S23 Ep15: NoSleep Podcast S23E15

Indeed presents. Highers you can't afford to get wrong. Like a warehouse operations manager. Uh, where are the forklifts? I sold them. They were too expensive. I got a great deal on these scooters though. You expect us to move a two-ton pallet on a scooter? It'll be fun! Just think of the core strength you'll build. This is a job for sponsored jobs! This is what happens when you don't sponsor your job on Indeed. So the next time you need someone to get the job done right, get matched with quality candidates with an Indeed sponsored job. Visit Indeed.com slash Next hire and sponsor your job today. W-N-S-P Welcome back to the darkness of the night. W-N-S-P's overnight programming. I'm DC, glad to be with you for another night on the air. Now I'm a little discombobulated this evening. I got to the station late because I had to deal with an insect problem. Yes, as most residents of Cryptid Valley know, we have our fair share of bugs down here. And while most people know what it's like to have mosquitoes and spiders and... ...usps around, most don't know about our ants. Oh sure, we all know about those little ants in our yards that get into our homes. But around here, we occasionally have to deal with ant men. Oh, that's right. Human-sized ants. They walk like humans and have large red eyes that allow them to see in every direction at once. And don't assume these creatures exist only in Greek mythology. This is Cryptid Valley, after all, and we know the difference between myth and reality. Fortunately, the ant men in our area keep to themselves. I saw some crossing the road on the way here, so I just stopped and let them pass before moving on. Believe me, I had no intention of bugging them. From what I've heard, messing with those ants will leave you crying, Uncle. Alright, alright, I'll quit with the puns. Now, while I get myself settled and situated for tonight's show, why don't we listen to another episode of Horror from the No Sleep Podcast? A rustle of the leaves, a fleeting movement at the edge of your vision. How often have you walked a forest trail at dusk, only to feel the unmistakable sensation that something unseen is watching you? For centuries, humans have populated the darkness with creatures of legend, whose existence remains unproven, yet whose presence is undeniable in the whispered tales of those who dare venture too deep into the wild and wild. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. It's October, so when an exciting new horror novel comes out, we know you want to have even more content to consume like so many fun-sized candy bars. We know you want to have even more content to consume like so many fun-sized candy bars. We think this one is going to get under your skin. It comes to us from long time No Sleep author, Gemma Amor, and this book is really up to scratch because it's going to make you itch. Josie is at rock bottom, living a haunted existence after returning to her isolated hometown on the edge of the forest of Dean. But the tall dense pine trees are not the only things casting shadows around her skin. When Josie stumbles across a decaying and infested body in the woods, she plummets into a downward spiral, facing uncomfortable truths about the victim and her own past, all while battling a growing infestation of her mind and her flesh. Desperate to solve the case, Josie scruples her face and says, As she gets to solve the case, Josie scratches the surface of an age-old mystery. A masked predator stalks the forest around Elwood, a place deeply gripped by folklore. As the village prepares for its annual festival, Josie gets closer and closer to unveiling a monster and begins to ask herself, are these dark, crawling insects leading her to uncover the truth? Or is she their next victim? The novel Itch is the perfect way for horror to infest your mind. So if you're after something that is both shocking and horrifically beautiful, then take a journey and discover this little atrocity for yourself. Check the show notes to learn more about Itch by Gemma Amour. Available in e-book and audiobook formats now, with printed versions being available in the UK now and in the US very soon. So get ready to get antsy. On our episode this week, we have tales that will find people in places they can't or won't leave easily. The concept of being trapped somewhere is a distinctly horrifying one. Sometimes it's a person being trapped somewhere they don't want to be. Other times it's about someone or something trapped safely in a place where they can do the most harm. No matter where they find themselves, it's a situation that leads to no good and rarely to any chance of escape. So if you want to escape or be well confined, we think you'll relate quite well to these stories and the perfect way to begin is to tune in, turn on and brace yourself for our sleepless tales. In our first tale, we meet a gourmand. These days he'd be called a foodie, a person who loves the finest food and dining experiences. And his tastes are quite exotic. And in this tale, shared with us by author L. N. Hunter, the man has a favorite restaurant, one he himself has financed in order to have the chance to dine there every night. And the place really is something to dine for. Performing this tale are Andy Creswell and Ellie Hirschman. So, bon appétit my friends. Enjoy yourself at this place of fine dining. Possibly the only thing more pleasurable than a meal at La Table de Georges is the post-Prandial Chateau de la Quix vintage bar Armagnac to be leisurely enjoyed in the lounge. The menu never includes dessert as that would overwhelm the delectable nuances of the entree. Instead, chef de cuisine Henri Georges permits only a perfectly matched brandy as a digestif to be taken in the ambiance of his smoking lounge. The alcohol relaxes the mind while the subtle sweetness plays with the after-flavors of that night's fare. A San Cristobal quintessence robusto rests on the table beside me. The cigar Georges selected as the perfect end to tonight's meal. I may indulge in the cigar later, but for the moment I take a sip of Armagnac and lean back in my well-worn club chair in La Table's lounge. Carefully positioned oriental screens divide the richly carpeted room into personal cocoons for as many individuals or couples as have dined that night. The thick carpet, along with the bindings of the books on the shelves and on the rooms' walls absorb all sound, affording each group of leather wing-backed chairs and mahogany drinks table a comfortable silence. With a contented sigh, I close my eyes and recall many a heavenly dish created for me by Monsieur Georges. We first became acquainted during the Boer War, and my Batman corporal Jacoby entered the command tent with the news that a Boer deserter had been captured. I stepped out of the tent, prepared to shoot the man myself rather than waste time issuing a command. I had precious little patience left and was already in a foul mood thanks to private Simmons coming down with a dose of dengue fever two days prior. Dashed tiresome of the man, since among my entourage only he knew his way around a field kitchen. There really was little point in getting the man to shoot the local wildlife if there were to be no opportunity of dining on it. I'd sent a messenger back to Pretoria to fetch a replacement chef, but I was already suffering the blight of poor food. As Jacoby and two other men dragged the wretch in front of me, he called out that my Thierrysard saboteur were at risk of ruin, lying unprotected where Simmons had abandoned them. I was impressed that he recognized the knives even in danger of his own life and chose to postpone his execution until I discovered more about the man. He claimed to be a world-class chef, travelling across Africa to find the finest and most exotic of foods the natural world could provide. He'd been captured by the Boer army and pressed into service as a chef, but had escaped after one of our more successful assaults. He'd wandered for several days before stumbling sufficiently close to my camp to be spotted. That evening, Georges Henri, as he was then, proved the truth of his claims by preparing succulent pavé steaks from the zebra I'd ordered to be shot earlier in the day, as well as a mouth-watering appetizer of deviled, grey-winged, frankling kidneys. My platoon greatly appreciated the leftovers from my table and the business of war was once again pleasant. Though for the next few days, I dined on a multitude of God's creatures, each meal surpassing the previous in novelty and taste, dark, heavy, elephant-trunk, sharp and mercurial haunch of gazelle, enchantingly dark, diker sweetmeats and honey-sweet red-collar-bus cheeks. Eventually, my tour of duty was up, and it was time to return to the shores of England. I invited Mr. Henri to accompany me as my personal chef. As years passed, I've become less inclined towards warfare, and, it must be said, travel too. Some small aspect of this being due to an increased girth and consequent constrained mobility. Seeing London's boundaries become the limits of my roaming, Henri proposed the opening of an exclusive little restaurant, along with the name change of his own to match. I financed La Table on the understanding that I would be dining there every evening. With the economies of scale, Monsieur Georges has been able to excel himself. Dining at La Table has been a gastronomic revelation. To maintain freshness, Georges imports living animals when possible. Often problematic, but not insurmountable if the relevant palms are judiciously greased. Fresh was he kitchen, he's best, he says, with a faux French accent, and the success of the restaurant testifies to the truth of the matter. Flesh is sweeter and richer when carved directly from a living creature. Georges has organized a network of extremely specialized suppliers around the globe, able to provide anything diners of his establishment could possibly desire. During the past few months, Georges has delighted us with Black Widow Shashimi, the arachnid equivalent to Fugu Shashi, rich and deliciously dark. Servo de tigre, thick and heavy, unlike the less complex lion's brain, and Badger's Foot Beesque, a surprisingly refreshing dish from such a lowly and commonplace animal. On one hot August evening, he surprised us with a salad de macarons moines. A scrumptious summer offering requiring no fewer than six puffins per person. My physician encourages me to forego rich fare and to curtail my alcohol consumption, but one has to ask what the point of living is without these humble vices. Naturally, Georges agrees with me and ensures that every meal is a pleasure to be enjoyed as if it might be one's last. My personal favorite, which I endeavor to persuade Georges to prepare at least once a fortnight to the horror of my doctor, is a simple sirloin of wild boar braised in ostrich or emu yoke, depending on season. With taste buds invigorated by such decadent memories, I take another sip of brandy. Ah, tonight's meal. One I'd hoped would never end as I savored every mouthful. Ten years to the day from when I met Georges Henri, and possibly the pinnacle of his career as Georges, I take a mental note to make this known to him when he makes his customary circuit of the lounge. Individually roasted golden marmosets form the starter. The fur honeyed and crisped, and bones crushed and broken, but still within the carcass to add that extra crunch. All served on a bed of desiccated amorphous phallus titanum, possibly the last specimens of the pungent so-called corpse plant to ever grace the planet. The entree was liver of corn-fed cauchon long, served with a jus derived from Oologuru forest grasshoppers, and at the end of cooking stuffed with whole metasipia for fairy. The long pig was delicious, just the right balance of tenderness and richness cooked to perfection. Georges explained that he'd personally travelled to South Africa to locate the boy, as a tribute to our first encounter. The orphanage owners were grateful to be paid, and one likes to think that our little dining experience helps other unfortunate children. However, it was the metasipia that launched this particular feast towards stardom. Brightly coloured cuttlefish about the size of one's thumb contracted into a spherical shape as the result of the warmth of the meat surrounding them. One swallows them whole, letting them revive and then dissolve in the acid within one's stomach. There they release a neurotoxin within seconds, which elevates the diner to a stratum of pure bliss. What makes this cuttlefish so interesting, is that the Monsieur Georges informed us on the menu card, is that it's not venom or saliva that is lethal in these creatures, but they're very flesh. Fortunately, he also included an appropriate measure of antitoxins in the jus, as if one would need a reason beyond its taste to consume every drop of the delightful concoction. We can attest to that the remains of the metasipia interact most satisfactorily with my armoniac, submersing me in an all-consuming, soporific mellowness. I smiled myself, contemplating my cigar and waiting comfortably for Georges to make his circuit of the room to be congratulated by us all. A crash from below snaps me back to consciousness. It's not I must confess the first time I've nodded off after a sumptuous meal, but it is the first time my brandy balloons slipped from my fingers, shattering on the floor. A distressing waste of chateau de la quay, not to mention an 18th century nacht man brandy glass. A sudden burning assaults my guts. I attempt to struggle upright, but find I cannot move. I struggle to breathe. My throat feels tight and heavy, but I can't summon the energy to clear it. Monsieur Georges appears in front of me, face pale and eyes reddened, holding a slim bottle of thick green liquid. He holds it up. Sorry, I'm so sorry. A mistake, I forgot. His fake French accent has been forgotten and he reverts to South African enunciation. Drink this. He pours some of the liquid into my mouth, but I'm unable to swallow it. I realize that the only parts of my body I can move are my eyeballs. I'm sorry. He looks at me with tears in his eyes, before turning away and hastening to another of his diners. His frantic apologies are the only sounds in the room, apart from moaning at a curious, slithering, slurping sound. I force my focus down towards my nose, which appears to be rippling and stretching, and watch, unable to protest, as stubby tentacles ooze from one distended nostril, followed by the body of a cuttlefish. The pain is excruciating, as the beast's cuttlebone proves to be stronger than my flesh, shredding it as it passes through. The blood-covered creature uncurls and stretches, feeling its way down my chin and neck. The cuttlefish's fortitude was evidently superior to the caustic acids of my stomach, and George's bottle must be the antitoxins he somehow neglected to add to the meal. The tiny creature drags itself under my clothing to scratch and peck at my skin. It emits tiny clicks as it moves, and I hear small, rasping sounds as it lacerates my flesh. I feel it burrowing through me, as though trying to establish a route back to its companions within my digestive tract. My nose explodes with a sickly pop, and blood gushes out, transporting dozens of cuttlefish with it. Some creep into my mouth, pressing numb lips aside, and clamp themselves onto my paralyzed tongue. The taste of my own blood is loathsome, but soon the creatures have consumed a sufficient amount of my tongue that my taste buds no longer function. I should be terrified, but some myosematical quality of the creature's toxin dulls my senses and stills my emotions, such that I have become no more than a detached observer. I can see that my shirt, hither too stretched over a torso that one must concede had been permitted to grow over large, has started to redden as the creatures do their work beneath the fabric. I lose control of my bladder, and a damp darkness seeps across my trousers. I suppose I should consider myself fortunate that I can no longer smell anything, thanks to the action of these creatures. My tears must have infuriated the cuttlefish, because three of them turn to advance upon my eyes, proximity making their tentacles loom large. A sharp pinch is followed by a blurring of my vision. Soon after, I see no more. All I perceive now are the sounds of ripping and slurping and crunching and incessant slithering, and the sensations of tugging and cutting on my flesh. I wonder if these tiny creatures experience any sense of enjoyment as they eat, as I have done on them and their ilk so many times. I do hope their meal doesn't last much longer. Hiring isn't just about finding someone willing to take the job. You need the right person with the right background who can move your business forward. If you want candidates who match what you're looking for, trust Indeed Sponsored Jobs. And listeners of the show will get a 100-pound sponsored job credit to help get your job the premium status it deserves at indeed.com. Just go to indeed.com. and support this show by saying you heard about Indeed on this podcast. Indeed.com. Terms and conditions apply. Hiring, do it the right way, with Indeed. These days there are plenty of discussions about gender norms. Should girls wear pink and boys blue? Do boys get gifted sports gear while girls get dolls? Well, despite the varied opinions out there, we'll meet a family with a little girl who has been given a new dolly. And in this tale, shared with us by author Michael Serrer, we soon learn why the girl isn't too keen on playing with the doll despite her mom's insistence. Performing this tale are Mike Delgaudio, Danielle McCrae, Wafia White, and Nicole Goodnight. So go ahead and enjoy your new friend. She is cute after all, with her delightful little doll face. Isn't she adorable? Look, she has pigtails just like you. The little girl pawed at the box and peered through the plastic film. She shook it and set it back down. Her mom frowned. Aren't you gonna open it? The little girl just shook her head. What is it, baby? Are you still upset about daddy? Silence. Her mom sighed and stared up at the ceiling. She looked back at her daughter. You'd never leave mommy, would you? Before the girl could answer, a timer began to beep. Shit! Her mother stood up and rushed towards the kitchen. Once alone, the girl turned her attention to the box. With nimble fingers, she reached out and began undoing the cardboard packaging, loosening the ties, and finally freeing the doll from her restraints. She held the doll before her and stared into its lifeless blue eyes. She then noticed a string dangling from its back. The girl pulled at it tenderly. As it slowly slithered back, the doll opened its mouth. Where am I? You're in my house. The doll didn't answer, so the girl tugged at the string again. Help me. How? Silence. Another pull of the string. I'm trapped. I need to get out of here. Please. Help me. What should I do? The girl frantically yanked at the string. There's a switch under my foot. Flip it. That will set me free. Please do it fast. I'm so scared. A little girl glanced around the room. Her mom was still in the kitchen, and the house smelled like burnt cookie dough. She picked up the doll and felt below the heel. A few moments later, her mom dashed into the living room, holding a platter of overcooked chocolate chip cookies. All right. Cookies are ready. She put the tray onto the coffee table, then glanced around the room. Honey bear, are you in the bathroom? But the house stood quiet. She glanced down at the floor and saw the doll's empty eyes staring back at her. She picked it up and pulled the string. Mommy. Mommy, I'm scared. I want to go home. A jagged smile spread across her mother's face as she cradled the doll in her arms. Don't worry, baby. You are home. And mommy isn't ever going to let you go. Indeed presents. Highers you can't afford to get wrong. Like a warehouse operations manager. Where are the forklifts? I sold them. They were too expensive. I got a great deal on these scooters though. You expect us to move a two-ton pallet on a scooter. It'll be fun. Just think of the core strength you'll build. This is a job for sponsored jobs. This is what happens when you don't sponsor your job on Indeed. So the next time you need someone to get the job done right, get matched with quality candidates with an Indeed sponsored job. Visit Indeed.com slash NextHire and sponsor your job today. And now for the next episode of The Charged. Merideth loves Edgar like her own child, even though his fits seem to be driving him out of his mind. Performing this tale are Penny Scott Andrews, Ash Millman, and Erica Sanderson. So try to be patient with the boy, at least until you learn more about Edgar's condition. Almost 20 years ago, I responded to an advertisement requesting a live-in nanny and housekeeper for an affluent young couple and their only child. The ad stressed, applicants should be experienced in working with children, and that preference would be given to those with a minimum five years experience in the field. I had no such experience, but I did have three younger brothers who I was responsible for in my juvenile essence. Who could be better prepared for the responsibilities of a nanny than one who were put up with the borderline abusive whims and demands of a trio of boy devils? So it was that I found myself seated upon a stiff leather wingback that may well have been older than the house in which it sat, a sprawling manner erected sometime in the late 19th century under the scrutinous gaze of the lady of the house. The study, in which we conferred, boasted a most distracting view through its enormous window. Mrs. Florence Vice sat between myself and the glass, herself behind a gargantuan cherry wood desk, which, to judge by their modest humidor and crystal decanter resting upon it, I assumed must belong to Mr. Vice. Beyond the window sprawled an ancient garden in full spring bloom, populated by statues of arabasta and iron, the grandest of which bore the likeness of the angel Gabriel, blowing a gilded trumpet, as if calling flowers into bloom through its tone. Mrs. Vice herself was a picture of composed beauty, a feat I'd rarely seen in a woman so young, though she herself is ten years my senior. Being twenty-two years of age at the time myself, I thought this woman was the most beautiful creature I had ever laid eyes upon. I could not even bring myself to be envious of her thick chestnut-colored hair, golden tan and perfectly curved body. I myself have always been hopelessly thin, irredeemably pale and cursed with barely blonde, limp hair. Your application states you've had over a decade of experience in childcare, yet you don't look a day over nineteen. Mrs. Vice sat perfectly straight, with her hands neatly folded on the desk. She hadn't asked a question, so I provided no response to her statement, even to correct her on my age. I'd provided my date of birth and the application. She gave me a secretive smile. I've got younger siblings of my own, older as well. Are you the eldest? Yes, ma'am. I said, already certain that I would not be getting the job. And housework? Any professional experience? No professional work, ma'am, but we grew up in the country, and my parents were almost always away, so I've dealt with more than most. Oh? Any experience tutoring? I shook my head. The advertisement didn't mention anything about that. It's covered in the other duties as needed part of the listing. I nodded, unable to form an intelligent response. She stared at me for some time then, and I could feel colour rising in my cheeks. Shame at having so easily been spotted as an imposter. I'd like you to start in five days. Monday? I said, too shocked at the implication of her statement to respond appropriately. Will that be a problem? Yes, I mean, no, I mean that I can absolutely start on Monday. With a thin smile, one I took at the time to be magnanimous, but now understand was, like the at least partially apologetic, my new employer leaned across the desk and shook my hand. So unexpectedly, masquerade was the gesture that I almost expected her to offer me a cigar and a whiskey to celebrate the arrangement. Are you free for a little while longer? I can give you a tour of the house if you'd like. I'm happy to pay for a cab for you to get home afterward. Oh, that won't be necessary, I said, and then promising myself to start thinking before I speak, I added, I mean the ride, I would love a tour. She gave me that sad, almost pitiful smile again and led me from the study. Goldfinch Manor, as I learned the estate was named for the birds that descend on the garden in the spring, was the biggest house I'd ever set foot in. The tour took a full 30 minutes to complete and even then we left several rooms and outbuildings and visited. The garden, I was told, was a labyrinth of topiaries and busts. Mrs. Vice, who had by then asked me half a dozen times to call her flow, apologised, seeing my disappointment when we turned back inside after only a glimpse at the garden. You'll have plenty of time to explore on your own. Will I get to meet your son today? Edgar's father has taken him to an appointment and I'm afraid they won't be back until supper. I look forward to meeting him. Mrs. Vice, Flow, only responded with that morose smile. How should I tell of my first meeting with young Edgar? Shall I begin with an anecdote, describing how the first thing he did when we met was to bring me what I was later told by Mrs. Vice, was his favourite toy, a plush, smiling bear. Or would it be prudent to mention the cautious look the boy's mother gave him when she thought I wasn't paying attention? Perhaps I should come right out and speak of his affliction. At the time of our meeting, Edgar was in, almost every way, a typical three-year-old boy. He was adorable, with a lush head of brown hair and big milk chocolate eyes to suit it. He was slightly more empathetic than most boys his age and could be quite sensitive. Like any toddler, he was capable of great treachery and incredible sweetness. More often than not, his disposition was one of amiable contentedness. In the first weeks of my employment with the Vice family, I did not suspect in the slightest that the boy's good nature masked a severe unrest. It was the first week of June, three weeks and two days after I started in my role as nanny, other duties as needed, that I learned of, stumbled upon really, Edgar's condition. My room was upstairs in the east wing of Goldfinch Manor, on the opposite side of the house as the Vice's bedrooms. While I was a living nanny, Mrs. Vice insisted I have my evenings off. This meant that once Edgar was in bed, I was free to do as I pleased until the morning. I had an intercom in my room connected to the other bedrooms, the office and the kitchen. The idea behind the intercom was that I be available on call in case I was needed for emergencies. I was promised there would be no midnight summons for warm milk or anything of the sort. Mrs. Vice was all too happy to take care of nighttime issues, of which there seemed to be none. Until June 1st. It was the intercom that woke me, presumably having been accidentally bumped while Mrs. Vice was trying to settle Edgar from one of his fits, which is a wholly under-qualified word for what bedeviled the poor boy. I woke, startled by a cry, of what could have been rage or anguish or both, coming from the speaker located next to my bed. Sure unexpected was the sound that I at first thrashed about, certain eyes under attack from the malevolent spirit of one of Goldfinch Manor's long-deceased occupants. By the time I recognized the sound for what it was, the intercom had turned off again. To me, especially in the sleep fog I was still trying to shake myself from, it sounded like a scream for help. I flew from my bed and sprinted all the way to the other end of the house, barely maintaining my footing on the short flights of stairs that led down from the east wing and then up into the west. I had no idea which room the call had come from, but my primary responsibility was Edgar's well-being, so it was to his room I went. Lights spilled from the child's doorway, illuminating a thin triangular portion of the hallway. Edgar's anguished cries issued through the opening. I made a run for the door, but came to a halt when I heard his mother's pleading whispers coming from within. My heart thundered in my chest, both from the exertion of running and the stress of the moment. It was never my intention to spy, but I found myself creeping up to the door as silently as I could, even though I just barreled down the hall with no regard for how much noise I'd been making. Mrs. Bice's voice floated out of the room, but I could not make out what she was saying over her son's screams, only her tone. Edgar sounded like he was in agony, but his mother sounded as though she was pleading with him, not the sleep-deprived begging to go back to sleep that all parents eventually become familiar with, but a more desperate, frantic entreaty. Mrs. Bice, I whispered, too low to be heard even if they hadn't been making so much noise. Flow? I made myself reach out and give the door a gentle push, so it opened enough for me to see what was going on. What it revealed did nothing to remedy the nervous puzzlement that had stolen over me. Mrs. Bice, knelt next to Edgar's bed, hands clasped in front of her as if in prayer. I couldn't make out what Edgar was doing, and not at first. All my view afforded me was a glimpse of his blankets being jerked about as he moved, doing whatever it was that upset his mother so badly. I stepped into the room, heedless of any invasion of privacy, and put a hand on Mrs. Bice's shoulder. She jumped up, startled, and turned to face me. When she did, I finally saw what had been upsetting her so much. Edgar was on his stomach, with his knees folded under him, and his face against the blankets. His little hands were firmly latched around his own neck, tiny knuckles wiped with exertion. He screamed in frustration, kicking at his sheets and bucking his shoulders as if trying to shake something off his back. His pajama shirt was pulled up and bunched around his shoulders, and for a split second, it appeared as though something was moving under his skin. But then Mrs. Bice shifted, and her shadow mimicked the movement on Edgar's back. I trickered the light then. Help! Get it off! Please! Mrs. Bice, meanwhile, was pleading with him to stop, telling him to let go of himself. Assuming she was in shock, and that her son may need medical attention, I pushed past her and sat on the mattress next to Edgar. I put my hand on his back, intending on rubbing it, and finally realised what he was doing. I yanked my hand back, shocked and terrified. He twisted his head around and looked at me with miserable, pleading eyes. Get it off, meridians! What, honey? What's on you? Instead of bothering to explain, he doubled down on his efforts and continued to push against his head with his hands, while yanking his body backwards in an attempt to pull away from it. It took another fifteen minutes or so, but Edgar eventually wore himself out and fell back to sleep, heart-breaking little whimpers issuing from his lips with every other breath. His mother and I sat wordlessly with him until his breathing evened out. When we were both sure he was deep asleep, Mrs. Weiss spoke up. Would you please make us both some chamomile tea, Meredith? I'll meet you in the kitchen in a moment. I believe I should explain some things. I went to the kitchen and set the kettle on the stove to boil, taking out two mugs and plopping a tea bag into each. Chamomile wasn't what I needed to calm my nerves, though, so I also went to the parlour and fetched a glass tumbler, and what looked like one of the less expensive bottles of bourbon Mr. Weiss kept in his personal bar. By the time Mrs. Weiss met me in the kitchen, I was sipping at my second, generous pour of the whiskey, mugs of teas sleeping before me on the table. Mrs. Weiss eyed the bottle, poured the contents of her mug into the sink, bag and all, and set it on the table, nodding to indicate I should pour for her as well. Hmph. Tea was a silly idea. That wasn't the first time that's happened, was it? Mrs. Weiss sipped from her mug, grimacing almost imperceptibly at the burn of the liquor. The doctors we've seen seem to think it's a form of Tourette's, but no one is willing to make a firm diagnosis. Was he... Trying to remove his own head? Yes. She took a steadying breath and went on. He was ten months old the first time we saw him do it. He was playing on the floor like nothing was wrong and then went still. Just sat there, staring. For maybe three or four minutes, which is the only indication we get that a fit is coming. She put her face in her hands and broke into tears. I ran around the table and put my arm over her. She grabbed onto me and squeezed hard enough to hurt. I ignored the pain and rubbed her back. It's okay. We don't have to get into it. After a few minutes, I went back to my chair, poured more of the whiskey into each of our cups, and slid her mug back to her. She wiped her eyes at the back of one hand and took a small sip. It doesn't happen frequently, but there have been times where he's had two or three fits in as many weeks. I'm so sorry you and Mr Weiss have been dealing with this on your own for so long. And John hardly looks at Edgar, let alone deals with his condition. It scares him so he buries himself in his work. If he can't find enough to keep busy with, he locks himself in the pool house and drinks himself into a stupor. I'd never dared to ask Mrs Weiss, but I'd wondered what her husband did that kept him away from home for such long periods of time. I'd met the man only once on the single occasion he'd been home and dined with us. He'd seemed distracted and ultimately dismissive of everyone at the table. But I'd taken it to be the result of a hard-worked mind. Mr Weiss had finished his supper before the rest of us and then excused himself. Apparently, he was treating to the pool house and not his office, as I had assumed. My heart swelled for Mrs Weiss. Poor woman. She grew quiet then, speaking in single syllables and taking small but frequent sips from her mug. So I bit her a good night and went to bed. More than a little drunk. Two weeks later, Edgar had a full-blown fit in front of me. It was a beautiful summer day. The two of us had taken a walk through the garden and were having a picnic lunch on the far lawn. Edgar was chasing a bright blue butterfly that fluttered in front of him as we were eating great jam sandwiches, his favourite. He giggled at the top of his lungs each time the butterfly eluded him, causing me to laugh right along with him. All at once, he stopped running and watched the butterfly flit away. After a full minute of his staring off after the bug, I said, Butterfly's gone, Eddie. I was packing up the un-eaten food and took a moment to notice he was still gazing in the direction the butterfly had gone. I dropped what I was doing and went to him, assuming he was upset as insect friend had left him. His condition was far from my mind. I stepped in front of him and softly clapped my hands to get his attention. Let's tidy up. He didn't blink or even seem to notice me there. I dropped my knees in front of him and took him gently by the shoulders, which was when he started screaming. The sudden noise startled me so badly I fell backwards, landing hard on my rear. His cry was unlike anything I'd ever heard, much louder than his wails on that night two weeks earlier. One second he'd been almost catatonic and the next his jaw dropped open as if on a hinge and a terrible shriek came out of him like some hideous demon was using his lungs as a horn. The scream went on for an impossibly long time, the duration of which I could only sit and stare, frozen in fear. When he finally went silent, I moved towards him, intent on comforting him, but that was when the attack began in earnest. He fell to the ground and writhed violently, kicking up plods of grass with his shoes. His eyes grew wide and he gricked his teeth in exertion as he pushed up on his head with hands cupped under his jaw. The groan of effort coming from behind his teeth reminded me of a woman in labour, pushing with all her might to eject a small human form from within her, rending herself apart in the process. Stand on the ground, I crawled towards him on hands and knees and tried to force his hands down from his chin, where he was pushing with so much force that he later had a big purple welt in the spot. He squirmed against me, kicking hard enough to bruise me in several places. He gnashed at me with his teeth like a cornered dog and tore small bits of flesh from my hands and fingers. I fought against him as hard as I could, but his strength in the moment was uncanny, and I finally had to retreat in order to protect myself from serious injury. I watched him twist about on the ground, pushing against his own head with all his might before he changed tactics and pulled on it as he'd done on that night a couple of weeks before. All I could do was watch through hysterical tears to make sure he didn't hurt himself. It went on far longer than I could have thought possible, at least 20 minutes, though it felt like more. The fit only came to a stop when he'd absolutely physically tied himself out. He fell asleep with his hands pressed against the sides of his head, where he'd been gripping and pulling it at the end of the attack. I left the picnic basket and carried him back to the house, both of us blooded and grasped in, looking like we'd been fighting instead of picnicking. Mrs. Vice was home by then and came running out the back door as we emerged from the garden. She took her son from me without a word and carried him off to bed. There were fits in the years that followed, all of them more or less a version of the incident in the garden, until his 11th birthday. By then I'd been with the Vice family for eight years and loved Edgar like my own son. Mr. Vice had all but succeeded from the family, spending most of his time at his penthouse in London, where he conducted most of his business, and was no doubt enjoying the company of women other than his wife. Mrs. Vice herself accepted her husband's withdrawal with utter stoicism. For all intents and purposes, Edgar had two mothers, who loved him fiercely and who had grown to love each other as well. There was never anything remotely romantic between Mrs. Vice and myself, but she would often confide that as long as she had me around, she had no need of a husband. So it was that the two of us decided together that perhaps Edgar deserved to have a birthday party. He went to school regularly and somewhat miraculously, had only suffered one attack while at school. It was chalked up to a seizure and no one suspected anything was wrong with a boy other than a slight brain malady. We decided on a two hour party, just enough to make it worthwhile for kids and their parents to drop in, play some games, eat some cake, and be on their way before anything untoward could occur. Edgar was a quiet and often solitary child, so he also wanted to be mindful of inundating his space with friends he never saw outside of school and adults who were complete strangers to him. We hired caterers and decorators and when the day rolled around, all of Goldfinch Manor was transformed to celebrate Edgar's 11th year. Until that day, his attacks had been limited to him trying to force his own head from his body with his bare hands. And either Mrs. Vice nor myself had considered he'd been empty-handed each time an attack occurred. It happened while we were eating cake. Around two dozen children and their parents showed up and we all gathered around the seldom used banquet table in the big dining room, a space reserved for special occasions and family gatherings, of which there were very few. The room was in fine spirits, children laughing at the icing smeared on each of the spaces, and parents engaged in lighthearted conversation with one another. Edgar was indulging a single father as he told me about the novel he'd written, which had earned the attention of at least one reputable literary agent. When I noticed Edgar staring across the table, upraised valk clenched in his fists. A glance in the direction he was staring, and at first assumed he must be watching the two girls across the table whisper to each other. I was too slow. Two swept up in the social atmosphere to recognize the day's expression on his face. The moment I look back at him, almost as if he'd been waiting for me to watch. He thrust the fork into his own neck. No one else noticed at first, and I was too shocked to say anything. I rose from my seat while the oblivious author continued to ramble about his book. Edgar pulled the fork from his neck, and I could see the puckered skin move with it, almost as if it was trying to hold the utensil in place, not wanting it to release the streams of blood that flowed the tines out. As the blood flowed down his neck, he plunged the fork in once more, on the other side this time. Somebody screamed. It may have been Mrs. Vice, or the babbling author, or myself, I do not know. Children shrieked and ran from the table. Mrs. Vice raced to her son's side and wrapped a towel around his neck. She shouted for someone to call an ambulance. Edgar, intent on using the fork as efficiently as possible, continued to stab at his own neck. His mother blocked each of these attempts with her own hands, which bled from at least a dozen little holes. Thankfully, perhaps because of the intensity of it, this was one of his short-fits. And by the time the paramedics arrived, Edgar had mostly run out of steam. Mother and son were patched up swiftly in hospital, most of the wounds being superficial. The only serious injury had been to Mrs. Vice's hand, where one of Edgar's jabs had damaged a tendon. She needed surgery to repair the wound and suffered chronic pain in that hand from then onwards. Mr. Vice decided to come home temporarily then, and it was decided, with the encouragement of several psychiatrists, that Edgar should be put under temporary observation. The doctors apparently did not like what they saw, and before long, poor, sweet Edgar, was indefinitely committed to a children's psychiatric hospital. Mrs. Vice and I said our tearful goodbyes as I packed up my things, uncertain of where I would go from there. I was only certain that I did not want to nanny to anyone else. She asked me to stay, of course, but I couldn't remain in that house without Edgar. Goldfinch Manor had become a melancholy, desolate place in the short time since the birthday party. And that should have been the end of the story. I should have accepted it as my way out. I'd saved a good deal of money since my expenses had been miniscule while working for the Vice family, and after taking a year off to travel and see friends, decided to go back to school, where I earned my teaching certificate. A short time after graduating, I found myself teaching high school English. Nine years after moving out of Goldfinch Manor, I had regular employment, a nice place to call my own, and was seeing someone pretty seriously, another teacher at the school I worked at. He primarily taught biology, and was one of the smartest and funniest people I'd ever known. The phone call came from Mrs. Vice one late afternoon, moments after I'd arrived at home. David, the man I'd been seeing, was coming over for dinner, and I had a lot to prepare. I'd only just set down a huge bag of groceries when the phone began its shrill ringing from the living room. My former employer and I had stayed in touch, so it was no surprise to hear her voice on the other end. What was surprising was the joy I heard in her voice. His back! Whose back, Flo? Since resigning as her employee, I found myself quite comfortable calling her by her first name. John? Don't be so foolish! Well, I sound so happy if my husband suddenly decided to return. It's Edgar. He's come home. Oh my God! It wasn't anything I'd expected to hear. We seldom spoke of Edgar these days. It had taken her a long time to get over losing him to the system, and as she healed, she spoke less and less of him. Eventually, she stopped mentioning him in conversation altogether, and not wanting to open any old wounds, I stopped asking about him. The thought that sweet troubled boy having grown into a man was difficult for me to wrap my mind around. Never mind that he'd spent most of the last decade in a mental institution. I promised I'd make a trip to see them as soon as possible. So it was the following Friday evening, saw me exiting a taxi in front of the sprawling estate that had begun to fall into disrepair. It was late autumn, and the garden surrounding the house was a mess of dried husks, looking like bizarre limbs in the day's dying light. I rang the bell, and was entirely unsurprised when no one answered. The manor looked long abandoned, and I wondered for a couple of minutes if perhaps it sold the place and I'd completely missed the announcement. I trekked around to the back of the house and caught the flicker of a light in one of the upstairs windows, Edgar's old room. Hello? Hello? Edgar? It's Naradith! There was no response, and no further light to see, so I went to the back door and gave it a tug. It opened with a rusty hinged screech, and I paused, listening for any response to the sound. The house was silent, but had the distinct feeling of occupation, which made sense since I'd been summoned there. I pushed the feeling of anxious hesitation aside, and stepped through the door and into the kitchen. I'm here! Nothing. I'd lived in this house a long time, and while nothing seemed to have changed since then, it felt different for reasons I could not ascertain. Condemned. Cursed. The overhead lights were on, which was likely the only thing that kept me from fleeing the place right then. Instead, I decided to make myself at home and took my suitcase upstairs into the east wing. My instincts were correct in this at least, and I found my old room had been made up for me. Instead of unpacking, I wandered down the hall and towards the west wing. I called out several times for both Flo and Edgar, but still received no reply. My neck itched at the silence, but my stubborn mind refused to listen to the terrified pleas of my heart. I was halfway down the hall to the master bedroom. When I saw the figure sprawled out on the hallway floor, the only light came from the mouth of the hall, and the body was bathed in shadow. Forgetting any sense of self-preservation, I squinted down the hall to where the person lay, convinced I would find Flo unconscious, or worse. But it wasn't her. The body belonged to a large man, dressed in jeans and a played shirt tucked into his waist. At first I took it to be misdivice, but almost immediately decided it could not be. The hands of this man were paler, more slender, and his attire was entirely different from anything John Vice would recall wearing. Edgar, he remained motionless. I took a few more steps towards him and gasped. I could have screamed, but the sight before me stole my breath. The man was headless. A dark, pool, black in the dimness of the hall, gathered around his neck. I pushed open the closest door to us, the one that led into Edgar's room, found the light switch, and flicked it on. A rectangle of white light spilled across the body, confirming it was indeed blood pooled around the neck, though not as much as I would have assumed had I put any real thought into the finer points of decapitation. The man's hands were splayed in front of him, and one knee was bent upward, as though he'd been army crawling along the floor when... when what? I refused to think of it. Stepping around the body, I told myself I needed to call the police. First though, I needed to make sure Flo was okay. My imagination conjured up images of her laying on her bedroom floor, also decapitated, like an axe murderer had broken into the house, done his business and stalled on away without a trace. Tiptoeing down the hall, I noticed a thin trail of blood leading from the body towards the master bedroom. It snaked along the floor as if whoever removed the head of the mystery man had dragged it behind them on a rope. Behind me, the intercom crackled from Edgar's room, startling me and making me scream at the top of my lungs. Strange that Flo had kept it connected all that time. Or had she wired it back up when Edgar came home? The voice, dreamy and overlaid with static, drifted out of the room. Mordith? Is that you, dear? Mind, hollering at me to call someone, I backtrack, clinging to the wall to avoid the body and slipped into Edgar's room. I press the button to talk on the little speaker box on the wall. Mrs. Fyze? I said, automatically reverting to my formal name for her. Everything is alright. Come in. You'll see. There's a headless potty in the hall. Come to my room and you'll see everything is fine. Why I didn't simply run out of that house, I do not know. Loyalty to my former mistress, Pat. Maybe I wanted to see for myself that she was alright before calling any form of authority. Little as that made sense. Careful to avoid stepping in any of the blood, I walked down the hall like someone in a trance. It felt impossible that I should be doing this, acting so recklessly but my mind seemed to have given up on me, trying to save itself. At the double doors to the bedroom, I could hear a soft female voice coming from within. Mrs. Fyze, cluing baby talk to someone. A chill so violent it hurt ran down my spine. Cheatless of my own apprehension, I reached out and pushed the door open. At first, everything looked as I remembered it. A giant four-poster bed sat in the middle of an enormous room. On the wall closest to me was Mrs. Fyze's vanity and her walking closet next to that. The door to the en suite was open, spilling the only illumination, a cold white light into the room. I looked down and saw the blood trails snake further into the room. I followed it with my eyes and was stunned, silent by what it led me to. Mrs. Fyze sat in her rocker. The same handcuffed chair I'd seen Hsuzed go in on several occasions before. She wore a white nightgown, stained crimson with blood. Her long, graying hair fell loose around her, almost entirely covering her chest, which was bare. The nightgown having been drawn down over her shoulder. She'd lost weight, her face gone, shoulders reduced to jutting points. She held something to her breast and at first I only saw a shock of dark hair and thought she must have had another child without telling me. Then a purplish tendril, something resembling a skinned snake, slithered up her front and caressed the other breast. Smacking, chewing sound came from somewhere near her. Mrs. Fyze looked at me with joyful tears in her eyes. The rest of her face was pale and haggard. I have my baby back. She stroked the hair with one hand. Another of those tendrils wrapped around her wrist and pulled her hand away from the hair. As she moved it, the hair slid off whatever she was holding to her breast and hit the floor with a wet smack. I looked to where it landed and saw chunks of redened flesh there, as well as pieces of what appeared to be bone and teeth. And there was an eye staring up at the ceiling. Even in the indirect glow of the bathroom light I could see. It was the same brown as eyes of the child I once loved as my own. He's free now. Mrs. Fyze fondled the tendril, still holding on to her hand. He was trying for so long to be free. Now he can be himself, my son. The thing on Mrs. Fyze's lap turned and looked at me, leaving a bleeding, ragged wound where it had been chewing on his mother's breath. It was fleshless, all muscle and tendon glistening in the bathroom light. Its head resembled that of a skinned, eerie cat. Its eyes, four of them, were likeless black orbs in a tight cluster high in the middle of its face. Below them was a gaping mouth filled with pointed, bloody teeth. Two more of those tendrils rose from the bundle of flesh. One stroked its mother's cheek while the other buried itself inside the hole it had chewed in her. It screeched then, and I recognized it as the same sound I'd heard Edgar make during his spits. I fled, raced out of the house, leaving my possessions and running until I collapsed in the parking lot of a bank several blocks away. When I came to again, I was in a hospital bed. A uniformed police officer sat in the chair next to it. After hearing my statement, the police went to investigate Goldfinch Manor, where they found Mrs. Fyze's remains. They wouldn't tell me what happened to her, but I understand they had a difficult time identifying the body. As for Edgar's corpse, there was no sign, nor they said did they find any tentacled monsters lurking in the house. They did confirm they'd found a trail of blood leading from, in front of Edgar's room, to the master bedroom. But that was all. The taxi driver who'd dropped me off backed up my alibi, such as it was. And after a brief investigation, it was apparent to officials I had no part in my former mistress's death. A short time later, I was referred to a psychologist who insisted I suffered a stress-induced illusion when I saw my old friend and employer in the disturbing state she'd been found in. He told me it would do me some good to set down my version of events from the beginning, said it would bring closure. But it hasn't helped with the sounds I've been hearing at night. A familiar, distant, screeching sound that wakes me in the middle of the night. And tonight, a squelching, sliding noise. Like something is dragging itself along the floor of my room as I write. I know who it is, of course. And when I am finished writing this, I will go to him. Now that his mother is gone, I'm all Edgar has left. I'm going to go to him. I'm going to go to him. I'm going to go to him. I'm going to go to him. I'm going to go to him. I'm going to go to him. I'm going to go to him. I'm going to go to him. I'm going to go to him. I'm going to go to him. I'm going to go to him. I'm going to go to him. I'm going to go to him. Music 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. Music The No Sleep Podcast presents Goat Valley Campgrounds Season 2 by Bonnie Quinn. Chapter 4 Music Music I've been thinking about alternate worlds a bit. They're hardly a new occurrence. The old stories are riddled with them. Fantastic worlds of wonder and danger into which the unwary can fall or through which the heroic must journey to reach the object of their quest. Narnia was hardly original. And yet what is new in our modern era is that these worlds that lie nestled within our own are living their wonder bit by bit until only danger remains. Like they're decaying. I don't know why this is. Things change. Old creatures dwindle and new creations are born. And I'm at a loss to explain how or why. Perhaps now that we've explored our world and named all the continents and dived into the ocean's depths and even now peer at our skies with a cold cynical rationality, we've lost the wonder of the unknown. The wardrobe is nothing but a dusty wardrobe and our Narnias are tattered remnants declining into forgotten graveyards for the creatures they still house. I suppose I do pity the master of the vanishing house. Even if I do not regret what I did. This is my father's influence. I suppose this is one thing that we have in common with the Inhumans. The world won't notice when we're gone. It just keeps going. The sun still rises. I still have work to do. I have to wake up in the morning, eat, keep breathing. Like the world rushed in and filled up that hole that my uncle's death left behind. Like he was never even there. My name is Kate. And this is Goat Valley Campgrounds. Rule number five was my uncle's rule. If you think you're lost, stop and look at your surroundings. If everything appears a little gray, like the color has seeped from the world, then you're no longer in the campsite. Seek out the highest hill and beg whatever you find there to return you to the camp. Pray that it's in a benevolent mood. It's a rare occurrence, but I'm uneasy with it. As it feels bigger than most of the other things on the campground, we can deal with monsters or vengeful spirits of the like. But there's a weight to the gray world and much like the creature in the darkness, I would prefer my campers to cross its path as little as possible. My uncle told me about the gray world not long after I took over the campground. I wasn't in the mood to hear about it. I didn't even believe him, not at first. He liked to tell stories. He embellished liberally and it was often hard to distinguish where the truth ended and the fiction began. So I didn't consider him a reliable source of information about the creatures on our land. I needed things that could be distilled to simple truths. Because I was in the middle of creating what would become my list of rules for surviving camping. Hey Kate, I heard you were writing a pamphlet for campers or something. Yeah, I'm thinking if people have some practical advice about the campground, we'll have to bail campers out of trouble less often. Stuff like how to keep your temp from collapsing or how to avoid getting impaled by the lady in chains, that sort of thing. Are you going to put anything about the gray world in there? The what? Is this another one of your stories? No, well, yes, but it's also real. I went after some campers and I got out, but they didn't. Check the records. Ugh, fine, I'll think about it. I did look up the names he gave me later. I looked in the real records, not the ones the police keep. They were in there, listed as missing persons, presumed dead but still labeled as missing only because we never found the bodies. Huh, maybe my uncle's onto something. I continued to dig through more accounts. I found a handful of notes about campers that were found wandering the woods, deeply shaken and reluctant to share their experiences. Some of them only gave us fragments of what happened. Others were more willing to divulge, once given a token of confidence that the interviewer, always someone from my family, would believe them. After sorting them into themes and setting aside the ones that weren't relevant, I was forced to admit that there might be some truth to what my uncle said. Uncle Mike, are you home? Sweet pea, come in. What's going on? I want to hear about the gray world. Well, I was out on patrol. It was during our big event, so we also had the volunteers out as well. Before cell phones were commonplace, we had to find alternatives for responding to emergencies within the campgrounds. By emergency, I mean things like bee stings resulting in an allergic reaction, or severe dehydration requiring medical attention, or a yarn ball lurking near some unfortunate camp hoping to grab an opportunistic snack. The patrols are useful enough that we still do them. For our really large events, however, we have a volunteer's secondary patrol composed of the campers themselves. They get a golf cart and a radio. They mostly help by giving people directions, but can radio back to the command staff in the case of a real emergency. The volunteer patrol works pretty well, but sometimes things go awry, such as the infamous incident where a volunteer left their golf cart unattended with the keys and the ignition, and it was stolen and taken on a joy ride before being deposited in my neighbor's lake. He was not happy about it, nor were we. I got a call about a patrol call that had stopped responding. It was the middle of the day, so it seemed a bit early for drunken antics, but you never know with people. That's certainly true. Well, I went to scour the area that they last reported in from. Now, I didn't notice anything was wrong until the engine on my four-wheeler died. Nothing at all? You seriously didn't notice anything off? It was the middle of the day. It's pretty safe during daylight. Not really. When I looked around, the world had this strange quality to it. An ashen cast, and the world seemed darker, thicker, like it was saturated with the weight of all the color that had drained from the sky in the trees. There was no sound, no wind, no distant lull of voices from nearby campsites. Just the faint crunch of dry leaves under my feet as I got off the vehicle. But even that was muted. So you just finally looked around and bam, everything's gray. That's not very helpful. Do you want to hear this story or not? I've searched for ways into the gray world. It's more elusive than the vanishing house was, like it doesn't want to be found. I hope that if I could find something solid, something that triggered falling into it, then I could warn people away. Instead, all I can do is tell them how to get out and hope for the best. I can't do anything more to help them. Once they're inside the gray world, they're on their own. I continued on foot. Ahead of me was the hill leading out of the deep woods, the really steep one. Oh, yeah, the one with the car-eating ditch, my favorite. The hill kept going. My legs began to cramp with exhaustion and I should have reached the top long before this, but it seemed like it just kept going and going. Now I started to get scared at that point and the fear kept me going. Even that early into my time as campground manager, I understood that feeling. If you stay in one place for too long, the fear will grow and grow until it eats you up from inside. Once it's hollowed you out, you're easy prey for whatever comes along next. The missing volunteers were also on the hill. They were further up, standing beside their golf cart, both women. The younger one was crying silently. The older was trying to get the radio to work. They both looked so relieved at my arrival. They'd been trying to get the golf cart to start again. They'd gone up the hill a little bit and realized they were lost because their camp should be just on the right after the tree line ended, but the tree line wasn't ending. The thing is, I recognized that hill and they were in the right place. And I told them what I feared. We weren't in the campground anymore. Knowing what I know now, I wish I'd listened better to my uncle when he first told me the story. I thought, oh sure, it's just Uncle Mike turning something trivial into an exciting story for all the hapless campers he manages to trap into a conversation. Even when I did believe him, later, after I had all the missing people lined up and the evidence staring at me on my desk, I should have gone back to him. Told him to tell me that story again just one more time. I'll tell this next bit exactly as he told it. It's only right. He loved to tell stories. And now, he no longer can. Being more experienced in the woods, Uncle Mike noticed that something was following them long before the women did. It moved furtively among the trees, keeping just far enough away that he couldn't see it clearly when he stole glances in its direction. Just brief looks, subtle enough that the campers wouldn't notice. With how quiet the forest was, though, it was only a matter of time before the other two noticed. The younger of the two finally noticed when they paused to catch their breath. So now his truck is stuck with one tire in the ditch, and I'm telling him that he's not going to get it out by spinning his wheels and... He heard something. You did? Oh, I didn't. It's probably just your imagination. The brain tends to go wild when you're tired and a little spooked. This climb sure is something, isn't it? We aren't making any progress. Oh, it's okay. That's just how these things work. It's about the struggle more than the destination. Maybe we should turn back. I don't think that's a good idea. That's the direction we all came from, and we should keep moving forward. Besides, the deep woods are a little... funny, even in the real world. We don't want to go there. He didn't like lying about the noises and making her doubt herself, but he thought it best to stop them from panicking. The climb was hard enough, and it was an effort to keep his own spirits up, much less reassure the pair that there was hope. It was important that they keep moving. Anything longer than a brief rest was dangerously close to giving up, and then they would never get out. Come on. Let's keep moving. I can't... go on without me. Oh, I'll catch up. We just need to get to the top of the hill, right? That'll take us back to the real campground, he said. The creature was still following them, creeping steadily closer. Uncle Mike even thought he caught a glimpse of a beady black eye, each the size of a tennis ball. How could something that large be so hard to spot? It was like his vision couldn't quite focus on it. His eyes simply slid aside to look at something else, and he only saw it in the edge of his vision. Whatever it was, it was intelligent, and it was hunting them. They couldn't split up. Their only safety now was in numbers. That's not a good idea. If you stay behind, you won't get out at all. But you said there's nothing out here. There isn't. It's just... that's how these places work. He told me he was responsible for their deaths. By this point, he'd lied enough times that the two campers were growing skeptical that he knew what was going on. He felt that if he had told them they were being followed, perhaps they'd have been prepared for what happened. He thought he was protecting them by keeping them ignorant of the danger they were in. But he was wrong. Sometimes we use stories to say the things we can't say outright. I think this was my uncle's way of telling me that he thought I was doing the right thing, with my pamphlet of rules. He was the only one in my extended family that thought I was doing the right thing at the time. Not that it's done much good. I've been telling people that there are things out there in the dark parts of the forest for years and they still don't understand. Come on, please. We really do need to get moving. You keep looking into the woods. Is there? The branches above them creaked and then snapped and something came crashing down towards them. My uncle had only seconds to react. He grabbed the person nearest him, the older woman, and threw her aside. Then he was knocked off his feet and hit the ground hard, his shoulder absorbing the impact. Close by, crouched a creature, a bit larger than a human with the skull of a monstrous bird, a thick neck of glossy black feathers and wings that ended in human hands at the joint. Its body ended at its midsection, the feathers and skin hanging in rough tatters and the remnants of its spine dragged along the ground. Beneath its bulk lay the young woman and my uncle could hear her faint whimpering, the only sound she could make in her terror. The creature's hand was against the back of her head, holding her to the dirt. My uncle scrambled to his feet. He seized the older woman's arm. Come on, get up. We need to go. Run. No. Not without my friend. It's too late. I'm not leaving without my friend. Shit, shit, no. Stop. It's too late. It's always too late. We can't save everyone. Our family motto, I suppose. My uncle left them both behind and continued up the hill. What else could he do? Behind him, the woman tugged at her friend's prone body, trying to pull it out of the grip of the creature. He looked back long enough to watch as it grabbed her as well, wrapping a tallened hand around her head and slamming her into the ground like a rag doll. It dragged them both into the underbrush and he looked away and tried to ignore any sounds coming from the otherwise silent woods. Half ran, half walked, his lungs burning for oxygen as the hill stretched on and on. It was growing steeper. His progress was tortured. By now, the angle was such that he could put his hands out and touch the dirt, and his progress was on all fours, clawing his way up the packed earth. Behind him came the whisper of feathers, of something brittle dragging against the ground. Then the treeline broke and there was nothing but mute gray sky in front of him. He stumbled, swaying with exhaustion, almost sobbing with relief that his feet were on level ground once more. He risked one backwards glance. He could see the bottom of the hill, perhaps 30 feet away, and his four-wheeler sat at the base and not far from it was the missing golf cart. We never got that four-wheeler or that golf cart back. I suppose they're still in the gray world. My uncle never talked much about how he escaped. I could end the story abruptly with only a sentence or two for explanation. It struck me as strange, for this was someone that would gleefully recount or invent gruesome fates for his characters for whoever had the stomach to listen. Yet he didn't want to talk about what he found at the top of the hill. I asked my aunt when I went to talk to her about his funeral arrangements. Auntie, I've been looking through some of my old notes recently, and I've figured out what to do about, well, everything that's going on around the campground. And it's got me thinking, do you remember how Uncle Mike would talk about the gray world? With the giant dead bird monster. Oh, I remember. What did he find at the top of the hill? Oh, that. He never told me much, just that there was something there. The master of the gray world, he called it, and he asked it to return him to the campground and it did. There's more to it than that. He didn't describe it much. I don't think he could. A bird skeleton, he said, but big, as big as the entire world. He didn't ask it to return, not at first. He couldn't speak at all, so overwhelmed by its presence. What did it say? He almost didn't return, you know. He considered it for a long time. I think he came back for me and for you. He was like a father to me after I lost dad. I know. He didn't tell me everything. Said it was better that I not know. Better that we both live like this day would never come. That creature told him the date and manner of his death. And then it asked if he wished to remain in the gray world so that his death would not find him. He came home. For me. Maybe remembering the story is how I'm grieving for him. We buried him in the family graveyard. I'm not sure how the tradition of using our own land for a family cemetery got started. Some of the headstones date back to before this was a formal town, so perhaps it was out of necessity, as there was no official cemetery yet. I like to think we kept the tradition so that our family could rust together. There's no ghosts on the campground, so maybe it's working. I arrived at the cemetery before anyone else. My parents are buried side by side, and I wanted to visit before my relatives arrived. I stared at the headstone and wondered what secrets they took with them. My mother's journal in particular weighs heavily on my mind. The man with no shadow, written on that page all by himself, I felt her absence keenly there on that gray day, standing by myself in the cemetery. It wasn't that I wanted her guidance. I was well past the age where I believe my parents knew what they were doing any better than the rest of us. But I wanted to know if she had even a hint of the man with no shadow's plan. He plays the long game, and I feared that this particular scheme was longer than the rest. Years. Decades. Or even generations. My reverie was interrupted by arriving mourners. Only family members attended the burial, which was actually quite a few people since extended family were included. My aunt said some things. My brother spoke about his relationship with Uncle Mike, and they were closer than I realized. Then it was my turn, and I had more to say than just what Uncle Mike meant to me. Because this isn't just about me. It's also about this land. This land that we've all bled and died for. Uncle Mike was killed by a creature on this land. This is the fate of our family, it seems. And I'm as angry and hurt by it as you all are. But even while we grieve, the world continues to spin, and so we have to keep going. It's gonna be a bad year. I've seen the signs. We're gonna prepare for it in all the usual ways. I'll bring on the extra staff, and if any of you all want in on it again, you'll be much appreciated. But this year is a little different from the other bad years I've seen. Those things out there, they're not just more active. They're scheming. The man with no shadow wants something. He wants the land to change hands. He wants his freedom. Is this about those buyer rumors I'm hearing in town? It is. And the man with no shadow has got all sorts of people under his sway to help with it. Trust no one. Don't even trust family. I hated doing it. I hated sowing the seeds of distrust against them. This campground runs because of the family, and to imply that maybe even some of us were under an inhuman creature's sway, it was too hard to bear. With the dirt covering my uncle freshly turned at our feet. I had to do it. I had to. This is not a normal bad year. We can grieve once it's over. We can say our apologies to each other once it's done. But until then, we cannot forget that those things are out there and they don't play fair. They hunt us. They kill us. And unless we want to be out here again, laying another body in the ground, we can't afford to go easy on ourselves. Don't trust your friends or family until this is over. And you, Kate, can we trust you? Trust me, least of all. I'm the one asking everyone to risk their lives for my campground. Goat Valley Campgrounds Season 2 was written and adapted for audio by Bonnie Quinn. Produced for the No Sleep podcast by Phil Mykulski. Musical score composed by Brandon Boone. Starring Lindsay Russo as Kate, Dan Zipula as Mike, Jessica McAvoy as The Camper, Danielle McCrae as The Woman, and Nicole Doolan as The Aunt. Join us next week for Chapter 5 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 Mykulski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornette, and Claudius Moore. Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McEnally, Ollie 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, thank you for joining us and seeking safety from the things that stalk us in the night. This audio program is copyright 2025 by Creative Reason Media Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. Thank you for your time.