S23 Ep20: NoSleep Podcast S23E20

WNSP You're listening to the darkness of the night. WNSP is overnight programming. I'm DC, and I'll be your host during these dark hours. This will be my last program before Thanksgiving, so for all of you planning on celebrating the day, I hope all the turkey and stuffing and sweet potato casserole with the marshmallows on top tastes extra delicious this year. I sure am thankful that all you folks still listen to the darkness of the night. And as you know, Thanksgiving in cryptid valley is a unique experience. For some reason, the swamp area always seems to turn an extra deep shade of green. Have you ever noticed that? It always happens right around the end of November. And no, I do not subscribe to the theory that our swamp is where the Grinch lives during the warmer seasons, and the greening of the swamp is him rising to prepare for his Christmas season of torment. I do not consider the Grinch to be a viable cryptid, but swamps do make for good cryptid sightings, so keep your eyes peeled for any extra green creatures down the first landing of the day. Now let's kick off the program with a visit from our creepy friends as we hear the latest episode of the No Sleep Podcast. A rustle of the leaves. Of leading movement at the edge of your vision. How often have you walked a forest trail at dusk, only to feel the unmistakable sensation that something unseen is watching you? For centuries, humans have populated the darkness with creatures of legend whose existence remains unproven, yet whose presence is undeniable in the whispered tales of those who dare venture too deep into the wild. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host David Cummings. As we head into the week of Thanksgiving, I will once again express my gratitude for everyone who makes the show possible. From the amazingly talented people who bring the stories to life, to you, our sleepless listeners. Thank you for making this dark little dungeon a bit brighter as we share the power of horror together. You keep listening and we'll keep trying our best to bring you stories that keep you up at night. And ultimately, trying our best is all we can do, right? No matter what you do, whether it's your job or a favor for someone or just trying to accomplish something for yourself, all you can do is try your best and hope for the best possible outcome. And on the show this week, we meet people who are doing their level best at their tasks. They're trying to be helpful, to be productive, to just get stuff done. And as you can imagine, the things making their life difficult are rather nasty things indeed. So thanks for trying dear listeners, and thanks for always being willing to tune in, turn on, and to brace yourself for our sleepless tales. In our first tale, we meet a man working at a pawn shop, a job that can be tough at the best of times, let alone working with a hangover. And oh, the characters that might shop there. Well, in this tale, shared with us by author, Daniel Ray, a customer arrives the minute the shop opens, and much to the employees Shagrin, he has some very specific shopping needs. Performing this tale are Jeff Clement, Ellie Hirschman, Nicole Duhlin, and Kristen D. McEurio. So try your best to help out the man because you're serving the relic eater. Hangovers. My dance around the feeling, letting the throbbing subside before reaching into the cash drawer. The lockup key was supposed to be there, but my adult brain couldn't process the signals from my fingers fast enough to figure out which small middle thing was for getting at the expensive crap, and which were coins that should by all rights be removed from circulation. Finally putting thumb and forefinger on what I thought was the right thing, I ran a fingertip over the teeth of it. I nodded entirely to myself as I was alone in the shop, and turned around to mumble and fumble through getting a key into a lock. My haze made the jingle of the dented bell above the door meld with the general pulse of all my senses. Turning towards the direction of the door, I could make out a silhouette against the glare of the morning. I couldn't possibly be open yet, could I? A tap on my phone showed the clock betraying me, reading 830, opening time. The figure strode forward, his steps jerky, stiff, like he was an octogenarian filmed in stop motion. The hangover jitters and draped overcoat told me his night had been full of harder stuff than mine, meaning I fully expected him to slap his grandfather's watch from the war on the counter and try to scam a few bucks for some hair of the dog. After he finally arrived in front of me, a glove to hand came down on the wood slab with a forceful clang. I am here now. I wish to make a purchase. His voice felt like something between a whisper and a buzz. Almost like he had something adding reverb. One of those voice box thingies, maybe? I couldn't really see what was going on behind the scarf wrapped around his mouth in the massive ski gougles across his eyes. Sure, it was winter, but it was a pretty odd look, especially with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up and forward far enough to shade most of his face. I got jewelry, I got lots of clocks, some golf clubs in real good shape. I pointed through the store hoping something would peak his interest without me having to stumble around to show him what I had. It must be old, a thing with many memories. But he that is the weirdest way of asking for antiques I have heard. It was too early for any sort of filter to have kicked in. He paused and the sound of the wall of clocks filled the space with ticking. I am sorry, I do not speak well. He shifted towards the necklaces behind me, gazing at the admittedly dazzling assortment. The old money deaths had signaled the collapse of the neighborhood, but it had been great for business as distant relatives tried to quickly sell off Nana's prized earrings to scrape every last dollar out of their estates. I stared at him for a second, trying to figure out what the hell his problem could be, but that semester of psych hadn't prepared me to diagnose weirdos at this level of oddity. I shrugged and turned to the rack of mostly costume necklaces bringing them to the counter. Well, so this one, with the opals, that was, do you know the van creaks? Yeah, the old lady wore that on her wedding day. Oh, and the pearl string belonged to the Madame Boergard. He reached forward, running each in turn between the cloth of his gloves. His fingers didn't fill him out particularly well, like he was skinnier than was healthy. He shook his head after each of my admittedly embellished tails, until his hand brushed a simple gold chain with a heart locket. Probably the least impressive piece there, his hand shook slightly. That, what do you know of that? I glanced down and my eyes widened as I look more closely. I'm eight again. That little gold hard is dangling in front of my face. Grandma is leaning over me, laughing as she adjusts the shoulder strap. I know it's a little big for your kid, but bass friends in the family. Do you know your mom played the same beast back in high school? Mom scoffs from the kitchen where she's washing the dishes with grandpa. Don't let Miss Sunshine hear fool you, Dylan. I'm not the origin of the stories for that bass. Go ahead, ask her about the horrid billiards. Its grandma's turned to scoff. A little punk never heard anyone. They're kiddo. How's that sitting? I feel heavy beneath the weight of these women's lives, but it's more comforting than suffocating. They're sharing old dreams with me, making me a part of this family's legacy. Can you teach me any of your old songs, grandma? She leans down again, the light catching on the chain this time. Kiddo, we're gonna start with smoke on the water, but then maybe your mom will let me teach you Nixon's panties a little later. Her wink shines in my soul. Well, I don't know how this thing got here. This was my grandma's. Shouldn't be mixed in here. I shifted the rack back away from the creaking man and put a vague layer between the two. Listen, you don't want that anyway. It's pretty cheap. It's just sentimental, you know. Here, this ring was the one old man Pickford proposed with. You know the West Heights Pickfords? My translusently thin story did nothing to hold his attention. He only had eyes for that necklace. No, I do. Do not. Do not want. Pickfurt. Slowly, more slowly than a cat trying to steal a treat, his glove extended across the counter. I turned, moving the rack out of his reach, but right when I thought he was at full extension, I heard a faint click and stared as his arm shuttered and jerked and kept going. For a split second, I thought I had to still be pissed. This couldn't be a real thing. But then his arm lunged the last few inches and snatched the thin gold chain. Shit man, what the shit is wrong with your arm? What the shit do you think you're doing? Give me that back. I tried to snatch it right back, but he had found a speed I couldn't hope to match. Come on, I told you that's my grandma's. It's not worth anything to you. The hood fell back as he tipped his head and I stopped talking. Moving, breathing. All the baggy clothes and mismatched coverings shifted and I could see his bare, skinless, bloodless face for the first time. A vague suggestion of human features was assembled from an unholy mess of miniature gears. Clicking and worrying as they performed an impossibly intricate dance within the space that should have been eyes and nose all those natural parts. From the sagging of the gloves and the jerking way he moved, I guess that every inch of him was made of this clockwork. The levered metal about where a chin should be opened, revealing a red, tingeed glow, illuminating his internal workings from somewhere deeper. The turning orifice, it's parts forever roiling even as it held only a general shape of an open mouth, began producing that ragged voice I thought had been modulation. Was clear. I'm clear about wanting memories was. Before I could do anything, his hand snapped towards the opening, shoving both locket and chain into the ticking and glowing innards. I made again that little gold heart is dangling in front of my face. Grandma is leaning over me, laughing as she adjusts the shoulder strap. I know it's a little big for your kiddo, but bass friends in the family. Do you know your mom played the same beast back in high school? Mom scoffs from the other room. Don't let miss fool you, Dylan. I'm not the origin of the stories for that base. Go ahead, ask her about it. Wait, that isn't right? Didn't mom have a name for her? All I can hear of the proper nouns is a burst of static. It is grandma's turn to scoff. A little punk never heard anyone. They're kiddo, how's that sitting? I feel heavy beneath the weight of these women's lives, but it's more comforting than suffocating. They're sharing old dreams with me, making me a part of this family's legacy. Now I ask her to teach me. Can you teach me any of your old songs, grandma? She leans down again, the light catching. There is something supposed to be here. Something is missing. Kiddo, we're gonna start with you. But then maybe your mom will let me teach you. A little later. Who wink is not the comfort I thought it was. I stared at the bastard clock robot thing in front of me. My teeth chattering is something in my head creek under strain. What the fuck are you doing to me? He's it. Whatever. Shittered is the sound of deer's grinding the metal of the necklace scraped inside of my skull. I'm I'm a kid. I'm young. I can see a woman in front of me bending over. She is wearing a necklace. Do I know her? Yes, this is my grandmother. I know it's a little big for you kiddo. She says more, but I'm having trouble understanding her. My mom makes a sound from another room. Don't let Mrs. Bull you Dylan. I'm not the origin of the stories for that base. Go ahead. I don't know why, but her saying my name makes me start crying. My grandmother scoffs. Huh. Little punk. Something about how she looks at me, how she dismisses me feels suffocating. Why is she putting an instrument on me? Why does this feel so painfully important? Can you teach me any of your old songs? There is a hole in her chest where her heart should be. Keto we're gonna teach you. Her wink is menacing. I collapsed against the counter, whimpering in front of the monster. Please, you need I need you to stop. A feeling like a ragged knife sawed through all of my nerves, making my entire body convulse. I am a child. There's a woman in front of me. She speaks, but it is nothing but the white noise of hazy memory. My mom calls from the next room. This too is just sound. Lost in a whirlpool of the many times she called to me. I am suffocating beneath the layers of the past. Misremembered and painted over many times. I desperately wanted to teach me something. I want to learn from her, but I don't know who she is. Like a star going behind the moon. She winks out. The chitter of too many joints clacking together, filled my senses as the horror bent over my twitching, frothing body. Do not, you should not. Very Dylan, I will be back. I am Dylan. We will find more memories. Tomorrow same time. Same time. I will be. I cried, then, mourning something I could not comprehend. The world went black. Hangovers. I danced around the feeling, letting the throbbing subside before reaching into the cash drawer. The lock up key was supposed to be there. I stopped as I realized that the key was already in my other hand. A tap on my phone revealed the clock betraying me. 9.45 already late to open up. I had to stop making a habit of this. 10.45 already late to open up. I have to stop making a habit of this. I have to stop making a habit of this. I have to stop making a habit of this. I have to stop making a habit of this. I have to stop making a habit of this. I have to stop making a habit of this. I have to stop making a habit of this. 10.45 already late to open up. When trying to be helpful, is there any task more simple yet more annoying than picking someone up at the airport? The wild scramble to get in and out before the airport traffic police start yelling at you, trying to time the arrival down to the minutes. Ugh, stressful to say the least. But in this tale, shared with us by author D. Corrisis, which is part of the collection spine tingling tales to read before bed. Mike is waiting at the airport to pick up his wife, and she's there waiting. But is he there? I mean, is she there? Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, Matthew Bradford, Sarah Thomas, Kristen DeMakerio, and Wafia White. So try to time things just right and hope the plane arrives safely at Gate C12. A rush of industrial air conditioning brought welcome relief when Mike entered the bustling Seattle airport. The sun was warm in the late afternoon, with not a cloud in the sky to block its rays. Once he managed to reunite with his wife, he would be happy to enjoy a gentle walk in the sunset, with her hand interlaced with his. Several days had passed since she'd flown to Montana for her sister's baby shower. From the sounds of things, it had been a standard trip, laced with family drama and frustration. A bundle of flowers would help lessen his wife's fatigue when she passed through the security gates. After checking a teleprompter, Mike confirmed that his wife's plane had in fact touched down several minutes prior. Any minute now, he'd expected her to walk through the automatic doors. Weary passenger soon approached an aesthetic stream. Mike scanned the heads in search of his wife's telltale ponytail. Mike glanced at a passing elderly woman as she smiled in motion to his flowers. He returned her grin. They're all yours if my wife doesn't want them. I'll hold you to that. They exchanged a final smile before she continued on her way. Mike was certain he hadn't missed his lover, but as the disembarking crowd thinned to only stragglers, he wondered if she had managed to slip by. Being the last to get off a plane was hardly something to panic over. Mike decided to wait patiently. Reunion's burst into life around him as families became whole again, and he wondered if maybe one day his own grandchildren might race to greet him at the airport. Such a reality felt a lifetime away. Several more groups of passengers passed through security. Still, there was no sign of her. Nervous, Mike pulled his phone from his pocket. There was nothing waiting. No text message asking his whereabouts. No missed calls explaining some baggage problem. He assumed she'd stopped at the bathroom, or maybe a particularly good coffee from a cafe had ensnared her into waiting in line. Regardless, Mike was certain he would see his wife stride through the doors any second. No matter what nervous anxiety might have been bubbling within his gut. Vibration from Mike's phone released all of his tension when he saw his wife's photo on the screen. He answered quickly, already feeling his worry wash away. Hey you, I'm waiting outside security. Where are you? I'm just starting to... The line was full of static and garbled sounds. Patches of frantic words came through. Mike furrowed his eyebrows. Laura, Laura, you're kind of breaking up. I can't understand you. He turned around, looking toward baggage claim. Did you sneak past me? The static cleared, although her voice still sounded distant. I...mine! Her tone gave him pause. There was deep worry and panic in Laura's voice. Can you hear me? I'm waiting. I...there's no one here. Every breathing came through the phone as if she was trying to catch her breath. There's no place here. Yeah! Such claims puzzled Mike. Shifting his gaze, he inspected the throngs of people going about their business in the terminal. It was hard to believe an airport of this size could ever be empty. Huh? The airport, Mike. It's empty. Just empty. It's completely abandoned. Where are you? Laura's voice came through the phone with an echo as if she were talking in a cavern. I...I don't understand. I'm at security. Where are you? Silence followed, as Mike was taken aback by her outburst. You paid close attention to the people walking by. None were his wife. Laura, I'm not sure what you're talking about. I'm sitting in a chair waiting for you to come out of security. Same place I always meet you. Nervous sounds of panic came through the phone. You recognized them well, and new Laura must have been biting her fingernails. Uh, are you at the right airport? I know, I know. I'm just saying if you're at security and I'm at security and we can't see each other, then we're not at the same place. You could tell, Laura was close to breaking down. Okay, let's take a breath. What's the last thing you remember? I've sought the plane. I thought I was leaving after we took off. When I woke up, the plane was sitting at the gate. There was no flight crew though. The pilot, the stewardesses, everyone was gone. I grabbed my carry on and ran out of the gate because I thought I might get in trouble. But the entire airport was just dead. Why isn't it flying? And your positive, it's the Seattle airport, C-Tack. I'm scared. I'm scared. I thought this is a stupid scope. So we always make fun of. I want to put the pause in this place. Her claim gave Mike pause. Looking down the hall a dozen meters away was the art piece in question. Yeah, that's unique one. A shuddering crack came through the phone making Mike recoil in shock. What was that? There's a thunderstorm outside. It's been raining since I woke up. Thunderstreet hits 85 degrees in sunny. Are you sure you're in Seattle? Silence filled the void. Laura, you there? I'm scared. I thought crossed Mike's mind. Wait, wait, wait, are you pranking me? That you were scared I was playing a prank on you. Are you just hiding around the corner? Because I gotta say this prank makes no sense. I just finished acting weekend at my very pregnant horrible, fiddled sister's house. I want to get home and sleep in my old bed. Why would I do this? Okay, okay, just checking. Laura huffed amid static crackles. I don't know. I want to look at something. What? My flight status. Mike approached his own monitors. It says your flight arrived on time 20 minutes ago. The resulting silence wasn't comforting. Laura? My assess, I heard it. Saying it attendant. Mike strained his ears to listen through the phone as people talked around him. Your says diverted. What is this? What is this? Mike, there's nobody here. There's nothing. The bouquet is wrapping crinkled in his fidgeting hand. Oh hey, hey, hey, it's all right. There has to be someone around, right? Are the lights still on? Yeah, some of them at least. And someone had to land the plane, right? Yeah. Yeah. So somebody is around. Um, maybe they, maybe they moved the plane to an unused part of the airport while you were sleeping and you didn't notice. I know where I am. My time's up. Guys. Okay, let me go talk to an attendant and see if they can help. I'm sure there's a logical explanation. Please, hi. Laura sounded as though she were looking over her shoulder every few seconds. Oh, I can focus on on my own flex. So quiet. I can't hear myself. I'm starting to notice I'm hearing things around corner. Mike made his way to a customer service counter. As far fetched as her story sounded, Laura's description conjured frightening scenarios in his head. Some of C-tax hallways stretched over a thousand meters. It would be terrifying to stare down a desolate hallway, only to see some unknown creature run across the other end. He didn't dare share such a ghoulish thought out loud. Okay, I'll be right back. Hang tight. A woman behind a computer grim as he approached. Hello, sir. What can I help you with today? Mike scratched his head. Well, uh, this is going to sound weird, but is there another of these airports? The customer service woman cocked her head. I'm sorry? Like another C-tax but unused. Mike blashed from the ridiculous question. No, sir. This is the only C-tax. Confused anxiety made Mike tap his fingers on the counter. The flowers were starting to wilt. Of course, he knew this was the only C-tax, but his wife wouldn't be acting this way for no reason. Okay, um, can you check my wife's flight then please? Flight 3773 on United. It landed, but I haven't seen her yet. Certainly. One moment please. Her fingers clicked and clacked away on her keyboard. The suspense was a sauna around Mike's head. Looks like it did touch down about 20 minutes ago. Everyone was accounted for and disembarked the craft. That particular plane is currently boarding for flight to Boise. My system shows there were no passengers with connections on that flight. So she had to have left the craft. Mike chewed his bottom lip in frustration. He'd only found more questions and still his wife continued to only exist on the other end of a phone call. Okay, thank you. Let me know if there's anything else I can do for you. Stepping away, Mike returned to his call. Laura? Laura? The fear was still prevalent in her voice. Electronic crackles and fissures split her words. Well, she said everything looks normal. The flight to Boise is boarding it right now and everyone got off the plane after it landed. It's not abandoned though. There's a hundred people around me. Oh, my God. Her voice cut off, making Mike's heart jump into his throat. Laura? A sharp, distant warning sound came through the receiver with Laura's voice. Mike grew cautious. Well, don't go nearing. I think it's someone who can get me out of here. That's a gun. It's close. The sound echoed with her voice through the desolate airport. Keeping quiet, Mike listened to her breathing as she hurried to find the source of the sound. Who was familiar to him, though he couldn't place its origin? Her voice made him jump. Her voice made him jump when she spoke again. Found it. What is it? It's a baggage plane warning. Like when the bags start coming down onto the boat. Only. Mike didn't like the wavering tones in her voice. What's wrong? There are mountains of showcases here. It's like a rocket fire to help. Huh? Just a mix of drugs. Like even piling up over here. Decades, even I... A gasp came through the phone after a loud thud. That's my bag. Hearing her run and stumble over several objects, Mike listened intently. That's definitely mine. This is so weird. No one else has came out. But this is a good sign, right? That means someone had to be around to unload it from the plane. Mike was too busy weaving between throngs of people to reply right away. What? Sorry, what? Hang on, I'm going to baggage claim it. Arriving at the rows of conveyor belts, Mike scanned the LED screens for one that matched Laura's flight number. He found it near the end. As he feared, the belt was empty as the last passenger was grabbing their bag. Your bag isn't here. I know, because I just grabbed it. But you're not here either. The situation was eating away at Mike. A longer-dragdon, the more he feared something malevolent might have been fallen his wife. Can you look at the other suitcases? Can you look at the other suitcases? Do any of them have a name tag? Anything helpful? I guess. It's really creepy stepping around with all of this luggage, though. I feel like a touch point to that. He listened to her crawl over several in search of a tag. Finally, she called out several names. Uh, now in coke. Is that temple? There are a lot more tags, though. Mike's heart was racing. That should be enough. Hang on. He took the phone away from his ear and opened a web browser. Searching for the first name made his heart sink. Searching for the second made him feel sick to his stomach. His hand shook when he replaced the phone to his ear. Laura, those are names of missing people. You're just trying to scare me. That's not funny. Like, I don't appreciate it. I'm not joking. Marilyn Pope went missing in 2003 after a flight from California. That Campbell has been missing since 2015. I mean, I just found several articles all about them. Mike, I found the tag that was already open. It looks like something went through it in a hurry. I found it ready to flee to be anywhere but baggage claim. It's really old. Like, maybe from the 80s? A lot of clothes are ripped up. Laura? Paraport G6. Oh, I'm so proud. The discovery made his blood go cold. I...I think someone went through this to find their gun. Why would they need to do that? What were they showing at? Is their blood on the floor? Mike couldn't believe he'd just asked such a question to his hysterical wife. I can't tell. There are too many suitcases I can barely walk through here. Thunder shattered over Laura's head. The wind is rattling before the door. I...I have a sanistical car drive by this entire time. Mike, I...I don't want to be there. I don't even know where it can't pass anymore. Oh, man. I'll find a way to get you out. I just need some time to think. The world was making less sense by the minute. By every shred of logic, the situation Laura found herself in should have been impossible. Assuming she was telling the truth, Mike couldn't comprehend any logical answers. Mike heard his wife stumble over several bags as it fallen back on. He held the phone to his face until he could feel the heat on his cheek. Laura, what is it? I saw something! Something lost! The costume went on to be a key wound! Mike glanced toward the ceiling. An exclusive second floor boasted a relaxing getaway for the airport's premium members, separate from the coach and economy flyers of the world. A row of fogged windows was the only view available into the realm of the upper class. He could see several human-shaped silhouettes standing against the blurry glass. Maybe it's someone who can help. He had never heard Laura so terrified. That shadow wasn't simply anybody I ever seen. The sound of scrambling and frantic breath soon followed. Mike could hear her panting like he was listening to a horror movie on his phone. What are you doing? I have to get out of here! I have to get out of here! Banging fists fell upon tempered glass to echo down the empty halls. She was beating on the doors to the exit like a crazed animal. Laura, Laura, take a breath. We'll figure this out. No! We can't do this! Something erupted through the phone. A horrible, mind-numbing roar drowned out Laura like a net in a storm. He thought his device might have been broken to produce such a gut-wrenching sound. Such vibrations couldn't have been of earthly reality. Laura! She didn't respond. Listening close, he could hear her running. For shoes echoed off the tiled floors into empty halls of the airport. She was in a dead sprint. The roar came again, rumbling in the background. A horrified scream merged with Laura's gasping breaths. Laura? Laura? There's something in here. What? I don't know! I don't know! Oh my God! I'm not going to lie to counter the court. There's... There's trying to run all over the floor. I think... Another gutter-roll, otherworldly scream made Mike's bones want to jump from his body. It sounded closer than before. Laura was weezing through a hand clamped over her mouth and nose to silence her breathing. Calm down, one. Maybe they can track your phone in. No, no! I can't help you again! I called Billy when he heard before. I don't want to be left alone. Please! Don't blame me! The scream wreaked of pain and all-consuming horror. Mike couldn't begin to comprehend what beast could bear. It's not... Don't make any noise. Stay where you are. I'm going to... A familiar voice stole his attention. Mike, there you are, finally! Mike looked up and realized sweat was pouring down his face. Laura was weezing through the door. Mike looked up and realized sweat was pouring down his face. Laura was weaving her way toward him through the crowd of people with her suitcase and toe. His mind short-circuited. Nothing over the past 30 minutes would lead him to believe she should be standing in front of him. It was her face. Yet he wasn't sure he would have recognized her if she hadn't called his name. Laura? He lowered his phone. Laura glared at him. I thought you would meet me at security! She embraced him the way she always did, though something felt off. Mike couldn't place the source of uncanny dread. The simplest explanation was to believe this truly was his wife wrapping her arms around him. I...uh...uh... Oh! Are those for me? Laura took the flowers from his frozen grasp and inhaled. They're wonderful! A bellow shook from his phone speakers, unnoticed. Laura's voice shrieked from beside his hip, barely audible among the crowd. Laura stepped back. Oh, I can't wait to tell you about the baby shower. Come on! I already got my bag. She took Mike's hand. Dome, Jeeps! Hi! Are you still there? I don't want to go out telling you, Mom! I don't want to be your mom! I'm sorry, Mom! I'm sorry, Mom! I'm sorry, Mom! I'm sorry, Mom! I'm sorry, Mom! I'm sorry, Mom! I'm sorry, Mom! If you're a mailman, you know the saying. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom, etc., etc. No matter what, you have to deliver the packages, especially with Christmas approaching, even to houses that are normally just summer homes for the rich. And in this tale, shared with us by author Charlie Davenport, we learn of a man's grandpa, who was a letter carrier, trying to reach a house that really should have been empty at that time of year. Performing this tale are Dan Zapula, Jesse Cornett, Mary Murphy, and Danielle McCray. So when sending packages, try not to make November the month to send something to Summerland. It was just before Christmas. We were past the fleets of BMWs that appeared in front of McCormick's general store, starting in June. Past July's boozy tensions when the summer people rubbed elbows with the locals at the fireworks. Past the infidelity of the past, and do you eyes that came in August? When the refugees from New York City and Boston sensed their time on the coast coming to an end, even with the holidays almost upon us, it was that time of year when most of us could shift down a gear or two. But not grandpa. Amazon was still a twinkle in the sky, and with the Christmas season approaching, grandpa's navigation skills were tested like never before. The fact that packages had to be left on doorsteps, not just in mailboxes, meant he was often slogging through snow or mud, with parcels in hand. The fact that packages had to be left on doorsteps, meant he was often slogging through snow or mud, with parcels in hand. Sometimes doorstep delivery meant meeting an angry dog that took this unexpected visitor for an intruder, and more than once, my 76-year-old Gramps had to high-step over a fence to avoid getting a chunk torn out. During those days, it was not uncommon for him to be out before dawn and make it back just before dusk. Apologizing to grandma as he came through the door for making her wait, on just such an evening as an early season snow began to fall. Grandpa came through the door. Mom was working another long shift and I'd already been fed, sitting at the kitchen table with a math book open in front of me, and very little hope in my heart that any of it would ever make sense. Grandpa's mail sack was slung over his shoulder and he looked tired. I decided to wait until after he ate to ask for his help. I'm awful sorry Georgia! Grandma shushed him and told him to wash up. When he set his bag down on the chair, it thunked against the wood, and the cloth fell in such a way that you could tell there was still something inside. You forget something else? He shut the water off and looked over. Oh no, I gotta take that bag in the morning. I can't make out the hand right now on it. Maybe if you went to the eye doctor. Grandma set his plate down in the microwave and headed towards the bag. I had my cheaters. Grandpa raised his drug store-bought reading glasses from where they swung off his neck. Grandma ignored her stubborn fool and fished the brown cardboard box out of the bag. She held the white label up close and then far away and tried several points in between before placing it in front of me with a sigh. You've got younger eyes. My grandparents inability to decipher the writing was understandable. It was chicken scratch, likely to be illegible even to the person who wrote it, where it to be presented back to them. I think it says 23 saccinette-something. My grandparents exchanged a look. That's summer land, isn't it? You want of them? Came up to see the foliage. Just then, the microwave dinged. Grandma fetched the steaming plate and set it on the counter. She looked out at the bear trees. Her doubtful expression made her counter argument. Grandpa turned to me. Can you make out the name? Something... Lip... Pinsky? Lipinsky? Grandpa fished a potato out of grandma's stew and popped it into his mouth. Oh, oh, I go. Grandma had worried a bit because of the lateness of the hour, the weather, and him leaving on a mostly empty stomach. No rain, snow or sleet. She'll keep me from my pointed rounds, my dear. Since his father had put him on the tractor at age 8, Grandpa had been a driver, from bootlegging as a young man, to deliveries for Aldrich Derry, to ferrying folks back and forth to the Hanton Nursing Association. Grandpa always made his living behind the wheel. Rhode Island is famously small. The smallest state in a country that prides itself on its size. So you could still be forgiven for thinking that it shouldn't take a body long to get where they're going. The fact is, most New England roads started out as carriage paths, twisting around the natural obstacles as needed, resulting in a snaking, winding network that only a few can navigate without tearing their hair out. Among that circuitous group, Rhode Island roads are beasts unto themselves, thanks to blue laws. Blue's are ordinances regulating or flat out for bidding, entertainment, or commercial activities on Sundays. I.E. Boos. One of the more obscure blue laws was that no drinking establishment could be built anywhere, other than at a four-way intersection. I have no idea why, but the Puritans that settled the place made sure as few roads as possible meant directly. The result was many neglected paths winding through the countryside, rimmed by salt marshes and red-covered bridges spanning across tiny streams. There were no roadside stands, no historical mile markers, no shops selling painted co-hog shells to draw the tourist's attention. These roads had faded from the working memory of most. Talking with me is sometimes these folks only contact with the outside, they'll have that day, and quite a lot make me all that of it. There was Bill Swain, old stock that could find nine ways out of ten, to let you know his family was descended from the first white woman born in America. He liked his readers digest. There was Clara Aldrich, kin to the dairy folks. She was what was called a spinster back then, and filled her days feeding the birds in her backyard. Every week, Grandpa dropped off a forty-pound bag of black oil sunflower seeds to her house, while she told him all about her feather babies. There was Colonel Berkeley, who traveled exclusively, rain sleet or snow. Via an old M-38G, he claimed to have brought back with him. He liked to tell Grandpa about how the whole country would sit up and fly rice, where he in charge. There was the widow Woodward, who called all men over the age of sixteen by her late husband's name, and accepted deliveries at her door, wearing only a straw hat. What do you talk about with her? I had asked, and Grandpa replied from behind a tiny smirk. I don't know whether or not. Mostly. With that kind of local color, is it any wonder that most folks took absolutely no notice of the residents of Summerland? Grandpa would tell me all about it years later. He asked everybody, including mom and uncle Dane, to leave the room. Grandma was already gone by then, and so it was just me and him in that hospice room. For a minute, he was quiet, so I could hear the heart rate monitor knocking out the final metronome beat of his last day, and the hiss of the ventilator. His voice was just a frail echo of itself when he finally spoke. You remember me going out to Summerland that night? Now the fact was, I shouldn't have. There had been a dozen years since that night. Moments like Sophia Bieletti breaking my heart for the first time, she would do it twice more at least. So that night should have slipped below the surface of my mind and disappeared. But it hadn't. I'd heard Grandpa come back that night. There was no clock in the guest room, so I didn't know how late it was. But the sun didn't come up for quite a while. I heard him open the liquor cabinet and the tumbler he kept for such indulgences, tapping the cabinet twice. Grandma must have heard it too, because she came down and they talked until it was daylight. Grandpa was old even then, but when I came down to breakfast that morning before mom picked me up, he looked diminished like he'd aged, shrunk and withered. So, yes, I said, I remembered the night he drove out to Summerland. Summerland was what the locals called the patch of expensive shoreline homes that were almost exclusively owned by the out of towners. No one from town ever saw the inside of one of those mcmansions, unless they were the caretaker, where there was an issue with the toilet. Grandpa was just rounding the corner before sea sprayway turned into saccinette. And the first of those grand houses came into sight. They were standing there, dark and empty, groaning as the oceans winter wind battered against them. Grandpa said the way everything turned out probably recolored his memory, but on that night, the look of those places and the black ocean beyond made him feel anxious. Like they didn't want me there, silly thought for a grown man to have, isn't it? Grandpa shook off his case of the willies and was about to scan the numbers on the mailboxes to find 23 when he realized he wouldn't have to. There it stood, a big old salt box house with every window blazing with electric light. Someone had added one of those wrap around patios at some point in its history. The furniture was covered against the winter weather. It looked back to the house with its brilliant lights and made out the two rot iron numbers tackled up next to the red door. 23. He could see the kitchen as lit up as the rest of the place, neat as a pin, but empty. There was no smoke coming from the central chimney. Grandpa pulled up to the drive and prepared himself to step back out to the cold. On cue, the wind found new vigor. It strained the hinges of the jeeps door with such force that grandpa wouldn't have been surprised had it gone flying away. There was a loud bang that could be heard over the howling wind and grandpa even as he jumped at the sound. Imagine some deck chair blown over or an unsecured beach gate slapping against its posts. He hugged the box to his body as it too threatened to take flight and huddled hunched across the yard to the front door. A white haze of snow sailed in on a gust and immediately found its way down his collar. He was grateful for the alcove shielding the front door ever so slightly from the assault. As he stooped down to tuck the package behind a heavy old Adirondak and wished it the best of luck. Standing back up had his knees and back popping and he squinted against the pain of it. When he opened his eyes again, he immediately hopped back. Standing there, just behind the glass, was a man with a perplexed look upon his face. Jesus, give me a start there fella. RCA's didn't get uniforms just like they didn't get a grum and truck and to this fancy fella, still in his dress shirt and business casual pants. The old man might have looked like some local degenerate knocking on any window with the light on. Self-conscious for one of the few times in his life, Grandpa asked, Are you a Mr. Lapinski? The doubtful squint didn't clear from the younger man's eyes, but he cracked the door open. Lapinski, if that was indeed his name, suede slightly as though trying to remember how one managed to stay upright. He didn't say anything, but arched his eyebrows the way a door man might when they knew you didn't belong wherever they found you. Grandpa could see he was broad as well as tall. Most summer land residents had the look of people that earned whatever muscle tone they had under electric lights on a treadmill. Lapinski's bulk suggested someone familiar with yard work and hefting something heavy from here to there. I'm sorry to bother you, but I know it's late and my apologies for that. The clouds of confusion in Mr. Lapinski's face began to darken and Grandpa quickly retrieved the box and held it up. I'm from the post office. Mr. Lapinski's expression softened and he stepped out from behind the door. He leaned forward, arms outstretched. Grandpa, glad to be free of this particular inconvenience, handed it over, and then for no reason other than the season added, It feels like an early Christmas present, maybe. Mr. Lapinski smiled and the tiny, ha, escaped him. Grandpa caught a scent and thought whatever the man had been drinking might have been expensive, but also made him think of old pennies and rust. Grandpa's gaze drifted over Lapinski's dipped shoulder and he could see all the way to the living room at the back. There by the French doors in one finally appointed chair, sat a man still in his dress shirt and business casual pants. His head was slumped forward to his chest, the white Oxford stained a darkening pink. The yellow wall behind the body was sprayed and specked with crimson by his feet was a mostly finished bottle of brown liquor. Oh, oh, Jesus, Mr. and your friend is... Grandpa pointed towards the corpse and Lapinski turned to see what had his visitor so disturbed. One thought was repeated riotously and Grandpa's mind. Oh, please don't let me see it! Whatever was supposed to hear his prayer had apparently already gone to bed on that late November night, the back of Lapinski's head was spread out in a grotesque lotus. The pulpy flesh glistening around shards of bone and specks of gray matter. The dead man said, oh, as anyone might and stepped towards his own body. Grandpa stood at the door and watched as with each step, Lapinski became less. The colors that compromised him muted, the edges of his outline blurred, and the details of his form softened. Then he was gone, leaving only Grandpa to call the police and tell the tale. There was a dearth of newsworthy events that November, mostly the general elections and debate over new commercial fishing regulations. Even still, the newspaper clipping I found among Grandpa's effects was a tiny rectangle. James P. Lapinski of Manhattan was found dead in his summer home in Hanton, Rhode Island on November 24, 1994. The son of Peter and Patricia Lapinski, he is survived by his wife Naomi and their son Leonard. Fowl play is not suspected. It happened in that time just before the internet was in everyone's homes and knowledge of the world could be sought out at any time of day or night. As such, that snippet, that tiny blip of information, was as much as anyone in Hanton knew about James P. Lapinski. But that didn't stop the rumor mill. He was a drunk. He was a druggy. He owed some money to the I-Talians on Federal Hill. Carol Creelman, vicious old gossip if there ever was one. Swar she'd seen him on the fourth, trying to help Busy Anderson, Hobo Halfan Ruffer, and King Philip during the pole greasing. The eventing question involved a disused telephone pole the volunteer fire department covered in Crisco and pinned a $50 bill at the top. The trio had taken turns squatting with their backs to the log and allowing themselves to be claimed as the first link in a human chain. The crowd just about busted a gut as first Busy's foot slipped from the top of Hobo's head, and then he went sprawling all elbows and knees to the ground. The trio regrouped and tried recruiting from their family and neighbors in the crowd for their last go. But the men, already slick and gross from the lubricant of their previous attempts, found no volunteers. Creelman, while holding court on the matter at Spinnaker's lunch counter, had tapped the picture in Lapinski's obituary. This one came out of the crowd, junk as a lord, one can join in. This woman in a fancy looking sun dress grabs his arm and shakes her head, looking all kinds of embarrassed. According to Carol, the couple had commenced fighting and Mrs. Lapinski had left before the fireworks, dragging a toe-headed kid behind her. Trouble in paradise if you ask me. Before long, talk of Lapinski and how he met his end was forgotten. All it took was Arnie Aldrich, the Hinton PD's dare officer, to be caught humping Maureen's swaying out back of the wheelhouse one Wednesday evening. Everyone forgot about James P. Lapinski of Summerland, but not Grandpa. I saw him. Grandpa clutched my hand like it was the last thing tying him to this world. He flayed open like a starfish. I saw him. I know, Grandpa. I said, unable to bear the thought of leaving him, but also with no words of comfort to offer. No, no. I saw him in Claire Aldrich's yard. Nothing but black clothes around him staring at me while I passed. Hone that brown box. Ms. Aldrich had passed away a few years after Lapinski of heart attack, while hefting one of her seedbecks. Local lore held there hadn't been a single bird around her house since. I saw him riding passenger with a curtain as God damn jeep before the catcher took him. Grandpa's pitch was rising, as was the beep of his monitors. The Colonel's M38 had sat under a tarp in his garage for the better part of a decade. His widow unable or unwilling to part with it. I saw him out on green trolled after Hobo flipped his car, reading over Arnie's shoulder while he was making notes. Just hold it up the box at me like he's saying, thank you. Hobo half-unrefer survived in hospital another two days before succumbing to his injuries. Arnie Aldrich had died of a heart attack, sitting in his recliner while his wife Maureen made hamburgers for lunch. Their son Billy had just turned six. Carol Krillman from her usual stool at the spinnaker had pronounced it a damn shame Arnie had passed before the boy could remember his father properly. The following January, Grandpa had found her body in her front hall when he dropped off the market circulars. All the blood vessels in her eyes had blown. Pain flared in my hand. Grandpa was squeezing, and the terror I saw in his eyes gave him back every ounce of strength his illness had robbed him of. He was in the kitchen, Dane. Him and that damn box. It took me a moment to realize he was calling me by my uncle's name. He had it when I found your mother drooling on the floor from the stroke. He had no time to say anything if anything would have come to me to say. Instead, Grandpa's gaze snapped to the corner of the room where my mother had sat only a short time before. Open it! I was pressing the call button amazed that no one had already come. Grandpa had pulled himself up to a seated position and in a clearer, more powerful voice than he'd been capable of for years screamed... Open the damn thing! Then there was a crack, like an unsecured gate banging against its posts, and all the power seemed to drain right out of the old man. Suddenly I could smell something like old pennies and rust. Grandpa slumped down back to the hospital bed. His eyes met mine, and I saw pleading in them for the first and only time in my life. Dane, I lived up open it! I couldn't look away, and I didn't turn around. Even as the nurses and mom and uncle Dane came rushing into the room, pushing me aside, I didn't dare. I was too afraid I'd see someone sitting in that chair, a summer land visitor that never left, with an early Christmas present for all of us. Goat Valley Campgrounds, looking for a place to escape your busy life and reconnect with nature? Goat Valley Campgrounds features 300 acres of quiet forest and peaceful scenery for you to enjoy. Come meet Kate! She runs the place, like her parents before her. We know you'll enjoy your stay, as long as you behave yourself and follow the rules. Your survival depends on it. The No Sleep Podcast presents Goat Valley Campgrounds Season 2 by Bonnie Quinn, Chapter 10. We're very obsessed with the notion of fair. We believe that if only things are set up just right, then everyone will have the opportunity to succeed, to triumph, to achieve everything we ever wanted. It's where our concept of heroes come from. If someone is brave and moral and fights with everything they've got, then they have to succeed. I don't think anyone would mistake me for a hero. But I think I fell into the fairness trap nonetheless. If I struggled hard enough, if I was determined and resourceful, then I'll eventually overcome and save the campground. I believed it. It's terrifying to admit that nothing is fair. The cream doesn't rise to the top. People aren't rewarded according to their talent or their effort. And sometimes the other person in the fight is just bigger and stronger. Your success in life boils down to a bit of luck, sometimes coincidence, and a whole lot of circumstances that you have no ability to affect whatsoever. The spite of mine? It was never a fair fight to begin with. I never stood a chance. There's only so much you can do as one person when your opponent has countless people to throw at you. My name is Kate, and this is GoFellyCampgrounds. Despite everything going on, the mundane, boring work of running a campground had to get done. I don't have anyone doing administrative work for me, so once a week I hole up in my office and go through it all. Payroll, budgeting, purchases, and scheduling for the next month. Things I've been doing for long enough that they've become routine. I also leave my office door open in case anyone needs to stop by. Mostly I get campers, people that have been coming here for a long time and know who I am, and sometimes staff with issues they want to discuss in person. On rare occasions, I get someone from town. Can I come in? Door's open! Oh, that's you. I guess. I asked around town a bit about the whole monsters thing. Yeah, and what did they tell you? I thought back in the town hall. Well, I just thought the person was... I don't know. It didn't register that it was a gunshot at first. I mean, I've never heard one up close like that. Or outside of a movie. Really. So, I paid it, and... Please just get to the point. Townsett, you straight? There is a catch coming. I leaned solemnly on my desk waiting for it. While the Ruckus at the town rally had broken his hold over a lot of them, there were still plenty of people in town under the man with no shadows control. If they had confirmed that he was, indeed, a monster, then there was a reason for it. They'd tell my poor, oblivious cousin exactly what he needed to hear to steer him down the path of assuming ownership of the campground. But they also told me how to fix it. Of course they did! They told you if the land gets sold, then it's no longer old land, and all those monsters will just vanish into the night. Well, yes. And you thought you'd just waltz in here and be the hero. Convince Meet ol' Kate that it's in everyone's best interest to sell the land to you. Then the town is safe, and you get to be the person that saved everyone. Well, I... Is that how it's playing out in your head? You get to live out your rural countryside fantasy and be the town hero at the same time? Listen. I know this land is important to you, and I don't want to take that away from you. I have a quick claim deed in my desk drawer that says otherwise. A year! Just let me keep it for a year. That'll reset the time or right, and then you could take it back. Just long enough to rid of the monsters. I'll be honest. I got about just leaving and going to some other town that's not so dangerous, but I felt that would be the cowards way out. And then I had this idea, and I just... I really want to help. Where do you think the monsters will go once this land becomes as ordinary as any other parcel around here? Somewhere far away. They'll go where there's food, and without old land to sustain them, they're going to be very hungry. Did you ever notice how the old stories faded out of popularity? How we don't tell our children about the monsters in the woods anymore? It's not that they're not relevant. You've just had the good fortune to grow up somewhere safe. The world is safe because of old land, because we concentrate and keep those creatures away from the rest of humanity. You don't stop all the deaths, though. No, but I'd wager I'm stopping some. I couldn't tell him that his plan wouldn't work. He was my cousin. The land would remain old, and he'd be completely unprepared for it. Besides, if he was under the man with no shadows sway, I didn't want to let his master know that I figured this out. If he wasn't, well... The buyer has had enough upsetting revelations today. He'd find out when this was over. Speaking of monsters, you should go. I seem to have another guest. The buyer turned around, startled to discover someone waiting at the door. I can't tell you what the buyer saw when he looked at the man with the skull cup. Something ordinary, just as I see nothing more than a man with piercings and a hoodie. His inhuman nature is betrayed in how he looks at you. I'll get back to you. I'll call you. I have your number. Uh, then... bye. I guess. The buyer couldn't tear his eyes from the man with the skull cup. The inhuman gave him a cold smile. His eyes sharp and calculating. He watched as the buyer nervously edged past him, never taking his gaze off the young man. I knew what that look was meant to convey. The buyer was nothing more than the creature's next meal. Great timing. Can you show up next time I get someone in here complaining about the water pressure at their campsite? You have something for me. Always straight to the point. Yes, I do. I was gonna come looking for you once I finished up here. And a surprise, he came to my office. You've been elusive as of late. I don't see you patrolling the campground as often. Given off some real stalker vibes here? He ignored me and walked along the edge of the room, running his eyes along the framed photos on the wall on the side table with its display of pamphlets advertising local attractions. His cup was waiting at the edge of the table. He picked it up and took a tentative sip. Very good. It's a pity you weren't able to kill him. The buyer interfered. I can't tell if he's under the man with no shadows control or not. Does it matter? He aids your enemy. Are you suggesting I kill him? Because I think Perkdo would take issue with that. And have you had much success in what she tasked you? Saving them all? I'm trying. It's an impossible thing you're trying to do. Why do you keep that thread close at hand? To remind you of your failures? Please leave. I wasn't in much of a mood to sit in my office after that. The man with the skull cup was right. I hadn't been patrolling the campground much. It wouldn't hurt to put the paperwork aside for a little bit and go on a leisurely drive around the grounds. It kept me away from people. It's not good for business to deal with campers while I'm angry. We had an unusually high number of campers for an open camping weekend. I wondered why that was when I was tallying up the reservations and adjusting the campground budget. I can't complain. Money is money, but it was an intriguing outlier nonetheless. My confusion was quickly resolved as I wound down along the edge of the deep woods, taking the road that ran past the thing in the dark's lair. My senior campers were on site. The group I allowed to camp directly next to the mound of sticks and debris. They, and a bunch of others, apparently, were here to do maintenance tasks all weekend, like repainting trailers, cutting and sanding new tent poles for common area pavilions. And while I don't like dealing with campers when I'm angry, it's hard to ignore them when they flag you down in the middle of the road because they need to ask permission for something and isn't it convenient that you're driving right past them. You want to build a retaining wall? If you're going to make that 65-degree slope that turns into mud every time it rains part of our land allotment, then we wanted to actually be campable. It's not 65 degrees, and it wouldn't turn to mud if you managed your kitchen run off properly. It's not our runoff. It's the people you put next to us. They're the ones who can't dig a proper trench. Rule number five. If you're camping on an incline, dig a one-inch wide and three-inch deep trench that will direct water around your tents and common area, this will minimize flooding. How about you move them elsewhere and give us some of their land? We already have to deal with that thing in the dark right next to us. And not to mention the dancers' favorite party spot is fried down that hill and we get to listen to them all night. Wait, are they there right now? Yeah, they are. I think they're doing some camp cleanup of their own. Great, I wanted to talk to them. What about our retaining wall? Jump up some plans in my office and I'll consider it. I didn't really have a plan, just a vague idea half-formed in the back of my head. As they pulled up, I found the dancers raking out the bonfire ashes to prepare the pit for a new camping season. I was surprised to see this, as I'd always assumed one of my staff did it. Suppose I was wrong. Hey, is a subota around? He's gathering more firewood. Why are you here? Don't you have enough problems already? If you're talking about the man with no shadow, that's actually why I wanted to talk to you. You want our help? Yes. No. Oh, come on! Don't you care about what happens to the campground, seeing as you live here? I don't have a particular preference as to who owns this land. The man with no shadow will leave us alone. You, however, would drive us out if you knew how. Uh, well, maybe we could put that behind us. Is that a ribcage in the fire pit? Probably. You should go. I suppose asking the dancers for help was a long shot, but it was worth the attempt. I made a slow loop through the deep woods, considering who else on the campground I could recruit. My list was depressingly short. I don't have a good relationship with any of the inhuman things, save the lady with extra eyes. That's a handful that I tolerate, and then only barely. I finished my circuit and wound back up the hill. I'd stop by the senior campers and ask them about the retaining wall some more. If they were willing to supply labor, then perhaps I could supply the materials. It wouldn't be the first time I've made deals with campers like this before. As my four-wheeler crusted the hill, I was struck by how quiet the field was. The trailer sat unattended, opened buckets of paint left abandoned beside it, unwashed paint brushes discarded in the grass. The senior campers were nowhere to be seen. None of the campers participating in their impromptu work weekend were in sight. The field above the deep woods, which had been bustling with people, was now eerily silent. I drove slowly through it, noting the abandoned tools with mounting dismay. Like they'd all just stopped what they were doing and walked away. You know where they went. Geez! But a warning would be nice. I'll just sneak up on people like that. You shouldn't be so distracted. It's dangerous not to pay attention when you're in the woods. Your parents dot you this. I'm not interested in a lecture. What do you mean by where they went? You know. You don't need me to explain. She was right. I just didn't want to admit it. It was painfully apparent what was happening. I childhood all over again. My friends hauled out to the woods and held as hostage for the man with no shadows demands. A work weekend, the senior camper had said, just something that everyone had decided on, unprompted. Yeah right. Who else could have brought this many people here? Brian, we have a problem. Where are you at? Up on the open field. Did it? Everyone just leave? I swear there were a bunch of campers up here half hour ago. They're in the deep woods at the Grove. Oh no. No no no no no no no no no. Call Russell and get him out here. We're gonna need him. Yeah. You're going to the Grove, aren't you? I have to. I'm sorry. I think I understand a little more of my mother, how she must have felt walking alone to the Grove so many years ago. Knowing she would have to give something to save my friends. I felt light, like I was floating. The sun was too bright in my eyes. The forest around me didn't feel entirely real, like I was separated from myself. We don't get to kill the monsters that hunt us. We can only delay. In the end, they are still the predators and we are only the prey. I've known this my whole life and it was folly to think a few minor victories would change that. I finally found myself at the Grove. There must have been at least 80 people all kneeling, each paired up with someone else. They knelt, need a knee, facing one another. One was passive, hands resting on their legs, staring straight ahead without movement or emotion. The other held a gun to the forehead of their victim. They were of all ages. Some looked like teenagers, trembling and crying, but unable to move the gun away from its intended target. Others were older, white-haired and resigned, eyes empty with despair. My campers. At the four of them all, between two trees that bowed over to each other, forming a gateway of sorts, was the man with no shadow. Kate, so glad you came. He threw his arms out and welcomed and I stopped short of the Grove's border, refusing to let him touch me, much less hug me and a pantomime of friendship. I didn't have a way to send you a message, so I just had to hope you'd figure it out. Perhaps you are a bit clever after all. This is a lot cruelly than the last time you took hostages. I glanced at the pair nearest to the border. Two men, one as a mobile as a statue. The other knelt there, terrified, hopeless. His shoulders rising and falling with his panic breathing. Well, you are older now. I didn't want to traumatize a child, but I'm not entirely cruel. You see, only half of them die if you refuse me. He snapped to illustrate his point and the man closest to the border pulled the trigger. I flinched at the gunshot and then kept my gaze averted as the surviving camper began to cry out in wordless anguish, horrified at what he'd just done. Some of the other people around the Grove began to cry more audibly, whimpering and terror. You there. That's all I needed you for. You can leave now. Go home if you want. I don't care. I'm done with you. Yeah. Who is? How is my friend? Leave. That was unnecessary. Reluctantly, I glanced at the body, at the bits of bone and brain matter spewed onto the grass. Just making sure you understand the consequences. Your clever and perhaps you think you can still find a way to fight this. That's your nature. I realize that now, after you twice nearly killed me. That was well played. Although I confess I perhaps got a little greedy and that made me careless. I wanted the thrill of having them all under my control. So you could bring them here. Use the whole town as hostages. Make this little drama here personal. Okay, isn't it personal enough already? You act all cold and remote, but it eats at you, doesn't it? You call them your campers and you hate that you can't save them. I didn't need the town as hostages, but having them under my control would make what comes next easier. After you're deposed. After I'm gone. The phrase rattled around in my head and then I grasped his meaning. He wasn't done. This was only one step in some larger plan. The campground remaining old land with a manager that he could control. That wasn't the end game. There was more. Like a web I was caught in and I couldn't see the whole. What are you trying to do? He smiled and held out his hand to me. Step inside my grove and I'll tell you. And then I'll let everyone go. Let me tell you something. As someone that has gone through some shit, we as a species will sacrifice for others. As is our nature. When we're the ones who sacrifice ourselves, it feels like the right thing to do and the burden we carry is made lighter. It's easy to be the one that suffers for the sake of others. Helplessness, however, will destroy you. It's a poison. We ingest it unknowingly and it eats it us inside. It clouds our souls. It breaks our hearts bit by bit. The cracks so tiny we don't understand why we hurt. Perhaps we see the signs. We cry when we shouldn't. We can't focus on the things we love. But we shrug them off and keep going because our wounds are invisible. We're dying in silence. I was helpless there at the entrance to the grove. I've been helpless for a long time. My courage is merely the flight of the hunted deer that knows all it can do is run until a misstep spells its doom. I wonder how deep the poison is sunk. Perhaps it is now the marrow of my bones. And part of me just wants the hurting to stop. I gave my hand to the man with no shadow. His fingers closed over mine and he pulled and I followed and he led me into the grove. I'm not the man with no shadows, Pawn. I know this much. The tea from the lady with extra eyes held. Sabotos said it was like a voice in his ear and I hear no voice and I feel no compulsion. I think you're right. Thank goodness. We've been watching people leave and wondering where you are. All the campers are packing up and driving home. Everyone looks really upset but no one will talk to me. He, the man with no shadow, they were hostages. All of them? He's been collecting them for a long time and he never lets go of anyone once they're his. He didn't let them go for free. When did you promise him, Kate? The campground. I'm giving him the campground. Tonight at midnight I will be at my house and the man with no shadow will come and he will bring a contract and then I will sign it. I called the buyer at the grove. I don't remember what I told him exactly. That's the gist of it. We can... Go home, both of you. Tell the staff to leave to and not come back. I want the campground emptied. Kate, I don't think you should be alone. Out! I want you gone! They went. Reluctantly, but they went. They'd known me long enough to know that my temper cannot be reasoned with. Not when it gets like this. I waited, listening to the radio chatter as Brian did what I asked. Slowly, the campground grew quiet. I was soon all alone. I took the quick claim deed from my desk, clutching it in my hand, I left the house. I walked for hours. I traversed the entirety of my campground, walking through the woods, off the roads, straying from the road for too long as an invitation for trouble. But nothing would bother me now. The man with no shadow would ensure it. I wasn't walking aimlessly. I needed to find the one person on the campground who has never given me any doubt as to their intentions towards me. Surely the lady with extra eyes would know what to do. She said she wouldn't help me any further, but surely. Surely she didn't mean that. I didn't find her cottage. Instead, I found the man with the skull cup. He stood blocking my way, a handful of feet in front of me, and I wondered how I hadn't seen him sooner. Like he'd stepped out from between the slender trees and thin air, perhaps I simply hadn't been paying attention on my distress. His expression was severe, harsher than his usual blank disinterest. The corners of his mouth were creased with his frown and his eyes were narrow slits. Should you be wandering the woods like this? They're my woods. I was not questioning that. I was questioning if this was the most productive use of what time is left for you. He knew. Somehow he knew. I'm looking for the lady with extra eyes. I don't know who else to trust. His gaze dropped to the letter that I clenched in one hand. I wearily took a step back. Do you know what this is? I do. If I give it to someone other than the man with no shadows buyer, then legally I can't fulfill our agreement tonight. Tell me what name I should put on it. There's no one in town I can trust anymore. I waited breathless. I don't know if I intended to take his suggestion. I truly didn't know who was on my side anymore. He'd helped me, but perhaps that too was a ruse. Perhaps he only protected me to lead me to this point. I just wanted to hear him say it. If perhaps that would confirm or deny some wild theory that bubbled half-formed in my head, the product of myself doubted and fears. Instead, he snatched at the letter. I jerked my hand back in surprise and his fingers closed on my arm instead and then he squeezed, pressing the bones together until it felt like they would snap and my fingers went weak and the letter fell for my hand. He grabbed it out of the air and stepped back. I hesitated. My hand halfway to the gun at my waist, but reason caught me. It wasn't worth it. I could always print another if he didn't give it back. I need a name. If I'm gonna lose this campground, I should at least lose it to someone who isn't one of his pawns. Tell me who you want to manage this land. He tore the letter in half, then half again, and let the pieces fall to the ground. I chose you. Don't disappoint me. He turned abruptly and began to walk away. But help me. Save yourself this time, Kate. Did you not kill the master of the vanishing house? That was different. It was already dying. Then perish. Old land is no place for the weak. I've been watching the clock as the minutes ticked by until midnight. I've been there thinking about my great aunt. There was a look on her face when she went out there to find the harvesters. I didn't recognize it at the time because I was a child. As I grew up, I'd see it again a handful of times. On Russell, when he went into the vanishing house, on my father, when I watched through a dream, as he went to confront the beast. But I never quite understood what it was. It wasn't resignation. My great aunt didn't give in to the harvesters. Nor is it determination. My father knew that was a fight he couldn't win. He went out there knowing he wouldn't come back. Perhaps there isn't a word for this feeling. Or maybe I'm not eloquent enough. I understand it now. I understand it because it's sitting inside me like a stone. I feel like I'm drowning and it's holding me there, pinned to the bottom of the ocean. I want to fight. I want to flee. But there was a bargain made and there were conditions built into it. And while humans aren't bound into agreements as strictly as inhumans are, we can still be captured by them nonetheless. I don't see a way out of this one. And so I'm sitting here with that look on my face. The same look my great aunt wore when she walked into the deep woods to die. Ah, inevitability. There it is. That's the word. This is inevitability. The The The The The The The The The The The The The The The The The The The The The The Goat Valley Campgrounds Season 2 was written and adapted for audio by Bonnie Quinn. It was produced for the No Sleep Podcast by Phil McCalsky. Musical score composed by Brandon Boone. Starring Lindsay Russo as Kate, Alontae Betacette as the buyer, Graham Rowett as the man with no shadow, Mick Wingert as the man with the skull cup, Atticus Jackson as the senior camper, Mary Murphy as the dancer, Kyle Acres as Brian and Jesse Cornett as Russell. Join us next week for chapter 11 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 McCalsky, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornett and Claudius Moore. Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McAnelly, Oli A. White and Kristen Samito. To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us, just visit sleepless.thenosleeppodcast.com to learn about the sleepless sanctuary. Add free extended episodes each week and lots of bonus content for the dark hours, all for one low monthly price. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for joining us and seeking safety from the things that stalk us in the night. This audio program is Copyright 2025 by Creative Reason Media Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc.