S24 Ep2: NoSleep Podcast S24E02

Water. It gives us life. We are drawn to it. Yet it holds immense power over us. It can bring unspeakable horror to the most familiar places. Your morning shower, a tranquil riverbank, or the endless ocean. It's time to dive deep into the abyss. from the dark waters of the Cape Fear River immerse yourself in horror as you brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. I want to thank all the fans who shared their excitement about the upcoming Crime Wave at Sea 2.0 cruise. I'm glad so many of you are starting to make plans for it. Just a reminder that the tickets officially go on sale this coming Friday the 13th of February. Check the links in the show notes for more details about the cruise and how to get your code for a $100 discount and special bonus gifts. Now, in the world of horror, there has always been a dark spot for the occult. If we think of horror movies, we have classics like The Evil Dead and Rosemary's Baby. More modern occult classics are films like The Witch and Hereditary. And I'd like to shout out friends of the show, The Addams Family. That's the filmmaking family of John Addams, Toby Poser, and their daughters. They recently released an excellent occult film called Mother of Flies. Make sure you check it out if you have the Shudder streaming platform or find it where you can. Highly recommended. The world of the occult is such a ripe source of horror. Strangers performing strange rituals and rites which draw upon dark sources and evil energies. I dare say it's a good idea to steer clear of those practitioners. Not all occultists sell sanctuary. On the show this week, we have tales about strangers and strange things which seem to possess strange powers. And when unexpected encounters take place with them, I think it's safe to say the outcomes will be rather unsettling. Now it's time to plunge into the horror of our sleepless tales. In our first tale, we meet a man and a sick little girl. Her illness is in desperate need of a cure. So when the man seeks out an old woman who might be able to help, there is nothing but desperation left. But in this tale, shared with us by author Sam Riding, we learn that healing comes in many forms, sometimes in the most unexpected ways. Performing this tale are Regan Tacker, Mary Murphy, and Aaron Lillis. So when there's nothing but pain left, you might have to visit the House of Flies. Where's Mama? She was four years old now. Not out of the baby talk phase. I gave her little hand a gentle squeeze. Mommy's at home, sweetie. I feel hurty again. I know. You're sick, sweetie, but it won't hurt much longer. I promise. Okay, but how much longer? Only 15 minutes more, not long. We continued along a dusty dirt road. I felt awful making her walk so far. The cancer was eating up her insides by now. It was amazing she could even walk at all. Then I saw it. A small cottage set among the trees. We're here. I'm scared. Me too. I walked her up the cracked paving slabs of the garden path. It was then I saw the flies, hundreds of them, their faint buzzing building to a crescendo hum as they crawled all over the structure. Shouldn't we knock? She looked up at me so innocently as we reached the front door. No, we don't have to. Not here. Inside, sitting in front of a roaring hearth, was an old woman. A roaring fire, yet I saw no smoke billowing from the chimney on her approach. I know why you're here. She took out a small, leather-bound wallet. It contained surgical equipment. I don't like her. I winced as I heard the small voice next to me. I shot her a look, silently chastising her rudeness. She groaned before speaking again. Where's Mama? I told you, sweetie. Mommy's at home. I know. But where's Daddy? I shuddered. No more questions now. It's time. We took a few steps towards the old woman. Such incense. Needlessly afflicted. I couldn't see her face, but I could hear the smile in her voice. She doesn't have long left. Please help me. Then give her here. The girl looked up at her with pleading eyes, but still I pushed her towards the old woman. She took the little girl by the hand, whispered a few words over her, then reached into the wallet of surgical tools. Then with one swift motion, she brought the blade of a scalpel across the girl's throat. I couldn't watch, not as she held the girl as the blood drained from her tiny body, not as she cut off the parts she needed and ground them into mush in an old pestle and mortar. When she was done, she clicked her fingers. Drink. I took the stone bowl in my hands, brought it to my lips, and did as I was told. I don't feel anything anymore. Not the pain of childhood abuse, nor the longing for the family I lost to the gun-obsessed loner who decided to go out with a bang. Not even the guilt of abducting a little girl from a family that loved her, even if she was doomed to die young. I don't feel a fucking thing anymore and I love it Let's take a short break for our sponsors who help us keep our heads above water for waves of ad-free horror content. Join our sleepless universe by going to sleepless.thenosleeppodcast.com. If you're like me, the past few weeks have dumped a lot of snow and winter weather on your head. And at this time of year, when it's cold and dark by dinnertime, all I want is something warm, comforting, and easy. Home Chef has been my go-to for cozy home-cooked meals without the hassle. From easy oven-ready meals to hearty, satisfying recipes that make winter dinners feel effortless. Home Chef is rated number one by users of other meal kits for quality, convenience, value, taste, and recipe ease. Home Chef makes cooking simple, fresh food delivered, easy recipes to follow, and meals that actually taste great. Whatever kind of day it is, classic recipes with fresh ingredients, 30-minute meals, oven-ready trays, or quick microwave lunches, Home Chef has you covered. There's even a dedicated family menu for hassle-free four or six serving dinners. Their ready-made garlic sesame beef noodles with carrots and cabbage is a personal favorite of mine. Plus, it's affordable. Home Chef customers save an average of $86 per month on groceries. For a limited time, Home Chef is offering no sleep listeners 50% off and free shipping for your first box. Plus free dessert for life. Go to HomeChef.com slash no sleep. That's HomeChef.com slash no sleep for 50% off your first box and free dessert for life. HomeChef.com slash no sleep. Must be an active subscriber to receive free dessert. This season we may be bringing you the horror of water, but there's nothing scarier than not drinking enough of it. Everyone talks about their new routines at the start of the year. Well, mine is actually sticking. 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Medical science has a history in which some rather unsavory things were done in the name of progress. The forbidden acts of performing experiments on corpses brought much-needed insight for physicians. And in this tale, shared with us by author Liam Hogan, we meet a doctor who has brought a delivery intended for her brother. but the mix-up still yielded some positive results. Performing this tale are Erica Sanderson and Guy Woodward. So some things are interchangeable, some aren't. You might think of it like a game of musical souls. It's well after curfew when I hear the rap, rap, rapping at my door. Any other doctor would ignore it, even as the knocking gets louder and louder. They douse their lanterns and retreat to the seclusion of their accurtained bedchambers. Swearing blind, they heard nothing at all. And besides, what would a respectable citizen be doing out at such an hour, or on such a night? I am not any other doctor. Even so, I open the heavy wooden door the merest of cracks, tentatively peer into the gloom and drizzle beyond. A tall man, darkly clad, squints back at me, his face mostly hidden beneath his brimmed hat and his woolen scarf mask, a handcart to his rear. Dr Knox. Yes, I am she. He looks doubtful, perhaps having mistaken me for a housekeeper or a dutiful wife. The anatomist? Ah, no. I am most definitely not he. That's my younger brother, Robert, over on the other side of town. Newington Place? His shoulders slump and I catch the mutter of a truncated curse. For fuck's sake! I don't envy him. Traversing Edinburgh on a foul night, dragging his burden up those endless rain-slicked granite stairs. Happens all the time. Sometimes he gets my stuff and sometimes I get his. Good thing we're on good terms. On which note? What do you have? I raise my lantern higher, trying to look behind or through him and into the covered cart, his hooded eyes narrow, darting from wall to wall of the alleyway before returning front and centre, but no less wary. That's for your brother and not you. He won't be interested. Hardly fresh, is it? He or she? I wrinkle my nose. The graveyard stench is not kept at bay by the sleeting rain, nor by the mournful wind howling through the gap in the door, fluttering the candles by which I had been up late reading. I contemplate for a moment, feeling the burden of possibility. But I might be. I watch and wait as he does his own crude calculations, weighs up the temptations of an unexpected deal, with no need to cart the cadaver any further against the constant fear of discovery by the redcoats of the town guard, especially with the lengthy journey still ahead of him, against abandoning his hard-earned prize on my doorstep and legging it, which would be handing his night's work to me for free, he realises. He skewers me with a hostile glare, as if I had already robbed him blind. I thought you weren't an anatomist. I'm not. My interests lie in the ethereal rather than the corporeal. He regards me with a blank stare. The spirit world? Ghosts and ghouls? I find grave robbers on the whole to be men with little imagination, but I suspect this is by self-selecting necessity. No man prone to deep contemplation would dig up another's body purely for profit. Certainly no man of God. But religious or not superstition still lurks within their blunt heavy skulls ready and waiting to trip them up This one shudders at my reminder that the grave is perhaps not always the final resting place Especially with men like this to dig you up. His gaze slides from mine. Whatever you want him for, it'll be ten pounds. I shake my head in sorrow. Burke and hair prices? For a still warm body delivered to the correct address, perhaps But this is neither And ten pounds is more than I can afford Well, good luck avoiding the patrols Eight pounds I make to close the door A more intelligent man might wonder why I close it so slowly No, no, it was foolish of me to even consider it Best stick to your original... Five Really, I've gone quite off the idea. Three pounds and no lower. I pause, with the thinnest sliver of night between us, before I ease the door open a smidgen wider. I suppose I'd be doing you a favour. You would, ma'am. Um, Madame Doctor. You would indeed. And what would be the name of the man for whom I was doing such a boon? He blinks, his fawning quick frozen. Realises, and it has a bitter taste, that he needs to reveal more of himself than he would like to to seal the deal. Enough information to hang a man. He doesn't have the wit to give me a made-up name. He mutters towards the cobblestones, raindrops falling from the brim of his hat. Jack Beresford. I wouldn't have been at all surprised if he'd added his address. Hmm Well, Mr Beresford I hate to see a man out on such a drake night Come in, come in And bring your cargo with you The wheels of the cart creak As it leaves twin lines of wet mud Across the flagstones Thankfully my workshop is inured to such abuse The man stands nervously by As I turn my back on him Busy with drinks Pouring gin into a mug And a far smaller glass of port for me just to be sociable. Aren't you going to inspect the body? Beresford remains eager, I am sure, to be gone. Is it intact? Um, yes. Then it'll do, for my purposes. I hand him the mug and he takes a hefty gulp, tears filling his eyes until he blinks them away. Easy now. Why not warm yourself by the fire as I prepare the specimen and then perhaps you can assist. He looks startled, wary and green. Odd how squeamish this resurrectionist is. Don't worry, there are no knives involved and no blood, even if it was still flowing. I hand him his three pounds and he stuffs them beneath his shirt. He would, I think, have fled then and there if I hadn't poured such a generous measure into his mug. No doubt his ill-gotten gains will be squandered on similarly cheap spirits A vain attempt to blot out the memory of what he has done to earn them For the moment, the warmth, internal and external from both fire and liquor Must make the thought of venturing back out into the cold somewhat less attractive Plus my new friend is evidently an opportunist A secondary market for older, less well-guarded corpses He is, at the very least, intrigued. He sees future profit. After peeling back and discarding the horsehair blanket, itself as guilty as that which it conceals for the miasma of foul odours, I carefully tease apart the sodden, muddy burial shroud, the theft of which is more incriminating than that of the body contained within. Ample evidence that Mr Beresford is new to these night-time misdeeds. Ahead, pale and greenish tinged emerged from the cocoon. A man in his late forties, with an emphasis on late. Five days? I hazard a professional opinion, almost laughing at the thought of what my brother would say confronted with such a specimen. He is not known to tolerate fools. Four. No, definitely five. He makes no further attempt to argue the point, having been paid already I give him a broad smile Well, you work with what you're given Help me lower the body to the ground The ground? You want your cart back, do you not? He grumbles But between us we lay the cadaver on stones that are as cold as the dead flesh Some insect, some many-legged creature of the night Takes the opportunity to scuttle into the darkened corners of the room and good riddance. So what are you a doctor of? Beresford returns to the chair by the fire and to his second mug of gin. More relaxed now that he has the measure of the place. His coat rests by the fire, gently steaming and his gaze wanders to the books on the shelves and to the workbenches cluttered with scientific apparatus, glass retorts and voltaic piles. Just as I was beginning to warm to the fellow, he wants to check my credentials. I spent three years in Stuttgart wearing breeches and being teased for my boyish looks all before you were born. So please don't tell me I didn't earn my doctoral papers, Mr Beresford. Unfortunately, the Scottish Medical Board are not keen on breaking with tradition even as medicine makes leaps and bounds into new territories. The fools wouldn't let me practice not even under the cover of my brother's name For all that, I would have made a better surgeon than the lot of them. I was forced to turn my attention to other areas of study. Ones less jealously guarded by male, white-haired gatekeepers. The occult? Some might call it that. But there are no pentagrams here. No arcane rituals, no deals with the Dells scribed in blood. I look up from my work. Ignore the fact that the web of cables that now surrounds the corpse does, as it happens, resemble a summoning circle. I am a scientist, Mr Beresford. My interest is in the animus, the life force, what you might call the soul. He picks up a skull, dislodges the pages on which I had been making my notes, peers into its sightless eye sockets. People are always drawn to skulls, To the thought that everything a person once was could be imprisoned within the now empty bone cage. How do you hear? There are three ways to reanimate, or resurrect, if you like, a corpse. I lecture as I continue my preparations. None of them involve harnessing lightning or reassembling a body from a patchwork of disparate parts. I realise I am enjoying myself. He may not be, he certainly isn't, the most educated or appreciative of audiences But any audience at all is such a rare delight Sometimes I envy my show-off brother, with his eager students attending his every word And paying for the privilege I force myself to speak plainly, for Beresford's sake The first, and certainly the easiest, is to encourage the body's soul to return to it I lift the limp hand of the deceased lying on my workshop floor. The rigor mortis of early death is a distant memory. But that particular boat has long since sailed. The soul has either vacated this earthly sphere entirely, or merely evaporated into the ether. It is unclear, and still an area of active research. The second, I say watching him carefully, is to give something of myself to the body, to, in effect, hive off a portion of my soul and by such means gain control of a puppet corpse. He looks interested at that. No doubt he is imagining a workforce of bodies, an army, all under his control. As indeed am I. I shake my head. But that can be tricky and fraught with danger. By enriching this hollow vessel, I make myself lesser. And should the puppet be destroyed by overzealous God-fearing citizens of this town, say, armed with pitchfork and torch, then that part of my soul will be lost forever. Crestfallen, he gulps his gin. From the angle he tilts the mug, it must be nearly empty again. The light of dull thought blooms across his craggy countenance, now ruddy red. And the thought? Ah, well now, isn't that obvious? I make the final connections, sit back on my haunches and slowly stand, my knees stiffer than they once were. The third method is to encourage another soul to take possession of the vacant corpse. He looks confused, wondering no doubt how this is any different from the second method. All of it. The entirety of a soul transferred to another's body. He stares at the five-day-old dead thing on the floor, repulsed. Why would anyone want to do that? Well, they might not want to, but needs must if their own body becomes inhospitable. Inhospitable? Unresponsive. No longer in their control. If something makes the body incapable of hosting the soul, it's anything but the direst of prisons. Like what? Like poison. I wave at the body sitting slumped in the chair by the fire. As if on cue, the empty pewter mug slips from his lifeless fingers, clattering against the hearth. The shade hovering by my side leaps towards it, but his body won't let him back in, no matter what angle he approaches from, no matter how hard he throws himself at it, and each time he fails he is drawn back towards me, as if he is rolling back downhill. I watch as his soul exhausts itself, and the ethereal form begins to thin. My cage of wires is not perfect, it leaks a little, especially around the edges, and that is all to the good. Mr Beresford will be more subservient if he is somewhat weakened. A most interesting poison, I say with a curt nod as he seethes, trying to gather his strength for another attempt. It leaves the body intact and is even painless, the transition from life to death happening, as it did for you, without an unseemly struggle. It severs the nerves, the connection between mind and body, so that you don't feel a thing. But once cut, all senses, all control is lost, and even a five-day corpse makes a better home for the soul. He snarls and plunges, not for the body on the floor, but for me. I laugh as my own soul, far stronger than my physical form suggests, fends him off easily enough, watches as he regathers his tattered form, considers a second attempt that will leave him even more diminished. Watch him realise that this too will fail. It helps that I've been ready for this all along. Helps that he was too absorbed with returning to his own body to try anything sooner. This body is occupied, and it would take a far more powerful soul than yours to force me out, to take possession against my will. Brute strength is no advantage to you anymore, Mr. Beresford. This is a game of musical souls, and there is only one chair left. Best take it quickly. The music has already stopped. He wails, tries his own body one final time, but then, as I knew he would, as he must, with the carefully laid network of wires pulling and guiding him, he slinks to the body on the floor and moulds himself to its crumpled form. He gasps, lips cracked, lungs in agony to fill. It's so cold. Yes, well, it'll warm up a little, but don't get too close to the fire. Your new body isn't very good at repairing itself. Best look after it, hmm? He levels his eyes. The dead man's sunken, cloudy eyes at me. Be polite, Mr. Beresford. Like it or not, you now rely on me. Only I can transfer you to another body, a fresher body, and I will only do that if you serve me well. I shrug, dismissive. Of course, if you truly want to complete your life's journey, I will not stand in your way, though I think we both know where your final destination is, don't we? He shudders, the movement jerky and unnatural, The newly donned corpse is a different length and weight. Plus there's the effects of it having lain in a grave for five days. A poor fit, all in all. Hardly surprising if he's a little stiff. But he'll get used to it. Eventually. Which only leaves what to do with Beresford's former body. Its strings cut, useless to me. Beresford's decidedly fresh body. I snap out orders, retrieving my three pounds as the corpses exchange clothes. Deliver this cadaver to my brother at the dissecting rooms in Surgeon Square. But you'd best be quick, I say, glancing towards the clock. The night is well advanced. He glowers at me, a look of impotent hatred. I'll have to watch him. Though I have the means of his destruction at my fingertips, Sometimes even that isn't enough to control the resurrected. Sometimes vengeance trumps self-preservation. I toy with the lantern, half-tempted at even this late stage to change my mind, but I don't really want a fire in my workshop. No, I'll make hard use of him for a while, and not be sorry when the borrowed body fails as it surely must, the rot having already set in. And then, who will miss a grave robber? Oh, and Beresford? Yes. His voice is thick and slurred and stinking of decay, but hiding nothing of his loathing. Yes, Doctor. I give him the sweetest of smiles as I open the door for him in his loaded cart sending him out into the cruel night Don forget to tell that brother of mine he owes me another tenner Let's take a short break for our sponsors who help us keep our heads above water. For waves of ad-free horror content, join our sleepless universe by going to sleepless.thenosleeppodcast.com. During the month of love, we love that this episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. And yes, sometimes it can feel like everyone else has it all together in their love lives, whether married, dating, or single. The truth is, most of us are still figuring it out and finding our way. And no matter where you are in your romantic journey, therapy can help you find your way, help you determine what you want, what feels heavy, and how you can take some pressure off yourself. Don't let the manufactured pressure of Valentine's Day mess with your head. No matter where you are, romantically involved or just focusing on you, you're right on time. Therapy can help you find your way and see more clearly where you want to be. Therapy, like the kind from the licensed professionals at BetterHelp, can help you figure yourself out a bit more. It can help take the pressure off yourself. And if your relationship is feeling weighed down, therapy can help identify ways to make them work better for both of you. 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So understand this, the forest is a wild place, and the creatures out there very well could be ferals. I was on my way home from work when Sadie texted me. I pulled off the road and called her, glancing in the rear view at the dark, hulking mountains of the North Woods behind me. Hey! What's up? Well, I need some help with something. a big favor, but it feels weird to ask. I smiled at her polite hesitation. Why? I don't mind. I don't know. My dad needs help, and it kind of feels a little too soon to ask you. I could hear the reluctance in her voice. Hold on, let me check. Check what? Yeah, it says right here in the Relationships for Dummies handbook, we are squarely in the asks favor stage. As long as you bake me another one of those pot pies. Deal. Thanks. You met him before, right? I knew that I'd met Sadie's dad when we were dating in high school, but I didn't really remember much about him, other than that he was a big, heavy man. Wayne, yeah, the first time he brought me over, he liked me so much he gave me a tour of his gun safe. Totally didn't scare me. What's he need help with? Well, he's still running a few trap lines out in the north woods, but his health sucks. He got diagnosed with diabetes a few years ago. Anyway, yesterday he was out pulling all his traps early. I guess it's a bad season. He got most of them, but then his feet started really hurting, so he cut the trip short, and I forced him to go to the doctor. He almost got frostbite, and now the doctor says he could lose his feet if he goes out again. Damn, good thing he caught it. He need a hand picking up the rest of his traps? Yeah, I hate to ask, but all his friends are in worse shape than he is. I thought back to the days when my brother and I would venture out into the woods this time of year and hunt snowshoe hares. I'd never been into trapping, but I knew enough about it. I'd be happy to help. In a while since I was out in those woods anyway. I could do it tomorrow if that works. You're the best! I've got to work all day, but he'll be home. You don't mind going over without me, do you? Not at all. Tell him I'll be over about it. The light snow was falling as I parked in front of Sadie's childhood home. I walked up the concrete path to the front door. It opened, and Wayne stepped out. Ryan, come on in. I followed him into the kitchen. Long time no see. How are you, son? He looked the same. A little grayer, a little heavier. Camouflaged pants and flannel shirt, just like I remembered. He extended his hand and I took it, and received the obligatory bone-crushing handshake that I'd become reacquainted with after moving back. Ah, you know, living the dream. It's nice being back in town. Yeah. Sadie says you was down south for a bit. I gave him the quick version of my disastrous attempt at college and marriage that had occupied the last 15 years of my life. Wayne poured me a cup of coffee and we sat at the kitchen table. He pulled out a pouch of tobacco and began rolling a cigarette. There was a Forest Service map spread out on the table. I tapped a squiggly red loop that had been drawn on the map. Is that Cole Lake? That's right. Sadie said you spent a lot of time in the North Woods when you was a kid. She wasn't kidding. You been up there? Oh, yeah. My brother and I used to catch tiger trout up there. That where your trap lane is? Wayne held the rolled cigarette to his mouth and licked the rolling paper, sealing it. Yep. I run a few lines up there. She told you? About my feet? She said the doctor won't let you go back out there. Sounds like a bad season if you're pulling your traps this early. He nodded, then leaned over and slid the window open. The snow was falling harder outside. He lit a cigarette and took a drag. Roughly every 14 years we get a bad season. This is the worst season I've ever seen. I only run Martin's set these days. Too old to mess with cats. Funny. I remember my old man talking about being too old to mess with cats. His friend Freddy got chewed up pretty bad by one years ago. Oh yeah? Who was that? Freddy Gray? I was mid-sip of coffee and almost spit it out. How'd you know? Oh, I knew Freddy too. That business was big news. He almost died. Didn't happen too far from Cole Lake, actually. There was a comfortable silence as we sipped our coffee and watched the snow come down outside the window. Wayne took another drag on his cigarette. After a moment, he cleared his throat. Anyways, I got ten Martin sets in boxes on that loop around Cole Lake. Well, let me take care of it for you. You should probably try to keep off your feet. I'm looking forward to getting out there anyway, in a while. I could tell that Wayne was uncomfortable with someone else handling his business. We chatted for a bit and he finally gave in. He took me out into the garage where he had a plastic utility shed laid out on the floor. It had a bridle of rope attached to the front so it could be dragged behind either a snow machine or someone walking. There was a hammer in the sled. Wayne walked over to the wall and pressed the button on the garage door opener. The door rolled up, letting a gust of cool air in. Wayne took a last drag on his cigarette, then flicked the butt out into the bed of his truck. All right. Sadie said you ain't got a snow machine yet. You can borrow mine. You got a tow ball on your truck? I nodded. Good. Machine's already on the trailer. You can take this pull sled, too. You can't take the machine into the actual loop. All the logging's finished up there, so the Forest Service put up a gate. You'll have to take your truck out to that turnout at the bottom of Norton Road. Take the snow machine from there up to the gate, then you'll have to walk in with the sled and do the loop on foot. Sounds good. What's the hammer for? Getting old as hell. The traps are in boxes, nailed to trees. Just one sixteen-penny nail on the left side. I don't drive the nail all the way, so you can just pop it out with the claw hammer. Got it. We walked back over to the open garage door and looked up at the falling snow. Shouldn't need snowshoes in this. Too wet. Just wear some good boots. You got a .22? Yeah, but all my rifles are still in storage. You can take mine. Sometimes a Martin gets in the trap, but he don't die. I doubt there'll be any, but you never know. I haven't trapped a single one up there this year. Something's messing with my sets. Every time the traps are ripped out of the box and the bait is gone. Bring the rifle just in case. And bring a pistol. The wolves getting bad up there? No, the wolves are fine. For the ferals. The ferals? At first, I thought he was joking. I had completely forgotten about the legendary ferals of the Northwoods. It was an old local folklore that got passed from generation to generation. mostly in the halls of the elementary school or at the town barbecue. The story was that in the early 1800s, a fur trapper was passing through the area when he ran into a party of surveyors and mistook them for poachers. He confronted them, but they explained that they were just mapping the region and had no intention of trapping. As the trapper turned to leave, one of the surveyors shot him in cold blood. The rest of the survey party eventually decided to turn their companion in for murder, but that night he escaped and killed several of the surveyors before disappearing. The remaining surveyors made it back to town, which was basically just an army fort at the time. The army sent out several parties to capture the insane man, but were never able to find him. As the town grew around the army fort, the story was used as sort of a boogeyman to keep kids in line. Then a young woman went missing and was never found, but the lore said that the mad surveyor had kidnapped her. Well, then the legend changed. There were reports that hunters would occasionally find camps in the North Woods. There were supposed sightings of a growing family of wild people over the years. And the legend of the Ferals was born. Wayne looked at me, serious. Yeah, the Ferals. Like I said, about every 14 years my traps get messed with. I know a lot of you young folk think it's bullshit, but you can ask anyone else who spends time out there. As a matter of fact, if Freddy were still alive, he'd show you his scars. There wasn't no bobcat that bit him, and he ain't the only one ever been hurt by them. I wasn't sure what to say. My friends and I had always believed the stories when we were young, but then we grew up and started to feel like it was just the old-timers trying to keep us out of the woods, to keep the hunting and trapping to themselves. Well, if anyone was going to have a run-in with ferals, I guess it would have been Freddy. Yeah, he was a character. His ex-wife swears he did something bad to them, and that's why they attacked him. Who knows? Did Sadie tell you about the fingers? The fingers? Wayne went over to the workbench and took an old tin coffee can off of the shelf above it. He waved me over and took the lid off the can. It looked to be full of dirty, clumpy salt, and there was a faint whiff of decay. Wayne took a screwdriver off the wall and dug around the salt. Two brown and shriveled objects rose to the top. They were about the size of large peanuts, black and shriveled. Twenty-eight years ago, I was still trapping cats then. I just got up there to check the line when I heard the most god-awful scream. And no, it wasn't no fox. It was one of them. I get to the set and there's blood everywhere, but nothing in the trap. Right next to the trap, I find these two fingers and a man's tooth. The bastard got his hand in the trap and had to chew the last two knuckles off. The two objects could have been dried up pieces of human fingers, but they could have been dried apricots, too. Wayne must have sensed my skepticism. All right, young man, I get it. Here, look at this. He dumped the can out on the workbench. He took some needle-nose pliers off the wall and picked one of the objects up. He held it under the light and leaned in to look. I could clearly see the yellowed shape of a ragged fingernail at one end of it. It smelled faintly of rot and dried meat. My stomach turned. Then Wayne sorted through the pile of salt and pulled something else out, holding it up for me to see. Grasped in the flyers were a gleaming white tooth, and it looked like it could have been a human incisor. So I'll never go out there without a pistol. Yeah, I'll bring my pistol. Laneover saw me hooking a snow machine trailer up to my truck. I threw the pull sled into the bed and put his .22 rifle in the back seat. We went back into the house and he showed me on the map where each of the ten traps were on the coal lake loop. I showed him my handheld GPS unit, which he smirked at. I put a waypoint on the map for each of his traps and he begrudgingly admitted the unit might be useful. When I left, the snow had turned to heavy, wet sleet. I went back to my house on the other side of town and brewed a thermos of coffee and packed lunch to bring along. I was getting into my cold weather gear when Sadie called. So, how'd it go? Good. We chatted for a bit. I gave her the rundown on what he needed from me. Thanks again. If you didn't do this, he would have gone out there on his own. He would never let his trap sit out there unattended. You're literally saving his feet. You know, I didn't think about it like that, but it's like I'm a hero or something. I think this is worth two pot pies. Oh don push it city boy As I talked I grabbed my lunchbox and thermos and headed out to the truck So uh he showed me the fingers I could practically hear her palm hitting her face Not the damn fingers. I swear he's not crazy. I mean, they do look like fingers and, well, the tooth. I got into my truck and started it. Yeah, I just can't. I mean, either he made fake fingers or all that shit about the ferals is real. and I really can't go with either, you know? The wet snow had completely glazed over my windshield. Yeah, well, I'm sitting in the truck. I want to get going before it refreezes out there. I'll call you when I get back. Sounds good, and thanks again. I guess I've got a pot pie to make. I headed out north from town on Levy Road, through the snow-covered canola and alfalfa fields that were sleeping the winter away. As I came to the end of the valley, I pulled into the turnout where Norton Road climbed up into the mountain in the North Woods. There was another truck with a snow machine trailer parked there. I fired up Wayne's snow machine and backed it off the trailer. I put Wayne's rifle into the mounts on the front rack of the machine. Then I rigged up the tow sled behind the machine and put my lunch and thermos in it. I went back to the truck to grab my phone and GPS. As I was locking it, I thought of my pistol. I had forgotten to get it from my house. I looked at what was rapidly turning from sleet to just plain freezing rain and thought about the hour it would take me to go back and get it. I decided that I would make do with Wayne's .22 rifle and the 10 rounds it carried. The snow machine easily traversed the snowy road. Judging from the tracks, it looked like the only other person out there was the driver of the other truck which I'd seen parked at the bottom. I reached the turn off for Cole Lake in about an hour and pulled out in front of the green metal gate that Wayne had mentioned. I poured a cup of coffee from the thermos and enjoyed the scenery for a moment. The stark white of snow and leafless birch contrasted sharply with a dark canopy of conifer trees. Fur bows drooped towards the ground, laden with wet snow. Occasionally, the snow on the limb would let go and fall to the ground, sending the branch springing back to the sky amidst a cloud of white powder. Sometimes this would set off a chain reaction to limbs being freed, and it would sound like a large animal tromping through the woods. I felt the quiet of the forest press in on my eardrums. Midwinter was a bit of a quiet time in the north, but you could always count on the chickadees gossiping in the trees. However, there was no sign of the friendly little birds. I finished my coffee and put the thermos back in the tow sled. I unhooked the sled from the snow machine, then I took Wayne's rifle and slung it over my shoulder. I dragged the tow sled around the gate and set off on Cole Lake Loop, pulling the sled behind me. It slid easily over the snow. I looked at the GPS and started looking for Wayne's first set. I came to the Y in the road where the road looped back on itself. I followed the road right, estimating that I should be coming down the other side of the Y in about an hour. As I neared the first waypoint on the GPS, I easily spotted the set. It looked like a wooden shoebox nailed to the trunk of a tree about four feet off the ground. A thick tree limb ran up to the box from the ground at an angle that was not so steep that a male martin couldn't climb up and get into the box. Normally, the body grip trap would sit inside the open end of the box with bait in the rear. As the martin moved into the box to get at the bait, the trap would spring closed on its body. It was an almost foolproof way to target martins and eliminate trapping any other species. I didn't have a lot of experience trapping, but I knew how it worked. So, I was surprised to find the trap hanging from the box and the bait completely removed. It wasn't impossible that a martin could spring a trap, somehow get out of it, then return to the box and remove the bait, but it had to be rare. I looked in the snow for any tracks, but there were none. I shrugged and took the claw hammer from the sled. I popped out the single nail on the left side of the box, which held it to the tree. I tucked the trap in the box and put it in the sled, then set out for the next one. I grew warm as I trekked along the snowy road. I could see blue sky through the trees above me, and judging by the amount of melted snow dripping down off their limbs, it was a few degrees above freezing. Nice weather was good, but I knew that all the snow that melted in the day would freeze again as soon as the sun set. The thought of the steep ride down on my truck made me pick up the pace. Strangely, the next three traps were in the same condition as the first. As I was removing the fourth one from the tree, I thought I heard something scream from nearby. Between my beard scratching against my collar and the drops of melted snow wrapping on my hood, I couldn't hear very well. The noise echoed in my ears as a human scream, though. I held my breath and scanned the woods around me. Nothing moved. My heart started to get chumpy as I thought of Wayne's preserved fingers. Alright, don't flip out now. After a few more moments of silence, I started dragging the sled along the road to the next side. The sled sounded incredibly loud to me, and I found myself constantly hearing things over its roar as I pulled it along. I stopped frequently, hearing just the tap of water on my hood and the dull booming of my heart. I had started to sweat, and each time I stopped, I felt chills crawling along my spine. The next set was missing. I could clearly see the bright yellow scar on the bark of a small fir tree where the nail had been. I checked for tracks in the snow again, but I found nothing. The sled began to roar along as I pulled it, and I thought I heard the scream again. The skin on the back of my neck bunched up, and I became a statue. I realized that I was holding my breath. I let my eyes wander back and forth, searching the dimness of the woods for any movement, afraid to move my head for the noise it would create. I heard a branch crack, high up in the tree canopy behind me. I could hear snow crump to the ground from the disturbed branch. I slowly turned to the waist, trying to get to where my eyes could see where the sound had come from. There, far above me in the crooked jumble of a leafless birch tree, I could see a small branch bouncing. It looked no different than a branch after a bird takes flight from it, but I hadn't seen a single bird on my track. I couldn't help but wonder if something was following me. I looked down at the road behind me. There were just my prints from the boots and the sleigh. I decided that I was being silly, but that there was nothing wrong with hurrying along. I started up the road again, this time adopting almost a cross-country skiing movement, letting my momentum carry me sliding forward at the top of each step. I was panting and sweating when I reached the sixth set. It was laying beside the tree. The wooden box smashed. I scooped the mess up and threw it in the sled, and it kept going. I heard something thump with the plastic sled behind me, and it rung out like a drum. As my feet skidded to a halt, I went down to my knees and swung the rifle up towards the trees behind me, but there was nothing. I looked at the sled. I counted six wooden boxes, five intact and the smashed one. I looked at my GPS and verified that I'd just left the location of the sixth trap. The fifth set had been missing. Now something had thrown the fifth set into my sled. My heart kicked into overdrive, and I started off as fast as I could in the direction of the next set. The sled was noisy and slowed me down quite a bit, but I still couldn't give over completely to the thought that some feral being was playing with me. I had to finish the job. I knew how blue-collar men were, and if I went back to town without all of Wayne's traps, I would never live it down. At least in my own head, I wouldn't. The seventh and eighth traps were intact, with the bait missing. I got them both quickly into the shed and set out for the ninth. The loop of the road got close to Coal Lake, and I could see through the trees the large white expanse of the frozen water. The sun shone down on it, and I wanted so bad to be out of the dark woods on that ice where I could see if anything was coming after me. I forced my panic down and continued. The ninth set was smashed on the ground. All that was left was the smashed wood of the box, and the metal body grip trap was missing. As I threw the smashed wood into the sled, I heard the scream again. It sounded like it came from the trees right above my head. I looked up, shouldering my rifle, my eyes aching as they tried to see every angle. A massive birch loomed over me, but nothing moved. Then another ungodly scream echoed through the woods, from the direction of the lake. And then another scream, louder and deeper, but from much further away. Whatever it was, there was more than one of them, and they were talking to each other. I tried to match the sound to anything I'd ever heard out there, came up with nothing. Fear clawed at me and I felt incredibly exposed. I fired around from the rifle into a tree trunk, the sharp report bouncing off the trees. Come any closer and I'll kill you. My finger tightened on the trigger to let loose another warning shot, but I got a hold of myself. My ears rung in the silence. I spun around and jogged up the road. One left, one more, and I'm out of here. I started to pant and sweat again as I trudged along, the sled following dutifully behind me. I couldn't help but glance fearfully behind me every few seconds. The GPS said I was close to the last set. I started looking around, and then I saw it up ahead. I slid to a stop next to a little trail down the set and listened. All I could hear was my ragged breathing tearing through my chest. I stepped down to the set with a hammer and pried at the nail. Something crashed into the side of my head. I threw my hands up and spun. There was nothing there. My ear got hot and my face started stinging. At my feet was the missing trap from the 9th set in its rusty chain. I held my gloved hand to my numb lips and it came away with a smear of blood. I got on one knee as I shouldered the rifle again. I waved it wildly back and forth, searching the trees for anything, but there was nothing to shoot. I felt a little more blood trickle down my face. I wrenched the 10th set off the trees and sprinted back up the road. I threw the 9th and 10th traps into the sled along with a hammer, amazed that I'd gotten every piece of Wayne's gear, even if some of it was smashed up. I grabbed the bridle with one hand and kept the rifle handy in the other. Scanning ahead of me for threats, I took off. It wasn't more than a few seconds later when I saw that I was coming up to the Y on the road, and I knew I was almost safe. As I rejoined my previous track, something stopped me dead. I could clearly see the big prints that my snow boots had left. Right next to them was the wide, continuous swath that the sled had left in the snow. Clearly, on top of that swath, I saw prints in the snow, and I fought the urge to drop everything and flee. The tracks came in a line from the base of a nearby tree, meandered along my own tracks for a few feet, then disappeared at the base of another tree. The sight of those tracks is seared into my memory, and to this day I can see them like a picture of my mind. There were two distinct set of tracks that I knew that come from the same creature. One was clearly left by bare human feet, but what almost pushed me over the edge was the second set. Moving in unison with the footprints was a perfect set of prints from human hands, as though someone had been walking through the snow on all fours. and then I noticed something that shook me to my core. The impressions left in the snow by the right hand were missing the first two fingers. My frantic journey back to my truck was a blur. I vaguely remember firing the rest of the rounds from the rifle blindly into the trees, but after that I have a few flashes of the snow machine ride, frantically trying to look behind me to see if I was being followed. Somehow, I didn't wreck and found myself at my truck. I calmed down and started to question myself. I felt like a fool. Had I just lost my mind and made the whole thing up? I hadn't taken any photos of anything. I loaded the snow machine on the trailer and started the truck for home. My phone rang as I drove back to Wayne's house. I pulled over and answered. So, how was it? I looked closely in the rearview mirror at the dark, hulking mountains. of the North Woods behind me. I let out an involuntary sigh, almost like I was about to cry. I swallowed hard. It was fine. I'm all done. As our stories sink beneath the waves, we claw our way back onto dry land. Join us again next time when we plunge into the chilling depths where water hides its darkest secrets. The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical scores are composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Michalski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornett, and Claudius Moore. Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McAnally, Ollie A. White, and Kristen Cimito. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. 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