, or me. It happens to everyone. And your cousin wants to forget some things too. That may be why she acts, so is she does. Really? After everything she and her family have gone through, she deserves a lot of sympathy. Can you give her that? Can you try to feel bad for her enough to love her, even when she's being hurtful? If I'd had air in my lungs, I would have sighed. Okay. I tried to feel bad for her for the next few days, but she made it hard. The next day, Grandpa's collection of pocket watches went missing. Grandma had kept them on top of her chest of drawers, next to the framed American flag those army men gave her at his funeral. I didn't see Sandy steal them, but about the time Grandma wondered a loud where they'd gone, Sandy darted through the front door, climbed inside her yellow slug bug, and drove away. That was when I told Grandma to look in Sandy's room. We should respect Sandy's privacy. Why should we do that when she's not respecting yours? For once, Grandma said nothing back to me. We went to Sandy's room, which now sank like dirty feet and sweat. Sandy never let the lady who cleaned Grandma's house into her room. Plates of half eaten food had piled on the nightstands in the bed. The dirty clothes from her backpack were now all over the room. In one corner of the ceiling, a cockroach squirmed on a huge spider web. I directed Grandma to the closet and showed her the green metal box. She clutched her heart and sat on the bed. I asked her over and over if she was okay, and after a minute she finally gasped that she was fine. A tear spilled out of her left eye, and I told her Sandy's plan. She wanted to steal the super special secret ingredient cookie recipe. Grandma put a trembling hand to her mouth and said nothing. I guess she was shocked Sandy could do such a thing to her. Grandma stayed up in the living room until Sandy came home. Grandma normally went to bed at seven, but she was wide awake until Sandy walked inside at midnight. Sandy smelled like mommy's cleaning spray and she was clumsier than usual. I almost giggled when she stumbled through the front door, but the serious expression on Grandma's face made me become serious too. Grandma has a face where it seems wrong for her to not smile. Where have you been? It doesn't matter. Sandy didn't look grandma in the eyes, and said she scratched at the sleeves of her green jacket and leaned back against the front door. Grandma picked up the green metal box. Sandy's eyes went all wide. Like saucer plates Daddy would have said. But I've never seen someone's eyes get that big outside of a cartoon. Grandma handed the box to Sandy. I would away. I won't have it in my house. Sandy took the box, but she didn't do as Grandma said. When did you start up again? You shouldn't have gone into my room. What? I said you shouldn't have gone into my room. I'm sorry I did. Grandma's voice got all soft like it had when she used to tuck me into bed. I want to help you. Just tell me how. If you want, I can take you to a clinic. I know you didn't like the rehab center, but we could find a better place. Why would that shit work now? The swear word burned against my ears. If mommy had heard me say that to grandma, she would have sent me to time out for two weeks. But then who do I call? Nobody. There are some local hospitals. No. What can I do? Leave me alone. I want to help you Sandy. Stop by leaving me the fuck alone. And then Sandy rushed forward and pushed Grandma over. Grandma fell and I remembered how she told me when I'd first come back to the house that she couldn't play with me like she used to. If she fell over, she'd break her hip or her arm because her bones were fragile. And here Sandy had pushed her over like she didn't know. So before Grandma hit the carpet, I tried to catch her. I could feel her body shake from my touch, but she passed through me. I couldn't catch her. She fell backwards against the couch and the softness of the cushions braced her even if she had fallen hard. Her frail body slid from the couch to the floor. She didn't scream and shout like someone who'd broken an arm, but she cried. Sandy got in Grandma's face and screamed the worst profanity at her. She said Grandma was worthless and she was crazy and old and she saw Kenny, Kenny, Kenny wouldn't shut up about Kenny because she knew it hurt her just to say the name. But she never saw all the things her daddy had done. She said she was a worse person than him because she'd known about it all and let all of it happen. And then she said Grandma didn't need to help her because she'd be gone by morning and Sandy stormed off into her room. I tried to talk to Grandma, but her sob suddenly stopped. She just stared at the wall ahead of her, at the picture of all of us cousins. Davey, Johnny and I sat around Santa Claus, Sandy sat in his lap. She were all happy in the picture, all little grins full of missing baby teeth. No matter what I said to Grandma, she didn't stop staring at the picture. And then, without a word to me, she pulled up from the couch and limped into the bathroom and shut the door. When I was four years old, mommy and daddy had stayed up late to watch a movie called Beetlejuice. I had snuck out of my room and watched it from the stairs. That was the scariest movie ever and it gave me nightmares for three weeks before I confessed that I'd watched it to mommy and daddy. The movie was about a husband and wife who were ghosts who wanted to scare away the people who lived in their house. And I figured, since I was a ghost, a good scare was the best way to get back at Sandy for what she'd done to Grandma. Other than Grandma, no one could see me. Grandma could hug me, pinch my cheek and tickle me with no problem. But whenever I hugged mommy on her visits, she swatted her legs and said something about bugs in the house. I couldn't do a lot to scare Sandy. So I sat on the couch and thought of a plan for a long time, at least an hour. I still thought of what to do when she walked out of her bedroom and out the back door. She went through the gate and down to the dock. I followed her and hoped I could think of something by the time she got down to the lake. She didn't wear a swimsuit when she jumped into Lake Han, just a ratty t-shirt and a pair of shorts. I dove into the water and swam alongside her. She swam as gracefully as she had on the day I had died. Every time we'd race, she'd win. She'd said she would join the swim team next year because she'd finally be old enough to try out. Maybe she had. She backstrokeed as fast as a fish, and I'd doggie paddled after her until she was near the center of the lake. She floated there. When the moon lit Sandy's face, she looked older than grandma. Mommy used to say that irony is if someone laughed at someone for getting hit in the face with a pie, and then they get hit in the face with a pie. So I figured this was the perfect place to scare her, since it was all ironic. I paddled over to her, put my hands on her shoulders, and I pushed her down. She plunged into the water. She didn't resist at all, but she made this weird gurgle when she went down. I'm not strong, and my hands were so little on her, but when I pushed her down, she couldn't get out of the water. I laughed, and I let her come up again. The water splashed over her face, her hair stuck to her face, and she gasped. I let her take those huge sucking breaths. Then I pushed her back in again. She'd done the same to me when I'd died. When I'd come out of the water, she'd say how do you like that, Kenneth? She didn't like that I had her daddy's name. I let her come up again, and by this time I just couldn't stop my giggling. Sandy didn't splash or ask questions. She couldn't hear my laughter, which made me laugh harder and harder. She breathed heavily like she'd just run a marathon, and I thought I could see tears on her face as well. I pushed down on her again, and she went under the water. Suddenly, she fought me. She thrashed and kicked again, and I could hear a bubbly scream. Her arms splaed out in all these different directions, and the watered gurgled and splashed, and I was scared then so scared, and I pulled my hands away from her, but she still stayed under the water, and I knew then that I'd never pushed her under the water in the first place. And then Sandy was still. She floated up to the surface, her back faced the night. She'd done this before, the dead man's float, where she'd put her face down in the water and drift like a corpse. She'd always splash up, take a deep breath and say, I'm alive, I'm alive. I waited for her to do that. I stayed in the water for 10 minutes. She didn't move. She just floated. I'd once found a dead bird in the yard, and cried for days about it. But I didn't do that now. I just swam to the dock, walked through the backyard, and entered the back door of the house. Grandma was in the kitchen. She had the oven open, and she looked inside at a batch of cookie dough balls, all laid two inches apart from each other. When she saw me, she closed the door and gave me a grin. It was like Sandy had never pushed her or screamed or shouted at her. I wondered why she hadn't gone to bed. She was never up this late. I made you some cookies, Kenny. My super special secret ingredient, chocolate chip cookies, your favorite. I sat at the kitchen table. Two glasses of lemonade sat on the table, one with a crazy straw for me. I sit from mine, and the sweet and sour taste made me think of hot summer days long ago. One thing bothered me about Sandy, and not that she was dead. I wasn't sad or angry or anything. I felt nothing at all. But what bothered me was this. I was a ghost. Sandy was dead. How come she didn't walk through the back door and join us? Grandma pulled the bacon sheet out of the oven and set it on the stove. Steam rose off the cookies, and the room filled with the smell of butter and chocolate. Grandma, one hand on the counter, pulled cookies off the sheet and onto a yellow plate with flowers painted on it. She hobbled over to me, set the plate on the table, and handed me a cookie. The chocolate didn't melt on my fingers, and the cookie fell onto the floor. Grandma? Go ahead, eat all of them. I'm too old to eat cookies all the time. Mommy used to say when someone dies, they become a part of you. She's a wise woman. Am I part of you, Grandma? Her face saddened then, like it had whenever she used to look at my funeral notice. She picked up the glass of lemonade, and with an unsteady hand raised it to her lips. A lump had formed on the back of her head from where Sandy had pushed her. She swallowed and set her glass back down on the lacy tablecloth. You remember everything, don't you, Grandma? She smiled and pointed to the cookie on the floor. If you don't eat that soon, it won't be as warm and gooey as you like it to be. I tried to push the lemonade away, but my hand went right through it, just like it always had. Throughout all my time at Grandma's house, I hadn't touched anything. I had never moved anything. I had only ever lurked around the rooms and pretended to be alive. But Grandma had been the only person playing pretend. She stared at the empty chair. Like a robot, she picked up the cookie from the floor, the plate, and the cup of lemonade. She poured the lemonade into the sink and threw all the cookies in the trash. Then she hobbled out the back door, straight through the backyard gate and down to the dock. She stared at the body that floated in the moonlight. He couldn't have known he would hurt you this much. No one could hear her. 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. Bye Bonnie Quinn. Chapter 8 Funny how all the family secrets come out after someone dies. I guess that means they're not very good secrets, considering that someone has to know them in order to reveal them when it no longer matters. When the grief masks bitterness and it's too late for anger, I can't blame someone for waiting until after a funeral to spill the tea. They get to clear their conscience and the consequences are minor. We have a lot of those sorts of secrets around here. I mean, this is a small town. We all sort of pretend that our personal affairs are still private, just as we pretend that we all get along with each other when we cross paths in the grocery store. Plythe Smile and a whole load of bullshit keeps the piece around here. But very rarely, a secret really is just that. Something that no one knows. They're the most dangerous kind. Because monsters have a tendency to know things they shouldn't. And when you're in deep with the inhumans like my family is, that knowledge can be dangerous. It can be used against you. My name is Kate, and this is Goat Valley Campgrounds. I don't like people showing up at my house on announced under normal circumstances. I like it even less when we're coming up on a bad year and I've got enough work to do already. So when someone knocked early in the morning, I was ready to greet them with barely concealed vitriol. Russell, what luck. You're the only person I can tolerate seeing on my front porch today. It's a pleasure to see you two, Kate. I heard you're the unofficial sheriff until they can hold an election. Might be the unofficial sheriff for a while. Not sure who would be willing to run for that position. Your wife okay with that? No, she fears nothing. Save the sky would fall on her heads. I shouldn't know about that. Wanna come in? I can make coffee. No, I'm only here to drop something off. A flyer? Was this on the community bulletin board? Nope, they were mailed out. I didn't get one. This is a rally at the town meeting hall. Those assholes are going around behind my back again. Don't get angry just yet. There's a silver lining here. Seems to me that the town is not united against you. Why hold a rally unless they're still trying to bolster their side? Yes, I need to show up and discourage the people still sitting on the fence then. Kate, you're as diplomatic as your mother was. Which means not at all. Stay home. I'll take care of this one. I have a legacy. They respect me. I'll go and scowl at them and maybe say a few things disapprovingly about what they're doing. Be nice if they remembered the things I've done for the town. Don't be resentful. Just stay home. Okay? Fine, fine. I know people aren't rational. When they know they're wrong, they just find other people willing to believe the same stupid ideas as them so it feels right. Oh, get rid of Kate and everything will be better. It still hurts. If you really need something to keep busy with, how about this? Go look through the courthouse records to see if there's any mention of your buyer. I want to find out where he comes from. You think he's from here? I'd like to rule it out. They're not going to let me down there. I wasn't suggesting that you ask. Oh, yeah. I can do that. Great. I'm just going to leave this key here then. If you get caught, tell them you found it unlocked. None of us play by the rules around here. That's a little bit of breaking and entering on top of all the other awful things we do. Our downtown consists of a single stoplight and a handful of buildings. The courthouse and town hall are connected. Right next door is the library. Across the street is the general store, the grocery, and a hardware store. Around the corner is the doctor's office, and that's it. That's downtown. The courthouse is easy enough to get into. The lobby is open most of the time since it also doubles as our town hall, and that's where announcements get posted. I parked in the library parking lot, and then instead of going into the library, I veered and let myself in through the courthouses back entrance. From there, it was an immediate left down the stairs to the basement. The stairs creaked on every step, and the buildings seemed to sigh with the aging wood, like the entire structure was vibrating with my presence. I knew this was a quirk of the old building, but after the experience with the vanishing house, I was unnerved by the sound. I opened the door at the bottom slowly, but the hinges were at least quieter than the stairs. The interior of the basement was dark, but I didn't dare turn on the lights. I wanted to get in, get the file, and get out totally unseen. So I descended into the darkness, and it swallowed me up. It's not the same. This isn't the vanishing house. It's so dark down here. I went up and down the rows of cabinets searching for birth records, aged copies of certificates crinkled under my fingers as I flipped through the years. Come on, he's got to be around the sage. Wait. Wait. Is this him? I only saw the first name. As I pulled it out to get a better look, I heard the creek of footsteps on the stairs and someone flipped on the lights. Fortunately, my years of dealing with dangerous monsters has given me some capacity to think quickly in urgent situations, and I hastily folded the certificate a couple of times and stuffed it inside my bra. When I grabbed some documents out of the filing cabinet across from the certificates, folded them and stuffed them in my back pocket. Then I shut the file cabinet and turned around just as three men I vaguely recognized came around the corner. Oh, hey! I was wondering where the light switch was. Thanks. My phone was eating through its battery being used as a flashlight. They stood in the aisle, blocking my path to the stairs. Just your standards, small town, good old boys. One of them was even wearing overalls. There was an unfriendly menacing air to them. And I didn't believe they were here for reasons any more legitimate than my own. I gave them a thin smile and two of them didn't budge. The third, the one in the lead, smirked at me. I detested the sight of that smug smile. Shouldn't you be hiding at home? People don't like you that much around here anymore. I have needed some fresh air. Don't you have a rally to plan? Better run along before your master finds out you're neglecting your job. Don't need a rally if we can force you to sign over the campground right here. He didn't even deny it. I stared at their leader a little harder. There was something odd about him. The corner of my eye burned, just as it had when the lady with extra eyes first planted the splinter into it. There was something odd about the ground around him I realized. His shadow. It had a shadow of its own, settling just to the right in a few inches away. The man with no shadow was like a voice whispering in your ear, Sheriff Sibota had said, telling you what to do. They edged closer. I held my ground. Running wouldn't do any good. They were between me and the exit. They could easily split up and corner me. Now, I would have to bluff or fight my way out of this one. You know if you kill me, the campground goes to my brother, right? We got the paperwork to fix that. One of the men held up a pile of documents and a pin. I eyed them and then carefully spat on the ground of his feet. And the second man hit me, right on the side of my mouth. I just remember the impact of when I hit the floor, so sudden that I didn't even register the pain until I was on the ground watching blood splatter on the cement from a split lip. I was dazed and I didn't comprehend that they'd surrounded me, not until one of them and hoisted me back to my feet. I thought you had better reflexes than that, Kate. I was trying to line up my own shot. I wanted the land that's spit on your shoe. We all have our off days. Their leader took the files out of my back pocket and studied them a moment before tucking them away on his person with a thin smile. My heart pounded in my chest with what little elation I could afford, given the circumstances. They'd taken the decoy at least, not that it would save me. With my arms pinned like that, I couldn't exactly fight back when the other man hit me again and again. Is there really count if I signed that under duress? I sped out again, but this time to clear a thick clot of blood for my mouth. He does. Maybe not on the courts, but the intention matters for him and he doesn't care if the intention is that you wish for the pain to stop. She considered for a moment the man holding the paper remained emotionally still. Did he have a dual shadow of his own? I couldn't tell. I hoped he did because I didn't want to believe people I've known my whole life were capable of this on their own. But then again, I'm capable of some pretty horrible things. Maybe they are. I think I'll start breaking your bones. We'll see how many I can get through before you sign. I'll leave your right hand alone. Of course, you need to be able to hold the pen. I knew this person. I've known him his whole life. Everything about him was different now. The way he held himself, the inflection of his voice, the words he chose. The man with no shadow seeped from every pore of his body, from that smug half smile to the malice glittering in his eyes. I wasn't talking to anyone I knew right now. I was talking to a monster. I shifted slightly as he stepped closer, slid my feet further apart, widening my stance. And then I twisted, hooking the man that held me by his ankle and I threw. People don't realize how strong I really am. They forget I do a lot more than just management. They forget that I do manual labor as well, that I don't sit at home all day letting my staff do all the hard work. I dig holes, I carry things, I clear brush and trees, I build, I kill monsters. And the man behind me was surprised by my sudden show of defiance and he tumbled forwards and into the second shadow on the ground. He went head first into the ground and simply kept going. His head and shoulders vanished into the shadow, which had taken on the color and consistency of spilled ink. His body doubled over, his waist bending and catching on the floor. And there he remained stuck, thrashing and kicking in desperation. The man with no shadows, puppets face, registered first with shock. And then with outrage and then hunger. He shuttered, throwing his head back and his throat bulged as a ripple ran through his entire body. His second shadow moved of its own volition, stretching its arms out wide. Then in a quick burst of motion it threw them together, collapsing in around the trapped man, still struggling to free himself. His legs flailed helplessly in the air as the shadow greedily shoved him further inside the inked abdomen. The man with no shadows vessels stood transfixed, head thrown back, twitching spasmodically. I heard muffled screams. And the third man in the basement dropped the paper in the pin, his eyes clearing, and he stumbled away from his companions in horror. What am I doing? You were beating me up. Let's get out of here while you're still yourself. I grabbed his arm as I ran past the two and dragged him along with me toward the stairs. He didn't need much encouragement. He was right behind me when I risked only one backwards glance to ensure he was following. Past him I could see the man with no shadows vessels still paralyzed and shaking. His victim almost entirely engulfed in the floor now. Only his ankles protruded and his struggles were growing slower. I looked ahead at the stairway and kept going. I could at least save one of them. Perhaps that would satisfy Perkta. Can you tell me what the man with no shadow was planning? We need to get away from them. Okay, that's my car. Right over there. Get in. How did you know I was in the basement? Uh, there's people watching the roads. I think you need to get out of town. Shit. We'll go to Sheriff Russell. He might be able to put a stop to this madness. He's getting impatient. Everything he tells us to do, it sounds urgent. Why? He's been planning this for generations possibly. Why the rush now? There's other factors, I think. It feels like you're not the only thing he's concerned about now. I was distracted by what he was saying. I knew this man was the man with no shadows thrall, but I thought I had more time. And worse, I'm not used to the town being so violently set against me. I'm used to arguing with them to debating them in town hall meetings. These are the people I recruit from when we need to take something big out or chase something into the campground and out of the surrounding area. Despite all our differences, we all at least share a common goal to keep the town safe. And that creates a degree of civility. I'm not used to them trying to kill me. I saw it as his hand reached over to grab the steering wheel. Two shadows drifting across the dash. I saw them, understood what it meant. But it was like time was moving differently and my body couldn't keep up with my brain. I was out of time. The man with no shadows control had returned. He grabbed the wheel. I slammed on the brakes by instinct. I'm tired of this. Killing you could work too. Your brother may be more tractable. And he jerked the wheel to the side. I fought it, but he had his whole body weight to put in it, and the car spun sideways. I went off the road and I remember what I felt, but nothing else. For it was like my vision shut off as my brain blocked out all else. And then it was like I was floating. And nothing else. Like the lights have been turned off. They switched back on when the paramedics were pulling the door to the car open. I didn't understand how they'd gotten here so fast. Not until much later when I was sitting in a bed at the ER and the concussion symptoms showed up. Then I understood that there was a gap in my memories because I'd been knocked unconscious. The car had rolled and there'd been stuff in my backseat, so some debris probably struck me in the head. They scanned my brain and didn't find any bleeding. You've got a concussion and some superficial damage from the crash. Oh, the bruises and busted lip? Oh yeah, sure. Not from the crash. You'll need brain rest. No electronics, no lights, nothing's trying to us. I don't have time to lay around doing nothing. Brain rest. What happened to my passenger? He didn't make it. He wasn't wearing his seat belt and was ejected from the vehicle. Such a polite way of saying it. Ejected. Like I haven't seen worse. We're going to discharge you. Do you have someone that can drive you home? Yeah, I'll call someone. I've called in a scripture local pharmacy for pain medication. Take it as soon as you can. You got lucky. That accident could have killed you. I have to admit, we'd always figured it'd be one of those things in your campground that do you end. The hospital is not part of our town, but they see enough of the victims of our land that they know who I am. They're within the radius that benefits from my family's protection. I did not appreciate his dry humor about the situation. Yeah, me too, honestly. I had sheriff Russell pick me up. We stopped by the pharmacy to fill my meds on the way home. I took the first dose straight away. I'm not sure you being at the rally is going to do anything. The man with no shadow must have most of the town under his control. How the hell did that happen? I'm not always, I bet. I employ them for big projects. Kids work for me in the summer and their parents drop them off and pick them up. There's opportunities. And it just takes one person or the man with no shadow's sway to talk to someone else and to come into the campground for some reason or another. And then he's there waiting for them. People have gotten complacent. They're too used to me protecting them. I guess I got complacent too. I need to figure out what to do about this. Not until your off-brain rest. Concussions are serious. I didn't answer. I was staring at the man with a skull cap who stood on the walkway leading up to my porch. Shit. Stay in the car. Please. And do not interfere. No matter what, I'll see what he wants. OK. I'll trust your judgment, Kate. He watched with bright eyes as I approached. The sunlight hurt my eyes and I squinted until he was reduced to a dark blur in his hoodie. His piercings bright pinpoints of light. The rings on his fingers shone a little more dullly as his long fingers gently caressed the lip of his cup. I'm concussed and on pain meds. Please make this quick. Why are you here? You refilled the cup. I've contributed to its refilling a couple times now, but I somehow knew that wasn't what he was referring to. I'd filled it when it was empty with the blood of Sheriff Sabota. I didn't understand why he'd bring that up now, though. Yeah, so what's that I have to do with anything? For a brief moment, he looked exasperated and then his expression went cool and unreadable. I knew you were injured. I came to see how bad it is. He reached out and grabbed my chin, turning my head to the side to inspect the bruises darkening one side of my face. It hurt with his thumb pressing into the bruises. Poor thing. Here. Drink. Maybe it was the drugs or maybe it was the concussion, but I broke one of my rules. I refused. I resisted. His grip on my chin tightened and when I opened my mouth with a cry of pain, he forced the cup up to my lips and poured the contents down my throat. I choked on it, swallowed on reflex, and only then did he release me. I coughed up everything I didn't swallow. What the hell? I can't take my pain meds now. Yes, the medication. His eyes narrowed. He looked at me with naked calculation for a moment, then he grabbed my throat. I cried out instinctively as fresh pain blossomed as his fingers tightened in my bruised flesh. Then he kissed me. Due to the nature of my upbringing, I'm not really in to other people. I made a half-hearted attempt at boyfriends in college, briefly dated a girl and once made out with a stranger in a nightclub in a vain attempt to understand what I was missing out on. His lips on mine were awkward. I was repulsed by his tongue and his gum falling out of his mouth and sticking to my blouse finalized my option that the answer to my question was, not much. This experience was more terrifying than awkward and instead of mint, I tasted the metal of his tongue piercing. Then he released me and I collapsed at his feet as my stomach convulsed and I vomited repeatedly onto the grass at my front yard. I suppose swapping spit counts as ingesting something. After my stomach was empty, I sat there, crying until the old sheriff came over. Finally disregarding my order to stay in the car. You've done here? I believe so. Then fuck off. Russell stuck around long enough for me to get settled on the sofa. I fell asleep before he left, but he was gone when I woke up. Ryan was on the front porch with his dog standing guard. I guess he decided this warranted bringing them back to the campground in a limited capacity. There was a note from the old sheriff that he'd come back after dinner to take the night shift. Until then, rest. At least the light sensitivity had diminished. I could even look at my phone without a screaming headache. I assumed it was a side effect of the cup. It wasn't until much later that I noticed Russell had stolen the bottle of pain medicine I'd gotten from the pharmacy. And a while after that, he called me. The pills came up positive on toxicology screening. You should be fine, though. One dose isn't dangerous on its own, and you probably threw it up before it had fully dissolved in your stomach. Police are on their way to arrest the person that filled your script. I hate this town. In all the chaos, I'd at least managed to keep hold of the burst certificate I stole from the basement. I read that instead of resting. The old sheriff's gamble paid off. Her buyer was born in this town, and his father is my late uncle. I guess there was an affair going on. I'm not sure if my aunt knows, but you know what? I'm not going to tell her. If it's a secret, I'll let my uncles take it with him to the grave. But now I know why the man with no shadow was interested in this woman and her son. His family. The buyer is my cousin. The man with no shadow isn't trying to destroy my campground. He's trying to take it away from me, specifically me, and put it in the hands of someone that is naive and ill-prepared to deal with what he would inherit. I'll be damned if I let that happen. I'm the campground manager, and it's time to remind the town that maybe they've made a deal with the devil, but the devil is the only thing capable of saving them from the monsters. Goat Valley Campgrounds Season 2 was written and adapted for audio by Bonnie Quinn. The album is produced for the No Sleep Podcast by Phil McCullsky. Musical score composed by Brandon Boone. Starring Lindsay Russo as Kate, Jesse Cornett as Russell, Jeff Clement as a townie, Dan Zapula as a townie, Graham Rowett as the man with no shadow, Alonte Berkett as the the doctor and Mick Wingert as the man with the skull cup. Join us next week for chapter 9 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 Micolsky, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornett and Claudius Moore. Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McAnelly, Oli A. White and Kristen Samito. 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 respect of authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. Hiya, I'm Eleanor, just your average walk-in-talking dancing thing and puppet. A puppet that loves an Eleanor train journey, repeats the C.A.R.R. every time. I'm free to do all the things I love, get lost in a true crime series, type away like an office ninja, order yummy food and drinks to my seat, or just have a cheeky power nap. And now, with more services and faster journey times, there's more freedom all the way with Eleanor. Selected route only, visit LNER.co.uk slash timetable for details.