Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - 3 Dark Cult Horror Stories

Episode Date: October 22, 2025

A grim chronicle of cults that worship the unspeakable—where devotion rots into blood sacrifice and every prayer feeds something that should never have been awakened. There are over 80 bonus episodes waiting for you right now. Unlock them with Dr. NoSleep Premium: ⁠⁠patreon.com/drnosleep⁠ Author: Jake Bible Check out the author's latest release: Blood Cruise! https://jakebible.com/novels/blood-cruise/ * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Story one, when garbage becomes compost. The mail slips from my fingers as I try to slide the key into the front doors deadbolt. Damn it. I mutter, bending to fetch the pile of letters, bills, coupons, and crap from off the floor. Language. Mrs. Hostetler says, sticking her head out of the apartment across from ours. There are children in this building, Adam. Sorry, Mrs. Hostetler, I say, and waved the pile of mail.

letter. Drop the mail. In my day, we called it the post, she says before slamming her door, which makes ten times the noise of my light cursing. Not that my cursing matters. There aren't any children in this building and haven't been for years, as far as I know. Mrs. Hostetler lives in her own little world. With my mail tucked under my arm, I try the deadbolt again, and this time managed to unlock it without issue. Hey, I'm home. I call out, tossing my keys in the mail on the entryway table. Babe? You here? I know she is, because I saw her car parked in the side lot that our apartment house leases monthly for everyone to use.

There were only ten residences, so her car was easy to spot. Babe? I come into the kitchen and see my wife, reading a letter at the table. Hey, you all right? I ask as I go to kiss her and kiss the top of her head. They accepted me, she says quietly, then folds the letter and tucks it into her back jeans pocket as she stands up to greet me. Oh, hey, sweetie, how was your day?

Where were you reading? Looked important. What does? Whatever is in your pocket. Oh, this? She pulls the letter out of her pocket and stares at it. She doesn't offer it to me. After a brief moment, she slips it back into her pocket.

The community garden I've been applying to be a part of for the past three years has finally let me in. Let us in, you mean? I'm the one who filled out the initial application. But you never kept up with it, and I have. That's why they finally picked us. I mean, me. Well, that's great, right? Yes, it's wonderful. Okay, so what's the deal? She frowns and shuffles her feet. It costs too much. How much? I hold out my hand.

Let me see. No. The letter is to me only. Sorry, sweetie. They're very strict about this stuff. About what stuff? Gardening? It's dirt and seeds and water.

How strict can a community garden be? Very strict. I'm going to meet with the garden committee sometime tomorrow. We're coordinating our schedules. What's to coordinate? You're a consultant and work from home. Thanks for that. You know what I mean.

Yeah, I do. Are you sure you even want to join? I laugh. It already sounds stressful. I'm sure. She gives me a sad smile then walks out of the kitchen. I'm going to take a bath. Let's order Chinese for dinner so I don't have to cook.

Chinese sounds great. When she's in the bathroom and I hear the water running, I almost go to our bedroom to look for the letter. But I stop myself. myself. Katie and I are working on our trust issues. We've had a couple of speed bumps in our marriage and snooping in her business, even if I did fill out that application first, would be a serious step back in the small amount of progress we've made. I'm quickly distracted from the letter as my phone dings. Frowning, I look at the name on the screen as the text alert pops up. Speaking of

trust issues and serious stepbacks. Hi, the text reads. I almost respond with my own, hi, but I restrain myself. I am working on my marriage. This bullshit has to end. Stop texting me, please. We talked about this. I hit send.

Three dots roll and roll, and then, I can't stop thinking about you, about us. This can't be over. It is. I was very clear about that. Why? Because I love my wife and we're making it work. She cheated on you too.

Doesn't matter. I'm responsible for my actions, not hers. It's over, Mags. Tweety, can you bring me my water bottle? Katie shouts from the bathroom. Gotta go. Stop texting me or I'll block you. See you at work tomorrow.

I am sure she will. Mags will seek me out right after the mid-morning break. Did you hear me? Coming! I find Katie's water bottle, add some fresh ice to it, and head for the bathroom. Just like I feared, I see Mags walking toward my desk, just as everyone gets up to stretch and chat and get some snacks during our 10.30 mid-morning break. How's your project going?

Were you able to massage those numbers a little for the presentation tomorrow? Maggs asks as she sits down on the corner of my desk. Her hip nudges a picture of Katie, and I snap my hand out to keep it from falling over. She just smiles at me like it didn't happen. Which is the approach I wish she'd take regarding our brief and intense trist. Does anyone even say trist anymore? Calling it an affair gives it too much weight, and also makes it feel scummy somehow. Yeah, sure.

Cheating on your spouse is scummy. But Katie and I were going through some things at the time, and I made a mistake, pure and simple. Turns out she made the same mistake. So we're starting over on even footing. Hello, Earth to Adam! Mags says and snaps her fingers in my face. Don't do that, I say, and lean back in my chair. What do you want, Mags?

I want to know if you'll be ready for the presentation tomorrow. If the department's numbers aren't in line with what corporate wants, we could all be in a heap of trouble. That's why you came over to ask about the presentation? She shrugs. Sure. What else would I come by for? You have to stop, Mags. You need to detach from me and let us go our separate ways.

Detach from you? She scoffs, then scowls at me. Are you fucking calling me a parasite, Adam? No, I'm not calling you a parasite. Don't be ridiculous. Don't you call me ridiculous? A few heads turned in our direction. as Mags' voice rises in pitch.

Calm down, will you please? Calm down? Did you just tell me to fucking calm down? You know what I mean. I'm working hard to keep my marriage together, Mags. Please do not ruin this for me. She holds her hands out defensively as she stands up from my desk. No problem, Adam.

Definitely don't want to get between you and your ever so faithful wife. She stumps away then turns. And those numbers better be solid, Adam, or the next conversation we'll be. next conversation we have will be about your severance package. Seriously, Mags, you want this to become an HR thing? It doesn't have to, Adam, if your shit is together tomorrow. She storms off, and several heads watch her go, then turn and look at me. I glance away quickly and busy myself with the spreadsheet open on my monitor. After a few seconds, everyone goes back to their business

and leaves me alone. I let out the breath I've been holding. and try to focus on work. Hey, how did your meeting go with the community garden committee? I asked Katie as I walk into the kitchen after work. It was interesting, she says as she stirs something in a big pot on the stove. From this smell, it's her famous red sauce. Lots of garlic, fresh tomatoes, fresh basil. Delicious.

I can only imagine what it'll taste like using produce picked straight from a garden and not bought at a grocery store. Oh? Interesting how. I slide up to her and kiss her cheek. Then I go to the fridge and grab a beer. They don't make you wear uniforms or anything weird like that, do they? They might. Really?

She shrugs. I frown. Katie, what's up? She sighs, sets the spoon aside, and turns to face me. How's mags? I nearly choke on the sip of beer I'm taking, but manage to swallow it down. Mags? Why are you bringing her up? We're past all that. Are we? If we are, then tell me how she is. Why? Because I'm asking you to, Adam. I take a long drink of beer. Belch quietly and say,

She's being a bitch. That's how she is. So you're talking to her. Of course I'm talking to her. We still work together. You said she'd leave you alone. I said I'd leave her alone and just put my head to her. head down and do my work. I can't control what she does. And she's being a bitch? Yes, she's bugging me at work. She even threatened to have me fired if my presentation tomorrow on the department budget isn't perfect. Well, is it? Is it what? Perfect? I guess. It's a budget, so it's never really perfect, but I got the numbers as close as possible to what we need to show. So maybe you could be fired. What? How way? If Mags even tries to make a move against me, I'll alert HR and explain why she's coming after me. You'll probably still get fired. Why? She's the one harassing me.

But she didn't report the relationship to HR like you were required to do. For fucking good reason. Her eyebrows lifted my raised voice. Sorry. I say and set my beer down on the counter. I go to her and take her hands in mine. Ags was a huge mistake I made. Just like What's his name was a huge mistake you made. But all of that is behind us now, right? Yes, sure. She pulls her hands from mine and turns back to the stove. Sauce will be ready soon. I'll boil the pasta and put the garlic bread in. Dinner will be ready in 30 or 40 minutes. Katie, come on. Don't shut down on me. Have you been texting with each other? She knows something, I can tell.

Why? Has she reached out to you? Answered the question. Texting with each other? No. But she keeps trying to text me, and I keep telling her to stop. Block her. What? I can't. Like I keep saying, we still work together. Block her, Adam. Jesus, Katie, come on. You have to be. Fucking block her! She slams the stirring spoon down, and sauce explodes up into the air, splattering the wall behind the stove. Yeah, I'm not doing shit if you're going to act fucking nuts, I say, and grab another beer out of the fridge. I'll be in the den until dinner. Fuck you and fuck dinner, Katie says, storming out of the kitchen.

Before I can say anything, I hear her pick up her keys, then open the front door. The door slams, leaving me alone in the thick silence of our apartment. I turn the sauce off and head for the den. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling, and suddenly you find exactly what you've looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more than head to checkout, only to realize you don't have your wallet. But then you see it, that purple shop pay button, and just like that, you're done in seconds. That's the power of Shopify. It supports millions of businesses and drives 10% of all e-commerce in the U.S. from major brands like Mattel and Jimshark

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Go to Shopify.com. com slash d n s that's shopify dot com slash d ns there's a strange man sitting at my kitchen table when i get home from work uh hello i say you must be adam the man responds he's older possibly in his early 60s but he's fit extremely fit and his tan says he works outdoors a lot i'm adam and you are corkey i'm sorry Did you say Corky? Yes, Corky, I'm the master gardener. I frown for a moment, then it clicks. Oh, right.

The community garden. I extend my hand. Good to meet you, Corky. Sorry for not connecting all the dots sooner. The man stares at my hand until it becomes so uncomfortable that I take it back and tuck it into my jeans pocket like I'm ashamed I even offered it. You have wronged your wife, Corky says. Excuse me?

You have wronged your wife. Yeah, I heard what you said the first time. Care to explain why you're saying it? You know what you have done. She knows what you have done. He stands up and gets close to me. Cringy close. You, Adam, are garbage.

He smiles, and it is a cold, harsh thing that spreads across his face. But we can make compost out of garbage. I place my hand on his chest and give him a gentle push away from me. I'm not sure why you are here, but you are welcome to leave, I say. Now. Sorry, sorry, too much tea my bladder couldn't take it. Katie says, laughing as she walks into the kitchen. Now, where were we?

She sees the scene and freezes. What's going on? I don't know, Katie, you tell me, I say. I come home from work and your friend. the master gardener here decides to call me garbage. And what can we make out of garbage, Katie? Corky says without looking away from me. Corky, I said I still have to think about it, Katie responds.

Maybe we should talk again tomorrow? Tomorrow is the new moon. Your choice must be made by then. That's too soon. Tomorrow is the new moon, Katie. If you cannot fulfill your obligation, then your spot will be awarded to someone who can. What the fuck is this guy talking about, Katie?

I snap. And why is he still standing in my kitchen? I go to grab his arm, but he dodges me easily. And the next thing I know, I'm on my ass, my back up against a table leg. What the fuck, man? I shout and jump back to my feet. Katie gets between us, but instead of showing Corky the door, she puts her hands on me and keeps pushing me backward,

until my ass bumps the kitchen counter. Don't make this worse, Adam, she says. To me, it appears he is making this much easier for you, Catherine, Corky says. He finally fixes his eyes on my wife. Remember what we talked about. That cafe you want to open? It can happen.

All of the resources are available to you as the latest member of our garden. All you have to do is decide. Decide what? I shot. Who in the fuck are you, old man? Get the fuck out of my apartment. I expect an answer by midnight, Catherine, not a minute later.

You may call me at home. You have my number. She isn't calling you for fucking shit, asshole. I yell as corky turns and leaves the kitchen. That's right. Get the fuck out. I hear the front door close, then focus on my wife. Care to tell me what the fuck that was about? It's about living for me, and not just for you.

She shakes her head and walks to the fridge. I'm making eggplant parmesan tonight, unless you want something else. I need to use the sauce I make. yesterday that we didn't have a chance to eat. I feel every barb of that sentence, but don't take the bait. Instead, I return the subject back to what just happened. What's this about a cafe? Hmm?

She doesn't turn away from the fridge. Katie, look at me. I'm trying to find the compound butter I made yesterday. Katie, look at me! She straightens, closes the fridge door, and turns to stare at me. Don't raise your voice like that. Then tell me what the hell. is going on. She stiffens like she's about to unload on me. Instead, she relaxes, but she doesn't smile.

The look on her face is a mix of sadness and resignation. I'm joining the community garden. Okay, great, but can we afford it now? You said the price was high. I can afford it now, yes. What does that mean? She shrugs. I rub my face. I'm so tired of all of this. It's moments like this where I think. think I wanted all to be over. Okay, so talk to me about this cafe idea. Since when have you wanted to open a restaurant? Since we met, I've talked about it for years. Yeah, but I thought that was just a whim, like how I said I wanted to write a novel someday. And you could have done that at any time, Adam. Nothing was stopping you. Not the point. What is then, Adam? That you're talking to a stranger about opening a cafe and not talking to me about it. I have talked to you about it.

You just didn't take me seriously. And he does? Yes, and the members of the garden will help me. I'm sorry, babe, but this sounds like a pipe dream. She stares at me for a long while. Then she licks her lips and says, Dinner will be ready in an hour. Why don't you go into the den and start on that novel?

I laugh. You know what? I may just do that. I storm off and pout in the den until dinner is ready. At first, I think I'm dreaming. low voices whisper as I feel tugging at my wrists and ankles, mumble as I slowly come awake. What's this? Make sure the knots are tight.

A woman says from the darkness that fills my bedroom. I try to sit up but realize that there is rope tying my wrists and ankles to the bedposts, leaving me spread eagle on the sheets. Katie! I shout. She's on the phone and we'll be right back, the same woman says. I look about, panicked, and see shapes. people shapes, people dressed in long robes shapes.

Who the fuck are you people? What are you doing in my apartment? We were invited, the woman says. She's one of the robed shapes, but I can't tell which one. Katie! My wife walks into the bedroom, her phone to her ear. Katie, thank God. Help me! She holds up a finger, like I'm just some silly interruption. Yes, Corky. I do believe I am ready for the next phase of my life. She says him to the phone.

Oh, I am truly grateful. Thank you so much. She hangs up. Katie! Fucking help me! Call the police! I don't think so, Adam. What?

Fucking call them! Have you lost your mind? What the fuck is even going on here? What is going on? Katie asks, as one of the robed figures, hands her a very large, very ornate knife. I'm finally getting out of this joke of a marriage. What?

The gardeners will help me achieve my dreams. All I have to do is pay the price. Price? What price? She walks to the side of the bed, the knife in her hand. Good, good, cut the rope, I say, writhing against my bonds. Hurry! No, no, Adam, this knife isn't for cutting rope. She raises the knife over my chest, lifting it high into the air.

This knife is how I pay the price. by turning garbage into compost. The blade comes down so fast, I don't even see it move. And for a moment, all I know is agony and pain and confusion and discomfort and loss and regret and everything that I should have done or said or been. Yet, strangely, as the blood leaves my body, I think about earth and dirt and water and worms. And I think about how a marriage grows and how it dies and what's left out. after. A corpse rotting in the soil, turning from garbage to compost.

If you love Dr. No Sleep, Patreon is where the real darkness lives. Add free, early access, and 80 plus episodes of bonus horror. The link is in the description below. Story 2. Today is your birthday, whether you like it or not. They put one of those stupid, pointy hats on Harold's head, making him look like a damn fool as they sing. Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Harold, may the old gods take you. What, what was that you said? Harold croaks, looking about at the nursing home attendants and nurses and various employees

who fill the lounge where most of us languish all day, as a television blair's news about a world that has forgotten we even exist. We sang happy birthday, do you, Harold? One of the nurses says, patting him on the cheek, like he's a good boy, such a good boy. Bitch, I whisper. Heads turn to look at me as the lounge go silent, except for the blaring TV, of course.

What was that, Frank? Do you have something to say? Perhaps you care to wish your friend here a happy birthday. Director Amanda looms over me. Her large hips pressing close to my shoulder as I sit helpless in my wheelchair, unable to wheel myself away from her lavender-infused presence, without her grabbing the handles and pulling me right back. "'Frank?' she asks.

All sweetness and bullshit, bending down and blocking my view, so she's all that I can see. "'Do you have something to say?' I stare at her. She returns my stare. We do this a lot. Nope. I finally say and shake my head, making sure a little spit flies from my lips when I pronounce

the hard pee of nope. Director Amanda watches me closely, then stands upright and places her hands on those wide hips, a nasty smile on her face. I can tell she's about to give me one of her patented lectures, but she doesn't get the chance as chaos erupts around the table. What is going on? she asks, turning to face the employees getting to face. gathered around Harold.

Nothing, man, one of the nurses says. He's just a little agitated. It's not my birthday, Harold says, looking even more confused than usual. Not my birthday. No, no, no, it's not. Not my birthday. I think he's had enough excitement for today. Director Amanda says, clapping her hands, waking a few of the partygoers from their mid-thought naps. Brittany, can you take Harold back to his room? Of course, ma'am, a beefy nurse says.

She grabs the handle of Harold's wheelchair and eases him back from the table. Okay, Harold, let's go take a nap. I don't want a nap, he complains. I want cake. He looks about the room, blinking rapidly. Whose birthday is it? Yours, Harold? Mine?

No, it's not mine. His eyes drift to the lounge windows, where leafless trees and dead grass sit out in the large yard. I'm a summer child. It's not summer. Oh, Harold, I think you're mistaken. Brittany says, wheeling him out of the lounge as he continues to protest. And don't worry, we'll bring you a piece of cake after your nap.

Well, he's a dead man. The voice says from my side, causing me to jump a little. Agnes, I say, smirking at the woman who has wheeled herself right next to me. Not much of a prediction. We're all living on borrowed time. I don't mean that, Francis. I mean that any time they bring out a cake, whose ever birthday it is,

they're dead within a day, too, at the most. I laugh. She doesn't. Bullshit, I say. I can't be right, can it? Before Agnes can answer, Director Amanda claps her hands again, this time addressing the entire lounge.

Who wants cake? Those conscious and able, raise a hand. Those conscious and unable moan loudly. Those unconscious drool. We're a fun and lively bunch here at Rising Waters' senior home. Frank, Agnes, would you two like some cake? Director Amanda asks us like we're fucking kindergartners. Only if you want my foot up your ass, I say. She sighs and looks at Agnes. Do you feel the same way, Agnes? About what? The or the foot up your ass. I snort and growl out a low chuckle.

You two are a bad influence on each other, Director Amanda says in a condescending sing-song voice. She even wags a condescending finger at us. When she walks off to help serve cake, Agnes takes my hand and squeezes it hard. Want to go for a field trip tonight? She asks. Where, too?

I reply in a suggestive tone. Not there, you old hound dog. Agnes says and smiles. Down to the beach. The beach? I look at her wheelchairs. You growing us new legs or something? There's a path.

I've seen it. Then why the hell don't they let us go down to the water? Why do we have to look at it from the back deck only? Because that's where they kill us. Jesus, Agnes, I don't know what you're smoking, but it's strong stuff. Kill us? Why kill us when they can just wait half a minute for one of us to die? Because they need a sacrifice.

A living sacrifice who no one will think twice about once they're gone. Okay, sure. Makes total sense. She squeezes my hand until I gasp in pain. What the hell, Agnes? You know my arthritis is killing me. No, the arthritis isn't what's going to kill you. She nods at the nurses and attendants, hurrying about to wake residents up so they can eat cake they don't want.

They are who will do you in, Francis. They'll do us all in. I hate these people as much as you do, Agnes. But no one's killing anyone here. And definitely not for some weird ass sacrifice. They are and they will. I side-eye her for a minute than not. Okay, I'll bite.

These sacrifices. Who are they too? God? The devil? Do we live amongst? Satanists? No, worse. Worse than Satanists? Yeah, because Satan isn't real. But they are? They? They? Who? The old gods. The ones who roamed the universe before the Christian Judeo God came on board. The old gods? Like Zeus and Hera and those Greek wackadoos? Them? No, they are myths.

The old gods are very real, and have been here since time began. Well, they'll fit right in around here, I say, and wave at the residence eating cake or sleeping or eating cake while sleeping. That describes most of us. I'm serious, Francis. Haven't you made attention to the song? Jesus, you're really going to make me work for this conversation, aren't you? I sigh. What song?

Happy birthday. you old dipshit. They changed the last line when they sing it. It should be happy birthday, dear whomever, happy birthday to you. That's not what they sing. I think back on the song that had just been sung to the unfortunate Herald and can't really recall the words. In my memory, they sang happy birthday just like it's supposed to be sung. I shake my head. Agnes frowns. The last line they sang today was happy birthday, dear Harold, may the old gods take you. As soon as the words leave her mouth, half the staff stops what they are doing and turns to stare at the two of us, including Director Amanda.

I think both of you have had enough excitement for one day, don't you agree? she says, stalking toward us. She snaps her fingers. Jessica, Armand, please take Frank and Agnes back to their rooms. They need to your rest before dinner. What? No cake? I asked, rolling my eyes. Oh, no. How will we ever survive? This is serious, Francis. Agnes whispers as she leans into me. We'll talk tonight. Jessica takes Agnes's wheelchair, while Armand takes mine. They quickly wheel us out of the lounge and down the hall. Wasn't that fun? Jessica asks Agnes in a sickly sweet voice. You bet. Agnes says, matching the voice with her own faux sweetness.

Almost as fun as having a hot poker shoved up my bum. Oh, Agnes, you're so salty. Jessica says and laughs as she takes the first turn, heading to the women's wing. Agnes gives me a look over her shoulder and I nod. Sure, I'll humor her and her old god fantasies. We all do what we can to keep from falling into the pit of despair of having to live in this place. What about you, Frank? Armand asks me.

There's no sickly sweet to his voice. No, Armand is a tough cookie. Yeah, it was a blast, I say quickly. I wish I'd add some of that cake. Next time, don't be a smart ass to direct a Amanda, and maybe you will. Really? Oh, that sounds swell. Just swell.

The wheelchair stops, and I feel Armand's breath on my right ear. Are you going to be a problem, Frank? Because if you are, we can get a cake and sing happy birthday for you too. It's not his words so much as his tone that makes me shudder. His words are pretty bad, too, though. Frank, I need an answer. To what question? Are you going to be a problem?

Probably not. He straightens up, and the wheelchair is moving again. You're going to have to do better than probably, Frank. He stays silent the rest of the trip to my room. But when he wheels me in and sets the chair next to my bed, he leans down and says, You should find better friends. That Agnes is trouble, Frank. And what you don't need right now is trouble.

Understand? Not at all, I say and smile. See you at dinner. Yeah, we'll see about that. He leaves and I hear the distinct click of the lock. as my door closes behind him. I must be wrong because locking residents in their rooms would be one hell of a fire code violation.

But when I wheel myself over to the door, my suspicions are correct. The son of a bitch has locked me in. I want to punch the door, but with my arthritis, as bad as it is right now, I'd probably pass out from the pain. So I wheel back to my bed, haul myself up onto my feet,

and ease down onto the mattress. It's a medical bed, so I adjust all the settings, getting my back and legs at the right elevations, then turn on the television. I must have fallen asleep immediately because the next thing I know, Armand is bringing my dinner to me, setting it on the folding tray attached to the side of my bed. I discussed it with Director Amanda,

and we both believe it's best for you to eat in your room tonight, he says, unfolding the napkin to reveal plastic cutlery. Some of the residents have some serious issues and can get violent, so no real forks and knives are allowed. Probably not a bad idea since my first impulse is to grab the knife and jam it in Armin's eye and ruin that condescending look he has on his stupid face. If you finish all your dinner,

maybe I'll be nice and bring you a slice of that cake you missed out on earlier. Gee, Armand, that'd be super neato. Thanks. You're a real prick, Frank. You know that. It's been mentioned a time or two in my life. Yeah. Maybe work on that. You bet, bud.

At 84, I'll get right on the self-improvement train. Totally not a waste of what time I have left. Armand shrugs. Suit yourself, Frank. I honestly don't give a shit. He leaves, and to hear the lock click again. Dinner is chicken and dumplings. heavy on the dumplings, light on the chicken, and completely absent of any flavor whatsoever.

I force it down since a growing boy like me has to keep his strength up. Then I shove the plate away and surf the tube for something not completely more ironic to watch. It's pitch dark in my room, and my dinner plate has been taken away and the TV turned off when I wake up. Something in the back of my brain itches and I listen closely. When I look at the clock by my bed, it reads 2 a.m. The door. That's what woke me up. Someone is at the door. It takes a while before I hear the lock pop, and my door is slowly pushed open. Francis? Agnes? Oh, good. You're awake, she says as she wheels into my room. Yeah, because you woke me up. What the hell is going on? Is there a fire or something?

Do you hear the fire alarm? Okay, dumb question. But the first one still stands, woman. What the hell is going on? They're taking Harold down to the water. Come on. Come on. Where?

To the water, dumbass. Where else? You want us to go all the way down to the water? I point at my wheelchair, then at hers. With our legs? We aren't going to walk ourselves down. Now get your ass out of bed and let's go. There is no way I'm.

I believe what Agnes told me about old gods and sacrifices. That's some serious dementia bullshit there. But at the same time, I don't want to hurt Agnes's feelings. She's one of the few people I can tolerate in this shit heap of a facility. But most of all, it's Armand's words that get me swinging my legs out of bed so I can slowly step to my wheelchair and plop down in it. Are you going to be a problem? You know what, Armand?

I think I am. I am going to be a problem. Let's ride, I say, and we head out. Twenty minutes later, with both of us sweating profusely in the autumn night air, we make it down the paved trail I didn't even know existed, and sit, staring at the beach. I whisper, not quite comprehending what I'm seeing. Or are my eyes blurry? Ness whispers back. There are tiki torches set up here and there, illuminating the weirdness for all to see. It has to be almost the entire staff down by the waterline, all dancing naked in a circle, around who I have to assume is Harold. But it's hard to see. Why are you shaking your titties at me? A thin, panicked voice cries out. Yep, that's Harold. The naked dancing

stops, and everyone raises their arms high into the air. Then they start chanting. What are they saying? I ask Agnes. I can't hear them. Hush, she says in points. Look. I look, but don't see anything at first. Then I notice how the tide is coming in quickly, bringing the water up to the naked staff's feet

and around the wheels of Harold's chair. Something out in the dark waves is rising from the water, growing taller by the second, until it looms large over everyone, a two-story monster of nightmarish proportions. I whispered. I'll keep it together, Francis. Agnes says. She shakes her head.

And you doubted me? We're tucked close to some large rhododendron bushes, so I doubt they can see us. Still, I whisper, we don't need to see. The monster takes two steps out of the water. It snatches Harold up in one hand, inspects him for a second, then plops them into its massive, sharp-toothed maw and begins to chew. We need to go. Now! I hissed at Agnes. She doesn't argue. and we get our chairs turned around and wheel as fast as we can back up the trail. Thank God it's paved.

But even with a smooth pathway, it's hell on my arms as I struggle to move my ass as fast as possible back to the facility. Oh no, I think someone is following us. Agnes says when we're about three-quarters of the way back. I glance over my shoulder and see light coming up the trail. Go, go, go! I growl and put all my strength into pushing my wheels as hard as I possibly can. Princess! Agnes cries.

I can't go that fast. Wait for me. As much as I'd love to wait for her, I can't slow down, or I'll lose all the momentum I've built up. If I ease off the gas, even for a millisecond, my arms will quit on me, and I'll be stuck on this damn paved trail. So I make an asshole decision and keep moving. Thinking ahead, Agnes had left the rock in the back door that the staff uses to prop it open when they come out for a smoke. I grab the door's handle, pull it wide, and roll my ass inside. One of my wheels knocks the rock aside, and I realize I can't reach it in time to block the door.

I hear Agnes cry. Francis! Just as the door closes. I'm a piece of shit. I'm a piece of shit. I'm a piece of shit. I mumble as I race my way to my room. Once inside, I scramble up out of my chair and scoot my old legs under the covers.

Maybe not even two minutes later. My door opens. I make sure my eyes are closed tight, and that my breathing doesn't sound like I just tried to run a marathon. 10 seconds. 20 seconds. 30 seconds pass before my door closes again, and the lock clicks, and try to fill my lungs with as much air as I can take in.

My body feels like I've been run over by a truck. I'll be paying for this excursion for days. I know it. If what just happened can be called an excursion, and not a trek into a nightmare that I can't even begin to comprehend. My God, Agnes really was right. Those crazy naked assholes just sacrificed Harold as some giant sea monster, old god thing. Fuck!

Despite the terror gripping my chest, my body only has so much energy. And I'm suddenly coming awake when Armin shouts. Time to get up, cranky boy! Meeting in the lounge! He hurries into my room, grabs my legs, swings me over the bed, and pretty much carries me into my wheelchair. I have to pee, I say as he rushes me out of my room and down the hall. Hold it. I like really have to pee. And I said, hold it. Director Amanda needs to make an announcement. When we get into the lounge, almost every resident is in attendance, as well as almost the full staff.

director Amanda meets my eye and smiles then she looks at the rest of the room it is with a heavy heart that I have brought you all here this morning she takes a deep breath and wipes out an eye I didn't see a tear though we had two deaths last night I whisper shut it Frank

Armand growls Harold Schuster and Agnes Borland passed away in their sleep old gods rest their souls Let us bow our heads for a moment of silence. Most of the heads are bowed already, since several residents don't have the strength to keep them upright. I don't feel like playing along, but Armand pushes my head down so hard

that my chin slams into my chest. Fucker, I mumbled. The moment of silence lasts about five seconds, if that. All right, director Amanda says, clapping her hands, jolting folks awake. Enough with the sense. Sad news. We also brought everyone together this morning for a special occasion. The lounge doors open, and an attendant brings in a birthday cake with all the candles lit.

When she sets it on the table, Director Amanda looks right at me. It's Frank's birthday today! Let's all wish him a happy birthday! Ah, fuck! I say, just as my bladder lets loose. Story 3. Fire feeds the fever. The metal cuffes at my wrist, but I ignore it, or try to at least. The more you play with it, Tomac, the more irritated it'll get, Nelson says, with a smart-ass smile on her face. Just leave it alone and ignore it. Kind of hard to, I say, forcing myself not to scratch and rub at my wrist.

I may have tightened it a little too tight before we took off. That's a mistake you won't make again. She laughs, and I can't help but smile. It's my own damn fault I'm in this situation. Yeah, if they ever let me carry the football again, I say, and looked down at the briefcase, settled on the floor next to my seat. Koffer said this was a trial run. Bolt came down with some stomach bug this morning,

so Koffer handed me the football and told me to follow him to Air Force One. Did you nearly shoot a brick? More like a brick house. I turn and look out the small window at the passing clouds below the most secure airplane in the world. Now, I just feel like I want to puke. I miss the shooting bricks feeling. They have medication for that. Nelson laughs again as the door to our small cabin opens, and our boss, Supervising Agent Gerard

Coffert looks in. How's he going, rookie? He asks me. I'm a 13-year veteran, sir. Hardly a rookie. I respond. That's so. And in those 13 years of experience, how many times have you carried the football?

I sigh and rolled my eyes. Exactly zero times. Then right now, while you hold the launch codes and triggering system to the largest nuclear arsenal on the planet for the first time, you are a rookie. Fair enough, sir. Damn right, it's fair enough. Koffer switches his attention to Nelson. What about you?

What about me, sir? How's it going? Bored yet, babysitting the rookie? You're really going to milk the whole rookie thing, aren't you? I comment. This should be a fun trip. Quit wine and tow Mac. Nelson, you good?

Everything good? As good as my mom's apple pie, Nelson replies. She and Koffer share a look for a moment. Then he nods. Good to hear, because in about one hour, we'll be serving the best apple pie God has ever seen. Sounds delicious, sir. It will be.

Koffer nods and smiles at me. The ducks back out of the cabin. I give Nelson a quizzical look. Are you too, scroying? I ask. Nelson jerks back in her seat and stares hard. What? Why in the hell would you ask that? Because all that apple pie shit, that sounded like code to me. And your first thought was that it was code for sex?

Well, yeah. What's wrong with you? Oh, come on. There's that old movie called American Pie. You know the one where the team. teenager fucks an apple pie? I thought that's what you two were talking code about. Well, we weren't. You sure? Because you were definitely talking in code about something. There was no code, Tomac. I made an apple pie comment, and Koffer went with the metaphor. Have you never rift with someone before?

Oh, I've rift. I've rifted a lot. That wasn't riffing. That was definite and deliberate. Nelson Shrugs. I don't know what to tell you, Tomac. She settles in her seat. She settles in her and grins. How's the wrist? God damn it, Nelson. I'd just forgotten about it. Now it feels like it's itching ten times worse. It's going to drive me crazy the rest of the flight.

Don't worry. The flight will be over in an hour. Then you won't have to worry about irritated wrists or much of anything anymore. What is that mean? Huh? Not worry about much of anything. What did you mean by that? The thought hits me and my eyes widen as I sit forward.

Jesus, Nelson. Am I getting fired? Fired? No, I mean, not that I've heard. Reassigned? Dear God, please tell me Koffer isn't assigning me to one of POTUS's kids' details. I do not need to be babysitting a spoiled brat for the rest of my career. You do know there are listening devices everywhere, right? My eyes go wider. Nelson chuckles. I'm fucking with you. All recording devices have been turned to. off for this flight. There's no record of your disrespect toward POTUS's children. She sighs and shakes her head. Anyway, POTUS's family is safely stowed away in Mount Weather West. I'm sorry, where? Did you say Mount Weather West? That's not a thing, Nelson. Sure it is. Where do you think we were going? Colorado? Aren't you talking about NORAD? If I was talking about NORAD, I would have said NORAD.

No, Tomac. We're heading to Montana and Mount Weather West. Virginia would have been too close to home. A sharp pain stabs me behind my eyes. You okay? She asks. I'm fine. Might be getting a migraine. Headache and itchy wrist? You're a mess, Tomac. No thanks to you. Come on, Nelson. Tell me what you and Kafer were coding about. Not now. You'll find out in about an hour. We're the same rank and security level. How are you privy to something I'm not? I shake the chain connecting my wrist to the briefcase on the floor. I hold the football, which makes me a pretty important guy.

A heads up would be nice. It would also be in the interest of national security. Oh, and how do you figure that? Because if the itching doesn't drive me mad, your cryptic bullshit will. And keeping the guy in charge of the football from going bonkers is always in the best interest when it comes to national security. You just keep telling yourself that tomec. In the meantime, I'm going to catch a few winks.

Try not to scratch too loud, will you? Kiss my ass. Does that itch too? God, Nelson, you are relentless. It's why they pay me the big bucks and why I'm here watching you. Ah, come on. Now what the hell does that mean? It means what it means.

Nelson closes her eyes. and wriggles deeper into her seat. Wait me if anything happens. If coughers sees you sleeping, you'll be pissed. I doubt that. She lets out a deep breath and relaxes. I try to do the same. But between the wrist and the growing headache,

relaxing isn't in the cards for me. I stare out the window and watch the clouds for a moment. That one looks like a lemon meringue pie. So does that one. And that one. Shit, from up above, all clouds look like lemon meringue pies. Then I see a shadow in one of the pies and sit up straight. My whole body alert.

The wing of Air Force One slices through the top of a large cloud bank, and for a second or two, I think it's the wing's shadow that I saw. But then I see it again and realize that there is definitely something in the clouds, something following us. Nelson! Hey Nelson, wake up! I'm not asleep, Tomak. I literally just closed my eyes like three minutes ago.

I think we have a boge. Nelson opens her left eye and locks on to me. What kind of bogey? Another plane. Possibly a fighter jet. I keep seeing a shadow in the clouds. It's just the shadow from Air Force One. That's what I thought.

But the shadow isn't on the clouds. It's in it. She opens both eyes and sits up. You sure? Positive. Nelson gets up and leans past me to look out my window. Where?

I don't know. Not there. In the clouds. All I can see is the side of your blazer, so I can't really point it out. She moves back. Find it. The pilots must see it. Did you hear an alert?

If they saw a bogey, then we'd be strapping in and ready for evasive maneuvers. Right now we're just holding steady like we have been. Then it must not be a threat. Otherwise our escort would have taken it out. I look out the window and search the sky for the shadow. Just as I'm about to give up, I see it, and it's closer than before. Much closer. There! I say in point.

Nelson lunges forward and studies the sky. Shit! That son of a bitch must have gotten wind of fever. Who got wind of what? I'll be right back. She leaves before I can say another word, which is weird enough. But then I hear the door click twice behind her, followed by an elective. electric buzz and mechanical sliding noise.

Nelson? I get up and try the door. It's locked tight. Nelson! What the hell? Open the door! I slam my fist against the metal surface of the door that's painted to look like wood. Nelson!

Nelson! There's no answer, not even from any of the staff. Then the plane takes a sudden dip and turns to the right, and I'm struggling to stay on my feet. I fail spectacularly and tumble backwards, landing halfway. halfway across Nelson's seat. The football flails with me and pain explodes in my left shin as the briefcase collides with phone. Damn it! I shout. Someone open the damn door! I push back up to my feet, but I'm not on them for long enough before the plane climbs quickly, and I'm thrown back into my seat so hard that

my teeth clack together and I taste iron as I nip the side of my tongue. With the salty taste of blood in my mouth, I look out the window again, and this time see two shadows. One bursts up out of the clouds, and it is not our usual F-16 escort. This plane is sleek and black and fast. A prototype or something above my pay grade. Then directly behind it, an F-16 appears and opens fire. The door to my cabin bursts open and coffer storms in. On me! Now!

He barks. I can hear the gunfire and missiles launching outside the plane, and I jump to my feet, following coffer as fast as I can. Sir, what is happening? Just follow me. Yes, sir. But who is attacking us? What's going on?

V. Podus is making his play finally. What? You fucking heard me. Now keep up. We don't have much time. Koffer races past panicked staffers, winding through the seats and tables, heading for the middle of the plane.

Two agents that I've known for some time step in our way. Move! Koffer growls. Can't do that, sir. One of them says, then goes for his sidearm at the exact same moment. Koffer goes for his. What the fuck?

I shout as I dive to the ground. Shots ring out, and I hear two grunts, then a heavy weight falls across my back. Get him up, Nelson, Koffer says. The weight is eased, and hands yank me to my feet. Keep moving, Nelson says. Her hands gripping my upper arm like a vice. Do not stop moving, no matter what. Staff members are screaming, and panicked voices are shouting.

Another shot rings out, and an agent who appears in front of us rocks back, A single, bloody hole in the middle of his forehead. Nelson pretty much drags me through the plane to the open door with the presidential seal on it. In, she snaps, as the door opens, and agents grab me and pull me inside. Then she turns her back to the door, holds up her service pistol and shouts. For the fever! For the fever! The agents holding me reply as the door slams shut.

Well, I know we had all hoped to be safely inside Mount Weatherwest when this goes down, But, ladies and gentlemen, that is not our fate. The hands let me go, and I find myself staring at a smiling potus as he sits behind his desk. Mr. President, I say, and give him a polite nod. I'm a little confused as to what's going on. He holds out his hand. The football, please, Agent Tomak. I look at the briefcase and see blood all over my hand and lower arm.

I'm not wounded, so it must be spray from one of the agents who Nelson shot. Sir, the football agent, now, he snaps his fingers. Now! Hands pushed me forward, and I stumble towards POTUS's desk. The man stands up and reaches for the briefcase, but I yank it back out of reach. Sir, there is a protocol for this. Pain explodes in the back of my head, and I'm down on my knees before I can blink. I feel warm blood trickle onto the back of my neck.

Unfortunately, we are past all protocols. Sir, I don't understand. My hand is grabbed by the wrist and pulled up onto the desk. More hands grab my shoulders and arm pinning me in place. What the hell is going on? I shout, just as an agent produces a K-bar knife. Holy shit! What the fuck are you doing? The only answer I get is a huge arm around my neck,

holding me in place as the person with the K-bat knife puts the blade to my wrist. Stop! They don't stop. A handkerchief is stuffed in my mouth, as I scream my throat raw while my hand is very slowly and extremely painfully cut from the rest of my arm. When it's done, I'm shoved aside, and the briefcase has slid across the desk to POTUS. I screech and scramble backwards on my ass as everyone turns to the most powerful man on earth. Clutching my bloody stump to my chest, I scoot myself into a corner and huddle there as I watch wide-eyed at the insanity before me.

Thank you, agents. Thank you, everyone, POTUS says. as he uses the thumb from my severed hand and his thumb to open the briefcase. The football is now in play. I look about, and no one will meet my eye. There are cabinet members, members of Congress, heads of agencies. These are the leaders of our country, and they have looks on their faces like kids in a candy store, not like hardened professionals,

watching their boss begin the process to launch nuclear bombs. Ladies and gentlemen, the time has come for us to feed the fever. Bodice says, Feed the fever! Everyone echoes. I remain silent, watching in horror. Our God has shown us the path,

and that path is the fever. Bodas continues. That path is the fever. They echo. We shall feed God's fever with fire. Fire that will cleanse the earth of the unbelievers. Fire that will cleanse the earth of the unbelievers. Let us set this fire loose, so the fire may live in all its glory.

The fever is the glory! The glory is the fever! POTUS's eyes fall on me. You, Agent Tomak, shall bear witness to the dawn of God's new world. The dawn of the age of the fever! The age of the fever! Your people are fucking crazy! I snap.

What the hell is wrong with you? Nothing, son, Potus says. It's the rest of the world who is wrong. I watch in horror as he breaks open the plastic sleeve and begins entering the codes for a nuclear launch. You can't do this! I shout. You'll kill billions of innocent people! No, son, we shall feed the fire, which will feed the fever, which will bring us all closer to God. Closer to God! Everyone echoes. Isn't that what you want, Agent Tomac, to be closer to God?

Not like this, not if it means murdering billions! Humanity is a parasite. God tries to wipe us off this planet with all of his might every single day. But we are a wicked species, no better than cockroaches, and thwart his will. For us, the guardians of the fever, we shall do his work for him and rid this planet of all parasites. The plane rocks hard at the side, and red lights flash brightly as a loud claxon nearly deafens me. Sir, Air Force One has been critically downed. We need to get you to the pod!" An agent yells.

Not before I perform my duty, POTIS says, then stares down into the football. He nods once, then presses a button, turns two knobs, and presses another button. To my utter surprise and abject horror, there's no need of a second person. Dear God, when was that changed? It is done, he says, and lets the agents rush him to the back of the office, where the wall opens up, and he's tucked safely. tucked safely inside an ejection pod. The wall closes, and I feel a pressure in my ears as the

pod is ejected. Then all eyes turn on me. A sacrifice? Someone suggests. Yes. Someone else agrees. For God's favor. His blood will ensure our safety, someone adds. God will not forsake us, not us. I see murder and fear and doubt in the eyes of the people who come for me. Someone grabs a letter opener from POTUS's desk and lifts it high into the air as the crazy bastards surround me. I could try to fight them, but with the blood loss from my stump, I'm barely able to keep my eyes open. As they get closer and closer, and as my eyelids droop lower, the plane shudders again and a huge fireball suddenly fills the office. Looks like they get to feed the fever too. We all do.