Always Free Fiction: The Heads Don’t Sleep Either—SCP-5022, Ep1
"Lake houses are the best!"
Hey, there!
Welcome back to some more Always Free Fiction. I surely appreciate you stopping by.
I’ll have a third story collection out soon, but this little ditty is from They All Bleed: Ten NoSleep Stories, Volume Two. Grab a copy if you can’t wait for part two of today’s story. Rate, review, all that good stuff, please.
And speaking of today’s story, have you heard of The SCP Foundation? It’s like Black Mirror meets X-Files. A pretty cool, open story community. I happened into it because the good folks at Dr. NoSleep Studios also have The SCP Experience podcast, which I write for as well.
And this next story is from there! It’s a messed-up one, as many SCPs are.
Enjoy!
The Heads Don’t Sleep Either—SCP-5022
Episode 1:
For as long as I can remember, sleep and I have been on the outs. Even as a kid, I was awake most of the night. Just lying there in my bed, staring up at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling. I’d count them over and over until I finally fell asleep.
I’m thirty-eight now, and I don’t have stars anymore. I have urges instead.
Dangerous urges.
Urges I have come to control. Not that the control makes sleep any easier.
I check my phone.
Three thirty-five.
I get up, throw on my sweats and a t-shirt, and head to the kitchen.
Might as well have some tea. Nothing strong. A nice, floral green tea. I save coffee for the mornings.
Once it has steeped, I step onto the back deck and watch the wind blow the trees back and forth as a storm heads this way. The moon is hidden by the clouds, but I know the view I have. Ten miles across Lake Normandy. The old family vacation spot. A place my dad purchased just before he passed away. When my mom passed, twenty years later, and only five years ago, it became mine.
It’s not much. A three-bedroom brick ranch house with three acres. My former girlfriend wanted me to sell it, take the money, and invest it, or maybe buy a house in the city. Or at least close to the city. The place is a good hour’s drive from the suburbs, let alone the city.
I dumped her the next day.
In the lake.
It’s what I do. It’s who I am.
There were questions, of course. The boyfriend I always the first suspect.
But I’ve been coming to this lake most of my life, and then I moved here permanently.
Everyone knows me. Everyone likes me.
Shit, I get beers with Max Hilliard, one of the sheriff’s deputies.
So the questions stopped. Plus, I’ll be honest, shit gets weird out on this lake. Locals are used to it.
I sip my tea. I feel the wind on my face. An early summer storm is coming my way. Comforting.
But not comforting enough to lull me to sleep. I don’t get that kind of comfort.
Not with what I’ve done. With what I continue to do.
My thoughts of hunting and blood are what used to keep me awake at night. But those thoughts have been interrupted by something that seems to be a new regular thing now.
It’s that new regular thing I hear as I sip my tea.
Children giggling.
But not a normal giggling. More like a bunch of kids are being held underwater, but are having the time of their little lives.
I sip and move through the shadows of my deck, out onto my side yard, and lean against the corner of my house as I observe the house next door.
Ever since the new vacation renters moved in, that’s all I’ve heard during my late-night chill sessions on the back deck.
I may have three acres of land, but they are a narrow three acres. One wide, three long, stretching from the road down to the lake with my house at the top of the acreage. Which means that the house next door is barely even a quarter acre from my house. Especially with their lot being cone-shaped and their house sitting at the point of the cone with the wide part down at the lake. The lots here conform to the lake shore, not some developer’s grid.
Giggling. Kids giggling. And splashing.
Except there’s no one down at the lake, and I know what I’m hearing.
Giggling and splashing coming from the renters’ place.
The first night I got up and heard the giggling, I walked down to the water, thinking their kids had gone for a late-night swim. I didn’t see any adults around, so I thought I’d make sure they were alright.
I’m a monster, but not heartless.
But the closer I got to the water, the further away the noise got. It wasn’t until I walked back up to my place that I realized the noise was coming from the renters’ garage. The kids were playing in there.
And what was the deal with the splashing? It was loud. Like a tank of water was sloshing around. It made me think of the dunk tank at carnivals.
I’ve been to a lot of carnivals. Great hunting grounds. So much chaos to hide in. So easy to charm a young woman away from her friends.
So my thoughts go to a dunk tank as I hear the giggling and sloshing.
Such is life when you live on a lake full-time. Eventually, you will see and hear weird shit. A lot of weird shit.
Tonight is no different.
The kids are awake. Splashing and laughing as usual. Maybe a little louder than the past few nights. They’re really having a ball in that garage. The parents must be deep sleepers or just don’t care. They may be awake too, watching TikTok on their phones while they wait for the kids to tire themselves out.
Just exactly how many kids do they have? Because it sounds like a couple dozen in that garage. A couple dozen kids laughing underwater. Which can’t be, of course. No way to fit that many kids in a two-car garage. And the underwater thing? Must be my subconscious playing games. It likes to do that. Kids can’t laugh underwater. That’s how kids drown. That’s how any human drowns.
I’d know.
I’ve drowned a few in this very lake.
Now, here’s the really weird thing: I don’t remember them arriving with kids. I didn’t see a single kid when they drove up in their truck with the trailer pulled behind it. Not a camping trailer, but a storage trailer. The husband turned that trailer and truck around, put it in reverse, and backed it right into the garage like a pro.
It was impressive.
The trailer has been in the garage ever since.
Which gives me a crazy thought that maybe the kids were in the trailer. Maybe it’s their traveling playroom or something.
Weird shit.
I hear a shout and a quiet thud. Then silence.
Oh, shit. One of the kids is definitely hurt. I may be half an acre away, but I heard that thud. The kid will be lucky not to have a broken arm. Or worse.
Well, that’s what parents are for. It’s their job to figure it out, not mine.
An hour passes before the laughter starts up again. This time it’s a little quieter. A little subdued. They must have gotten a talking to. I didn’t hear an adult or anything, but adults don’t need to raise their voices to get points across. My dad never did. He got his point across just fine without words, trust me.
Another hour goes by, and I can see a thin line of pink slicing the horizon across the lake. I should go inside and get some sleep. Other than the thud, the night has been peaceful, and I think I might have an hour or two of sleep in me.
Worth a try.
***
I hop off my ten o’clock meeting with one of my clients and head to the kitchen. I didn’t catch as much sleep as I would have liked, so I make a beeline straight for the coffee machine and brew a second pot.
While I wait for the coffee to brew, I stare out of the kitchen’s bay window and smile at the sunlight rippling across the water. This is why I live here. For moments like this one. The beauty is almost too much sometimes. It fills me and makes me want to share it. To show someone this beauty. To really let them experience the lake as they should.
Maybe I will go hunting tonight. It’s been a couple of months.
The coffee maker beeps, I pour yet another cup, add sugar, add cream, and walk out onto the back deck. I breathe in the fresh air and the aroma of the strong coffee at the same time. Bliss.
There’s a rattle and bang from next door, and I instinctively slide back into the shadows of the overhang above my sliding glass doors.
One of the renters. The husband.
He’s holding a trash bag and carrying it carefully down to the lake. I hope he isn’t thinking of throwing that into the water. No dumping allowed. Throwing trash in the lake is a big no-no. You never throw anything inorganic into the lake. It won’t decompose properly.
I’d know.
And from the look of it, whatever he’s carrying is about the size of a head. Which is way too big of a chunk to toss in the lake. You have to break things down into smaller components.
I’d know.
I ease out of the shadows so I can get a better look at him. He can’t see me. He’s too focused on the trash bag. So focused that he looks like he’s talking to it. Just rattling off some monologue as he strides across the grass and straight for the sandy beach that the property has instead of a dock.
My property has a dock. A nice one I had built after I inherited the house. I’d always wanted a dock as a kid, but my dad had said the Army Corps of Engineers had to issue the permit and there were only so many to go around and they were too expensive and blah blah blah. My father was a liar.
It wasn’t cheap, but it wasn’t expensive either. And the Corps were easy to deal with. The clerk I talked to thought it was funny when I said my dad told me there were a limited number of permits.
“Sounds like your dad just didn’t want to build a dock,” the clerk had said.
“Pretty much,” I’d replied after paying my fee and filling out all the paperwork.
The dock was built two months later.
The renter husband is prattling on, telling his life story to the bag, when there’s a shout from the back door of the rental.
The renter wife is running down the yard with her own garbage bag, calling for her husband to wait. He turns to her, and that’s when he sees me.
I could try to slip back into the shadows, but that would look a million times more creepy than me just standing on my back deck with a cup of coffee.
So I give them a wave.
The husband doesn’t move. His eyes are locked on me. The wife turns slowly, sees me, then slowly moves her bag behind her back as she gives me a small wave.
Then they stand there and stare at me.
I wave again.
“Nice morning, right?” I call out.
Neither of them says anything.
“No dumping allowed, by the way,” I say and give them a big smile.
I have a great smile.
It can do one of two things: send people fleeing or draw people in.
As one, they move quickly and hurry back to the house, both still with their trash bags. They’re lost from my sight in seconds.
Well, they’ve got my interest now.
Too bad for them.
***
I’m not a snoop. I’m not.
I live out here because I don’t want to deal with suburban nosiness or the in-your-face city attitude. I live out here for peace, quiet, and the right to be left alone. I also work from home and have a job to do.
Which is why I get annoyed when the doorbell rings. Then rings again. And again.
“Okay!” I yell from my office.
I save what I was working on and head to the front door.
“Hi,” the renter husband says when I open the door. “I’m Logan.”
He holds out his hand. I almost don’t shake it. There’s a desperateness to the gesture. Like, if we shake hands, then he can relax because we’re now in this together. I have no idea what “this” is, but that’s my impression. I’m in sales for a living and hunting for a hobby, so I’m pretty good at reading people.
The reason I do shake his hand is because I have no real reason not to. Despite my assessment of the man, I’d be a dick if I didn’t.
“Neil,” I say, and give his hand a solid squeeze and a single pump. Then I let go and smile. “What can I do for you, Logan?”
“Oh, well, you know,” he says and fidgets. He glances quickly over at the rental house, then back at me. “Thought I’d come by and introduce myself since we are living next door.”
“For how long?” I say.
It comes out a little more bluntly than I would have liked. My patience for renters isn’t exactly high. His whole body sways back an inch like I had feinted a slap.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m a permanent local. So the revolving door of vacation renters is a little dizzying at times.”
“Do you write?” Logan asks and laughs weakly. “Your phrasing suggests you are a writer of some sort.”
“Sales consulting,” I say. Then I repeat, “What can I do for you, Logan?”
“Are you busy right now?” he asks.
He’s wringing his hands. It’s very deliberate. I can’t tell if it’s an act or not. What I can tell is that the guy needs to start using hand lotion, that’s for sure.
“I work from home,” I say to him, hoping he gets the hint.
“Could I come in and talk to you for a minute?” he asks, not getting the hint. “It won’t be long, I promise.”
I don’t know the guy, so his promise doesn’t mean much.
But I’m trying not to be a dick. And I’m a little curious, so…
“Sure. Come on in,” I say and step aside.
He does.
***
I set the mug of coffee down on the kitchen table. Logan picks it up and drinks like it’s water.
I’m on the fourth pot of coffee of the day, so I’m sipping from cup number sixteen.
My doctor can’t believe I don’t have hypertension.
“My wife and I bought the house,” he says after he’s done pounding the coffee. His eyes are watering, and he breathes in through his mouth, obviously trying to cool the coffee inferno happening in there. The pot was fresh.
“Congrats,” I say, even though I don’t mean it in the slightest. “Always good to have a second home. Are you just here for the summer before you go back?”
I don’t know where “back” is, and I don’t care, but I’m hoping he gives me a timeline. Yes, renters are annoying and create chaos, but they leave. They always leave. Having a permanent neighbor is not what I’m looking for.
He shakes his head.
“No, no, it’s not a second house,” he says.
Crap.
“We’re going to be moving here for good,” he continues. “As soon as my wife and I can get back to the city and pick up the rest of our things.”
“Oh, you’re from the city,” I say and sip my coffee. I watch him closely. His eyes are all over the place. “I bet you’ll miss it. It can get pretty boring out here.”
“What?” he asks.
I know that look. I know it too well.
The guy hasn’t been sleeping. He’s barely tracking what I’m saying.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” I ask, getting the train back on the tracks. I have work to do.
“Um, well, my wife and I will be gone for the next four days,” he says. “And I didn’t want you to worry.”
The look on my face must not be as subtle as I think it is because he laughs and shakes his head.
“Not that we know each other,” he says and grabs up the rest of his coffee and downs it in one gulp. “But, well, I’m a…scientist. A researcher, actually. And I’ll be working from home from now on. My wife, too.”
Double crap.
“Sounds interesting,” I say, not interested in the slightest.
“What you saw this morning-,” he begins, but I cut him off.
“Don’t throw trash in the lake,” I say, smiling like we’re co-conspirators. “If you’re going to be living here, that’s a good rule to know.”
He nods over and over but doesn’t say anything.
I wait. He keeps nodding.
Yeah, the guy definitely isn’t sleeping.
I sigh and take pity on him. It’d be some bad karma if I didn’t. Of all people, I know what that feels like.
“Listen, Logan,” I say. “I don’t have kids, but I have friends who do.” I don’t really have friends who do, but I figure saying that might help. “And kids are hard. They stay up all night and can wear you down. I totally understand. Parenting has to be one of the hardest-.”
He’s up on his feet and glaring down at me.
“What have you seen?” he barks. “Why were you at my house?”
Weird just got threatening.
“Chill out,” I snap at him. “I haven’t been at your house. I just heard kids, is all.”
“We don’t have kids,” he says. “My wife and I are researchers. We have a special project we are working on that requires auditory stimuli. Those are recordings you hear. That’s all. Recordings for our project.”
“Okay,” I say and shrug. I remain calm. That’s what you do when your new neighbor acts erratically. You remain calm and hope he leaves.
Which he does.
“This was a mistake,” he says. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
He turns and rushes to the front door. I hear it open and slam closed before I can even stand up from my seat. So I don’t. I sit there and wonder what the fuck just happened?
CAN YOU DIG IT?