Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Consumed

Episode Date: July 9, 2025

A ruthless banker mocks a beggar with curses and cash—until a mysterious affliction begins tearing his body apart every time he spends a dime. Author: Jake Bible * * * 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 17. Listener discretion is advised. #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

tonight's sleep. Hey man, I don't have any cash on me and I need to... Sorry, pal, no can do. Arlo Milton says, rushing past the young man who has posted up next to the gas station store's door. No, no, I... Arlo spins about and jams a finger in the young man's face. You can get a job.

That's what you can do. It's no fair that guys like me have to do all of the work in this country to create jobs and build up industries so guys like you can sit around drinking 40. or whatever, and suck off the tit of this great country. Yeah, okay, thanks, the young man says, is shoulder slumping. He walks two steps away and sits down next to the trash can that is overflowing with slushy cups and a burrito wrappers.

Sorry to bother you. I get it. It's all good. Yeah, it's fucking all good. Arlo thinks as he enters the store. It's my fucking money, slacker-ass bitch. The cashier looks up from his magazine. Sorry, the credit... Don't care! Arlo says, his voice raised.

I just need some gas on Pump 6. The white Mercedes out there? See it? Forty should do it. I'd use my card, but... The system is down, the cashier says. That's what I was trying to tell you. See that guy out there?

He's been trying to... Yeah, yeah, don't care. I have a meeting I can't miss. Arlo says in a voice, meant to tell the cashier that he's the more important person in the place. So do whatever you need to do to get the system back up and running.

The cashier blinks at Arlo a few times, then laughs. You mean like go to school and get a degree in computer programming? Do whatever you want with your life. I don't care. Going back to school might be a great idea considering. Arlo spreads his arms wide. You might actually get a future. The cashier shakes his head.

I don't run the system. I don't own the system. I'm not even employed in the same company as the system. That would be a credit card processing. company, some tech bullshit out in California. Do I look like I'm in California? Arlo almost says that the guy doesn't look like he can spell California, but he's lost interest in the discussion and the cashier. But instead he says, I know how credit card systems work. I'm in banking. Great, maybe you can call these assholes and see when they'll get it back up

and running. The cashier pulls an ancient telephone out from under the counter and slams it down. You want the number? Do all you greedy assholes? know each other. Excuse me? What did you call me? My apologies. Do all you greedy douchebags all know each other? I can have you fired. Good for you. While you're doing that, you'll still need gas. The cashier crossed his arms and smiles. Cash only. Cash? That's what I said. Who uses cash? Not many people, he sighs. You got cash or what? Arlo shakes his head as he opens his wallet and plucks out two-twenties from a thick stack of cash he has tucked in there. Pump six.

He drops the 20s on the counter. It's the white. Mercedes, yeah, I heard you tell the guy out there. Everyone for two blocks probably heard that shit. As the cashier takes the 20s, a loud slap against the front door's glass gets Arlo's attention. Liar! The young man from outside shouts. Greedy lying prick.

Fuck you, you homeless piece of trash! Arlo yells back. Get a fucking job! He has two, the cashier says, ringing up Arlo's gas purchase, then plugging in $40 worth of gas into pump six. He's a firefighter and a boo-hoo don't care, Arlo says, and smacks the top of the counter with his palm. We good here?

Prick. The young man bellows. Arlo flips him off. The young man takes a step back, then raises his right hand and curls in his thumb, middle and ring fingers, leaving his index finger and pinky sticking out. Have fun spending your money now, prick. Then the young man walks off, leaving Arlo with a bemused look on his face.

Did that little shit just give me the sign of the evil eye? Arlo laughs. What the hell? The what? The cashier asks. The sign of the evil eye. You know, the evil eye? Like a curse that gypsies do?

Dude, that's racist. What? Sure. Not all the gypsies do curses. I know that. No, the word gypsy is racist. How is gypsy racist? They're gypsies.

No, they're Romani or whatever. Educate yourself, man. Fucking MBA from Harvard here, pal. I'm ten times more educated than most people can dream. Yeah, well, saying gypsy is still racist, no matter where you went to school. So you sound ignorant when you say it. Whatever.

We good here or what? Been good. Pump is ready. Arlo nods at the cashier and leaves the store. When he's out on the sidewalk, he doesn't see any sign of the young man. Racist? Who the fuck does that white trash loser think he is? I can crush him under my thumb like that.

He snaps his finger, then goes to fill his Mercedes with gas. The screen tells him to remove his card, so Arlo, without even thinking about it, pulls the card from the reader and goes to place it back in his wallet. As soon as the machine beeps and the little screen shows, Approved, with an exaggerated flourish of useless animation. A sharp pain stabs into his little toe, and he wences. Glad to see the system is working, Arlo says to the pretty girl behind the counter.

No idea what you're talking about. This morning, the credit card system was out. Not here. Well, it was out at the other gas station down the street. So? So it's good to see your system works. Okay. She says, rolling her eyes and nodding at the leader bottle of cola

and the family-sized bag of chips. You want a bag for that? Yeah, I want a bag. I'm not going to carry this shit in my hands. The girl raises an eyebrow and shakes her head, bagging up the two items, then handing the bag across the counter to Arlo. There you go.

The pain in Arlo's toe doubles and he winces. You aren't going to have a heart attack, are you? If so, do it outside. I don't need the hassle. What? No, I'm not going to have a heart attack. I'm 42 years old. Good for you.

Arlo starts to walk away, then stops. Forgot gum. He grabs a pack and tosses it on the counter. Then he pulls his wallet back out and slips his credit card from its pocket. $5 minimum, the girl says, pointing at a hand-lettered sign on the register. So over and done with snotty convenience store clerks, Arlo almost tosses his credit card in her face. Instead, he fishes out a 20 from the back of his wife.

and slaps it down. She rings up the gum, takes the 20 and makes change. The second the change is in Arlo's hand, his foot erupts in agony. Motherfucker! He shouts, dropping the change, dropping the gum, dropping the bag of snacks as he falls to the floor, his hands reaching for his right loafer. Dude, heart attacks outside, the girl says, leaning all the way over the counter to peer at him from above.

It's my fucking foot! Arlo screams. Then he sees the blood leaking from his shirt. and screams louder. Fuck! The girl says and pulls out her phone. That's fucked up. I'll call 911.

When Beatrice, Arlo's wife, hurries into the emergency room lobby, Arlo raises a hand and waves. She storms over to him, her body twitching and her eyes wide with panic. Have you not been seen yet? She exclaims. Then she looks down at Arlo's foot,

which is wrapped in a bandage that is completely soaked through with blood. Her hands go to her mouth. Oh my God! What happened? Fuck if I know, Arlo says. I was getting something to eat and... Something healthy, I hope.

Yeah, sure, of course. Healthy. Beatrice purses her lips. Right. Anyway, Arlo continues. I was standing there and my foot felt like it was on fire. When I got the shoe off, two toes were missing. Missing?

Missing. Like they were ripped off my foot. Just fucking gone. Where'd they go? I don't fucking know. Are they in your shirt? If they were in my fucking shoe, then I know where they were, wouldn't I? No need to be an asshole, Arlo. I'm just trying to figure out what's going on.

So am I. Beatrice stares at her husband, then plops down in the seat next to him. How long until you're called? If I say I don't know, are you going to ask a stupid follow-up question again? Beatrice frowns and crosses her arms over her chest. Arlo, knowing he's dug himself a deep hole with his wife, starts to apologize. eyes. Then he sees a familiar face standing outside the ER's sliding doors. That fucking gypsy! Don't be racist, Arlo! Beatrice says.

I'm not being racist. Arlo snaps as he watches the young man from the morning, grin at him as he wags a finger. Oh, no, you don't. Arlo is up and hobbling across the ER lobby in a flash. Then Payne tears up through his leg and he finds himself falling face first toward the industrial tile. Arlo Milton? A nurse shouts from a set of double doors with no admittance authorized personnel printed on them. Arlo raises his hand. Beatrice gets up and helps him to his feet. When he looks toward the doors, the young man is long gone. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more than head to checkout, only to realize you don't

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slash DNS. Go to Shopify.com slash DNS. That's Shopify.com slash DNS. You took your shoe off and they were gone? The doctor asks, examining the two stumps on Arlo's right foot. He frowns and they and takes a step back, giving Arlo a harsh look. Not the best cover story I've heard. Want to tell me what really happened to Mr. Milton? I just did. I was buying snacks for the afternoon.

And the next thing I know I'm on the floor and my shoe is leaking blood. The doctor glances at Beatrice. She shrugs. I wasn't there. Returning his attention to Arlo, the doctor says, Those toes were bitten off. They didn't fall off. They didn't go missing.

Something with very sharp teeth bit them off. Arlo smirks then laughs. He glances at his wife and laughs harder when he sees the confused look on her face. That's hilarious, doctor, but I'm a busy man. I need you to actually tell me the medical reason for why my toes aren't in the end of my foot anymore. Something, bit, them, off, the doctor says in a slow, measured tone. So what I'm going to do is put in an order for a series of rabies shots and... Rabies shots? Are you nuts? Nothing fucking bit. Well, unless you can tell me how this actually happened, I am going to assume something bit you, which means I'm going to err on the sight of caution.

Nothing fucking bit me! Those shots have to go in his belly, right? With a long needle? Beatrice asks. Yes, ma'am, the doctor replies. Just tell him the truth, Arlo. Beatrice says and stands up. You were at that truck stop again, weren't you?

Getting high and getting blown by hookers. She clutches her purse to her chest and snorting. Charles at Arlo. You said you were done with all that! Fucking liar! Then she's gone in an angry huff. Now that she's not in the room, care to tell me what really happened? The doctor asks.

I did tell you! The doctor rolls his eyes and stands up. I'll go order the rabies shots. Stay put. A nurse will be in here soon to administer them. I'll be back to finish sewing up these wounds. You want to consult with an orthopedic surgeon. I've put a referral in your file.

Arlo is so dumbfounded. So dumbfounded, he can't even yell at the doctor. The copay is $120, the ER receptionist says. What? That's ridiculous. I have some of the best health insurance out there. Apparently not, the receptionist says. Will that be cash or card? Bill me, Arlo says and turns to walk away. Sorry, sir, but when you came in, you checked the box that says you'll pay at the time of release.

That time is now. I'll need $120, please. Please. Arlo wants to argue, but he also needs to get off his feet. His right foot is singing in agony and his belly feels bruised and battered from the rabies shots. The thought of having to come back for boosters makes him want to throw up, much like the idea of paying $120 to the smug bitch behind the reception desk. He seriously considers just leaving, but he notices a security guard paying close attention

to him, so he pulls out his wallet instead. Card, he says and hands over the gold American Express. Visa or MasterCard only, she says. We no longer take Amex or Discover. Of course you don't, Arlo says, and exchanges the card for a visa. Will this be acceptable? If it goes through, she says and runs the card. When there's a small chime from her computer, she goes to hand the card back.

Except Arlo isn't standing in front of her anymore. He's down on the floor screaming. His hands wrapped around the place where his right foot used to be. Holy shit! The receptionist says when she leans over to look at him. Gonna need some help here. Blood is gushing from the stump that stops just under Arlo's right knee, soaking the now empty pant leg.

Arlo screams and screams and screams, then passes out. When Arlo comes to, he sees his wife seated in a beige chair in the corner of the room. As his eyes focus better, he looks around. Am I still in the hospital? He croaks. Beatrice's head snaps towards him, and she is up on her feet and rushing to his side. Yes, baby, you are still in the hospital. She says and kisses his brow.

I am so sorry I got mad and left you yesterday. I thought you regressed to your old ways, so I was angry and upset. But now I know that's not the case. I told you I was done with that, Arlo says, not adding that he'd been at that truck stop just last week. No need to bring that up. He frowns. Wait, yesterday? I've been here overnight.

Mr. Milton. A doctor says as he barges into the room without even knocking. You're awake. Good. How are you feeling? Confused. Arlo says. What happened?

Why am I in here? Then an image hits him. Blood. So much blood. And also. Arlo eases his head up and looks down the hospital bed. The blanket on the right side is flatter than the blanket on the left side. Oh, fuck. It wasn't a dream.

Unfortunately no, the doctor says, and maneuvers around Beatrice. He pulls back the blanket from below. Although, to be honest, I can't say exactly what this is. If there wasn't documentation from your ER visit that you were only missing two toes just minutes before, I'd probably order a psych evaluation for you. Where the fuck is the rest of my leg? Arlo gasps as the doctor begins to unwind the bandages wrapped around the stump of Arlo's right leg. That is the million-dollar question, isn't it?

The doctor says. It looks like a wild animal bit it off, but that's impossible. So all I can say is it's just not there anymore. I don't understand what's happening. Neither do we, Mr. Milton. Neither do we. When the doctor is done unwrapping, Beatrice grips the side of the bed and turns her head away from the exposed stump.

I'm going to get a ginger rail and some pretzels, she says, holding a hand to her belly. That's making me nauseous. She leaves quickly and the doctor continues with his examination. When he's done, he wraps the stump in fresh bandages, then takes a deep breath and pat's Arlo's upper leg. Regardless of the cause, your leg is looking good, very little swelling or redness at the suture site. Right now, all we can do is keep you for observation for a couple of days, just in case. Just in case what? I wish I knew Mr. Milton,

but we have some of the best minds in this hospital working on figuring that out. Great, nothing like the bottom of the class to come to the rescue. The doctor cocks his head, then smiles. I have asked a counselor to come in and speak to you. Losing a partial limb is traumatizing, and if you don't have a regular therapist, the counselor can provide you with some names. The doctor pats him again and leaves.

In seconds, Beatrice returns. The card reader isn't working on the vending machine. Do you have any cash? I know I don't. In my wallet, Arlo says. When you get back, we need to talk about moving me to a different hospital. One of the good ones in the city. This provincial shit show isn't going to be able to help me.

You and the bank helped finance building this place, Arlo. Yeah, well, we may have helped build it. We didn't have any say on staffing. They're all imbeciles here. I want experts. actual experts. Well, we'll see. Beatrice says, and picks up Arlo's wallet from the bedside table,

where it sits by his phone. She fishes out a 20 from the long pocket in the back. Right now, we just need your leg to heal. I doubt they'll move you anywhere until then. Arlo doesn't respond. He knows his wife, and her tone of voice says she's not going to be of much help. When she leaves, he stares up at the ceiling for several minutes, his mind numb.

What the hell is going on? He starts to ask, but is interrupted by screaming. His screaming. Arlo's hands shoot to his right leg. But it's not there. From the hip down, it's completely missing. Blood soaks the hospital bed. I have snacks.

Beatrice announces as she walks into the room. Then she drops the bag of pretzels in the can of ginger ale so her hands can cover her mouth as she lets out her own scream. When the can hits the ground, it bursts open, spraying the room in sticky sweet ginger-flavored soda. Propped up in the backseat of his wife's luxury SUV, Arlo stares out the window as buildings whizz by. The doctors had argued with him,

saying that he needed to stay put while they figured out what was happening with Arlo, but he was having none of that. He raged at them until they finally relented and authorized his transfer to the huge Catholic hospital in the city. Not that Arlo is happy he's going to have to deal with the Catholics. One step up from gypsies, he thinks, but doesn't say. Then, as if by fate, Beatrice stops at a red light,

and standing on the corner is a familiar face. Him, Parlow whispers. What's that, sweetheart? Beatrice asks, looking at him in the rearview mirror. That guy's standing there. He cursed me. That's what all this is. He cursed me with the sign of the evil eye. Damn, dirty gypsy.

Beatrice watches him in the mirror for a moment, then sighs and looks over toward the corner. Him? That kid? You think he cursed you? He did. I wouldn't give him money and he cursed me for it. What do you mean you wouldn't give him money? For what? He was panhandling and I brushed him off. So he cursed me like one of those gypsies. Jesus, Arlo, stop saying that word. It's crude and offensive. I fucking don't care. The asshole cursed me.

Arlo fumbles with the window button and finally gets it to roll down. Hey! You! I know what you did! I'm going to fucking destroy you, you little son of a bitch! The young man grins and holds up both middle fingers. Oh, that? Beatrice laughs. That's not a curse, Arlo. That's just how people greet you because you can be such a royal asshole. The car lurches forward as the light turns green. Where are you going? Go back!

call the police. Where am I going? To the damn hospital you insist on being transferred to. She regains her composure as she takes the next left, leaving the young man far behind and out of sight. And we are not calling the police so you can tell them you think you're cursed. You've been complaining about how much all these surgeries on your leg will cost. Do you have any idea how much a private psychiatric facility is? We'll find out pretty fast if you keep telling people you have been cursed. How the fuck else do you explain what's happening to me? Arlo Bellows. Karma? Beatrice thinks, but doesn't say. When Beatrice takes Arlo's debit card from his wallet to use down in the cafeteria of the Catholic hospital, he's too high on morphine to notice.

But he does notice when his left foot disappears, and even the morphine can't hold back that pain. While Beatrice enjoys her lunch, Arlo screams at the nurses who rush in to help. He screams at the doctors who puzzle at what can be happening to him. He even screams at Beatrice when she finally returns. Stop spending my money, you dumb fucking bitch! Beatrice waits until he's out of surgery and settled before she leaves. She is going to be headed home to pack up, so she can stay with her mother for a while.

The van pulls into the handicapped parking space in front of the gas station store. The driver gets out, goes around to the side, and pulls open the sliding door. A motor whirers and a metal ramp, unfolds itself. Here you go, Mr. Milton, the driver, also a nurse, says, helping Arlo roll his wheelchair down the ramp. When all four wheels are on asphalt, Arlo works the wheelchair's joystick, so it turns and faces the front of the store. A young man stands there, smirking. Arlo knows his face instantly.

Hand me that bag, Arlo orders the nurse driver. Yes, sir. The nurse driver says, and reaches into the van, grabs the small leather bag, and sets it on Arlo's lap. With his one hand, his left hand, Arlo pushes the joystick forward, and the wheelchair rolls up the cement ramp and onto the store's sidewalk. You, I've been looking for you,

Arlo snarls. I don't know how what you did works, but it has to stop. That for me? The young man asks, nodding at the leather bag. Arlo, missing both legs and his right arm, throws the bag at the young man with his remaining limb. Yes, it's for you.

Now call off the fucking curse, Arlo roars. Curse? I don't know what you're talking about. The young man says as he looks down at the bag sitting on the dirty sidewalk. He nudges it with the toe of his shoe, but doesn't bend down to open it or pick it up. What's this? $40,000. Cash. Arlo says and rolls closer until he's almost on top of the bag.

He stares up at the face above him. All yours. Now, make it stop. Make it stop? Make what stop? The curse, you fucking asshole! A curse? The young man rubs his chin.

What kind of curse? Like a curse where every time you spend even a penny, you lose a piece of your body? That kind of curse? Yes, you snotty son of a bitch! Arlo growls. Take the cash and make it stop. I wish I could, but I don't know how.

The young man shrugs. Never learned how. I can place them, but I can't. I can't take them off. He leans in close. There's only one way you can make it all stop, as far as I can see. As the young man straightens back up, Arlo shakes with rage. You okay there, Mr. Milton?

The nurse driver asks as he leans against the van. Shut up and mind your own business. The nurse driver pushes off from the side of the van and walks around to the driver's side. He climbs in and starts scrolling on his phone. Arlo gets himself under control. Okay, smart guy. I've paid you $40,000. Now tell me how I make this shit stop. Technically, you haven't paid me until I pick up that bag and keep the cash.

The young man says. Which you do not want me to do. Oh? And why is that? The young man laughs. You ain't gonna like it. I'd no point in telling you anyway. Not going to make much difference. Fuck you! That's $40,000 fucking dollars.

When is a fucking bum like you ever seen $40,000, huh? Huh? Take the fucking money and tell me how to make all this stop. You sure? Yes, I'm fucking sure. Tell me. The young man reaches down and puts his hand on the bag but doesn't pick it up. He looks Arlo right in the eye.

Stop spending money. Stop trying to buy everything. That's how. Simple is that. The words make no sense to Arlo. Stop spending money. What delusional fantasy world do you live in? This is America.

You can't exist without spending money. The young man shrugs, still bent over, still with his hand on the bag. Then he pats the bag and stands up. He smiles at Arlo, then turns and walks off. Have a good life, prick. He says and gives Arlo the finger over his shoulder. Wait! Where are you going? Come back here, you fuck.

I'm not done with you. I'm fucking calling the cops. You do that! The young man shouts, then walks to a nice, but used pickup truck parked two spaces away. He hops in, starts it up, and leans out the window. You may want to check your assumptions at the door next time you feel like being a lying prick. The truck reverses and drives off. Arlo screams and screams, smashing his left hand down on the wheelchair's armrest over and over.

He doesn't stop screaming until the nurse driver gets him inside the van and injects him with a mild sedative that he keeps on hand since Arlo's behavior has gotten more and more erratic. Drugged to the gills, Arlo watches as the group of doctors consult with each other at the foot of his hospital bed. Today, Arlo says, and slowly rotates his head so he can see the calendar hanging on his hospital room's wall. Today. Yes, Mr. Milton, one of the doctors says.

Today. They all consult with each other again. Their heads close, their voices hushed. Every once in a while they eye Arlo, but he doesn't care. He's used to being eyed and stared at and worried over and wondered about. When all you have left is most of your torso, minus a kidney and one lung, you learn to stop worrying about every little detail. That's Arlo's new philosophy.

No, the only thing he worries about is the day's date. If only he can get everyone to understand that. What do you think the curse will take today? Arlo grunts. The doctors try to smile at him. Mr. Milton, you are in the best hospital and receiving the best care. Your insurance company is covering everything. Nothing is going to be taken from you today, one of the doctors says.

Arlo shakes his head. Then pain erupts in his head, and he realizes that he can't see. He's completely blind, and his eye so, so empty. He screams. As he hears alarms go off and the doctor's hurrying around him, his screams turn to laughs. Someone sedate him! The doctor shouts. Arlo feels the delightful numbness wash over him, and the pain subsides, but his laughter doesn't.

Why does he laugh like that? A nurse whispers to someone. Arlo doesn't hear or care what the reply to that question is. He's told them so many times why, but they never believe him. He laughs because it's all he can do. He laughs because he knows what the date is. The 28th. Doesn't matter what month. It's always the 28th. Arlo keeps laughing, knowing that the alimony payment to his ex-wife has just been direct deposited into her account. And as the laughter continues, he wonders how many months he has left before it's all gone. Before he's all gone.