Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - I'm The Only Human On Flight 313, And We Haven't Landed in 36 Hours | Part 1

Episode Date: June 11, 2025

A hard-nosed NSA agent boards a mysterious flight to tail a suspect—only to discover the plane isn’t bound for any place on Earth… and he may never leave it. Author: Jake Bible * * * EXPLICIT CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and graphic depictions of violence intended for adults 18 years of age or older. These stories are NOT intended for children under the age of 18. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised. #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #truescarystories #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

to nice sleep. The man's eyes flit this way, flit that way, scanning the crowd. I turn my head just at the right moment so he doesn't notice me. Sir, I need your ID. I glance at the TSA agent and pull out my badge. I don't know what that is. The TSA agent responds, looking bored and annoyed. I need your driver's license, which must be a real ID or your passport.

I'm NSA, I say in a low voice. My eyes drifting to the man. man I'm tailing. This badge will get me through. What's NSA again? The TSA agent asks his coworker out of the corner of his mouth. Fuck if I know. The other TSA agent replies while he checks other traveler's IDs. Let the guy through. It's not a real ID or passport. I'm a fucking federal agent, moron. I don't need a fucking real ID or passport. You do if you want to go through this security checkpoint, the TSA agent says, and I can see his shoulders tense. He's getting ready for a power play. He wants to throw his weight around a little. I lift my phone and take his

picture. Hey! He snaps and reaches for my phone, but I keep it out of his reach. That does it, buddy. You're about to spend a few hours in a small room with a locked... Jonas Billings, age 36, married twice, divorced once, currently cheating on his wife with his ex. $14,000 in a hidden savings account that his first wife, the one he's cheating on his current wife with, doesn't know about. Oh, and you have a kid with a high school sweetheart that neither of your wives, current or X, has any clue exists. The man glares at me. He looks at his colleague. That man shrugs. You got drama, bro. The other agent says. Do you want me to list your browser history? I ask, raising my voice.

Especially that website with the peanut butter and... Get the fuck out of my sight! The TSA agent says and pushes me along. Asshole. I tuck my badge into my jeans pocket. I'm not in my usual black suit. Not today. That uniform is a dead giveaway,

and I need to track this motherfucker before he does something horrible. Now, where did the motherfucker go? Normally, I can bypass security, but I needed to keep an eye on the man. A lot of good that did me. I do my best not to look like someone looking for someone. But the glances I get from travelers tells me I'm not doing a great job. I shouldn't be surprised. I'm not the guy they usually send for stealth missions.

I'm the guy they send when they need shit to get handled, no matter the method. And I have a lot of methods. Although, after the last job, the brass aren't exactly happy about my methods. Some might say I'm on thin ice, so doing my best today matters more than any assignment I've had. I hurry through security, grateful that the agent at the body scanner knows what the NSA is. He doesn't bat an eye at my badge or my gun, and just waves me around the scanner. My eyes flit left and right, back and forth, just like my praise did when he first entered the security line. Then I catch sight of the man rounding a corner, heading down a ramp to Concourse C.

I'm on his ass immediately. When I get down the ramp, I see him duck into a Hudson News shop. He doesn't glance around as he enters, so I'm pretty sure he has no idea I'm tailing his ass. Getting out of the flow of traffic, I move over to the wall and kneel down to tie my shoe, even though it's not untied. A little girl gives me a look, and I smile at her. She sticks out her tongue, and I have to blink for a second. Was her tongue forked? Did I just see that?

Before I can go over the image in my head, my guy walks out of Hudson News with a party-sized bag of skittles and a water in his hands. He looks up at the signs, orientes himself, and heads down the convent. course for his gate. It was easy to crack his itinerary. He had a sophisticated security protocol on his modem, his router, and his laptop. But the airplane app on his phone was built by a five-year-old, and he gave him up with only a few finger swipes on my part. I didn't even have to get near him. I was able to break into his account from the app's back end. No close proximity needed. With my guy on the move again, I stopped pretending to time my shoe, stand up, look, the opposite direction, down to eight, and then look back over my shoulder.

Yep, there he goes, headed to flight 313 at gate 19, just like the app said. I weave my way through the crowd, never in a hurry, slow and easy, like I'm just killing time before my own flight. I barely give my guy a look when I pass him,

walking two gates down to 21. An older woman stands up, just as I reach the row of seats at the gate. Her spot is exactly the one I need in order to watch my guy without raising suspicion. The gate attendant's voice booms over the PA about some flight or other, being delayed, and the man sitting two seats down leans my way and says,

Better than driving. I smile and nod and go back to my surveillance. Then the man opens his mouth to say something else, and I hold up a finger. He jerks back, frowns, and shakes his head. People used to be friendly, he says, and goes back to whatever doom scroll he's addicted to on his phone. My phone chimes. When I look at the screen, it's my turn to frown.

Flight 313 is full. Do whatever you have to to get on that flight. On it, I reply. When I tuck my phone into my pocket, I watch my guy lean down and say something to a woman sitting in one of the chairs facing the windows. She nods, then looks over her shoulder. At me. Letting my eyes gloss over as if I'm spacing out, I don't look away. When she keeps staring, I let my eyes focus, then I frown at her, blink a few times, smile sheepishly, and look in a different direction in a slow, languid way like I'm just another bored traveler trying to pass the time.

From the corner of my eye, I notice my guy hurry off to the far side of Gate 19, where he tucks himself into a corner seat and buries his face in his phone. The woman continues to stare at me. I keep acting bored. After a minute, she turns her attention away, and I let out a mental sigh. I have no idea what the relationship is. The file didn't say anything about him having contacts. He's been a loner for the past eight months.

Woman, mid-thirties, Auburn hair, blue eyes, tan power suit, black briefcase, beige shoulder bag. I sent the text in wait. In less than a second, the response is, unknown, not in file. No shit. Subject made contact. Gate 19. Pull up security feed. One moment, please.

It's not a real person I'm texting with. The AI assistance the NSA has right now have gotten pretty damn sophisticated. Basically, I'm using one to do my search for me. Some agents worry will be replaced. I'm not. You still need shoes on the ground to get shit done. An AI can't subdue a subject.

Leasel DeLong. What's a Leasel DeLong? Is that her name? Leasel? Like in that musical with the kids and the Nazis? Yes. Background? Unknown. Occupation, age, home address? Unknown. How the fuck is it unknown? You have her name. You have access to every database the FBI, CIA, NSA, DHS, and all agencies have. Find her. One moment, please. The sound of the gate attendant announcing that boarding has begun for flight 13 to New Mexico filters through the noise to my ears. New Mexico? The flight isn't supposed to be going to New Mexico.

I thought I was going to... I shake my head. Surprised I can't recall the exact destination. But I'm pretty sure it wasn't New Mexico. My confusion brings up a hundred questions in my head. But the biggest one is, where is New Mexico? A flight doesn't just go to a state. Before I can double-check the flight's actual destination,

the AI assistant text back. with Leesel de Long, 34 in finance. I wait. Nothing else has added. That's it? Insufficient data on Leesel DeLong. Weird. Like, really weird.

Even if Leesle DeLong is an alias, which it obviously is, it should have pinged some sort of intel. How does a woman with a blank file make it through airport security? I'm an NSA agent, and TSA gave me a ration of shit. track her since she arrived at the airport. I text. One moment, please. Picture this.

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Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at Shopify.com slash DNS. Go to Shopify.com slash DNS. That's Shopify.com slash DNS. My guy still has his face buried in his phone. He hasn't looked up since he tucked himself into that corner seat. A few travelers stand up as their boarding group is called. I see that little girl holding her mother's hand. She swivels her head like her neck is made of ball bearings, not flesh and bone, and I try not to shudder as her eyes find mine.

She sticks that tongue out again, and it takes all my willpower not to recoil. It is 100% forked. What the actual? My phone chimes. No surveillance on Liesel DeLong's arrival. What? Look again. She's here, so she had to arrive somehow. Yes. Guess what? Yes. She had to arrive somehow. somehow. Your conclusion is correct. I fucking know my conclusion is correct. Find footage of her arriving. There is no need for foul language.

Article 647 states that agents shall not use abusive language toward enhanced assistance. Enhanced? It means... I ignore whatever else it texts. I know what the word enhanced means. I'm just not happy about the euphemism being used for AI. Call it what it is.

Artificial. Track my guy. Track my guy. Track Edgar Nye. from arrival at the airport to arrival at gate 19. A moment, please. A new boarding group is called, and both my guy Edgar and the fake Liesel de Long stand up and join the queue. In seconds, they are through and lost from my sight on the jet bridge. I get up and slip quickly through the rows of seats until I'm at the gate desk. I need to be on this plane, I say, setting my badge face up on the

desk. The gate agent, a smiley man with freckles across his cheek, and a widow's peak that looks almost painted on, glances down at my badge, up at me, and over to his screen. I am sorry, Agent Crackhour, but the plane is full, he says after half a second search. I'd bump someone for you, but we're already boarding. What about the jump seat? Jump seat? The full-down extra seat you keep for other flight crew members. He leans across the counter and whispers.

Yes, well, the jump seat is currently occupied by an air marshal. I'll serve his marshal on the flight. I'm not sure I can do that. The NSA trumps the air marshal service. I need to be on this flight, and no is not an acceptable answer. Can I ask what the urgency is? Is the flight in danger? I stare at him, my face blank.

Agent Krakauer? I need some infer... No, you don't. Get me on the flight. He swallows hard, then nods. After a moment, he reaches under the desk and hands me a boarding pass. I'll let you break the news to the Marshal. Is he already on board? He is. No problem.

I join the queue, and after being scanned through, I'm standing on the jet bridge in line with the other passengers. The air is sticky and warm, and I can feel sweat, trickling down the small of my back. First time flying, a man behind me says. Excuse me? I ask as I look back at him. First time flying, he says again.

It's not a question. Uh, no, I've flown a thousand times easy. I say and focus on the line in front of me. Not on this flight, you haven't, he says, and I catch the amusement in his voice. That's so? I say and return my attention to him. What's so special about this flight? He laughs softly.

An interesting question. Do you have an interesting answer? He laughs again. How'd you get a ticket? What's the matter? It matters. Same way as everyone else. Oh, I doubt that.

Why? If you'd flown this flight before, you know why. Another laugh. Law enforcement. It's not a question. Me? Nah, sails. Sales?

Sales. Okay. He looks past me and nods. Line is moving. I close the space that is opened between myself and the next passenger. In a minute, I'm stepping on board the plane. Jump seat, I say, and show my boarding pass to the flight attendant.

I'm sorry, she asks, a brown-skinned, petite woman with the name tag Zoe on her chest. I'm using the jump seat, I say and slip my badge out of my pocket and flash it at her from my hip, hoping none of the passengers behind me notice, especially the nosy older guy. Um, she looks around, then gestures behind her. If you can step over here, we'll sort this out once everyone has boarded. I ease around her and lean my short. shoulder against a locked cabinet that probably has extra pretzels, or those cinnamon cookies they only serve now. A male flight attendant with pasty skin and hair moosed in a very intentionally

messy way, squeezes by Zoe, then stops and stares at me. Can I help you? he asks. Nope, I'm good. Brian, I say, reading his name tag. He gets closer. But really? How can I help you, Mr. Agent Crackhour? I say quietly. I'll be taking the air marshal's place. You're an air marshal? He asks. For this flight?

I've never seen you before. I don't reply. He doesn't need to know why I'm here, just that I'm here. Zoe? He asks over his shoulder. His eyes still on me. What is this? Passengers first, Zoe says.

Brian huffs, but doesn't argue. He hip checks me out of the way and opens the cabinet I was leaning on. Blankets and pillows, not snacks. Grabbing out two sets of each, he slips by Zoe without giving me a second look. I catch him handing the sets to two passengers in first class, then moving into an empty row so other passengers can flow by on the way to their much, much cheaper seats. I don't want this to be a big show, I say to the back of Zoe's head. I can just go and let the marshal know.

Yo, wait, she says. Ma'am, I don't think you understand. She whirls on me, and I have to take a step back. My ass hits the exit door on the other side of the space. For a second, I could have sworn her eyes were pitch black. You'll wait. I bristle at her tone, but don't want to rock the boat, or plain, as the case may be. So I give her a harsh grin and nod, returning my shoulder to the cabinet filled with pillows and blankets.

The passengers filed by, their attention focused on getting to their seats and stowing their carry-ons. Only a few even glance in my direction, except for the last passenger. A man in his 50s, maybe early 60s, with long salt and pepper hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. He has a straw cowboy hat on and a lot of turquoise. Pausing in the plane's doorway, he shifts his focus from me to Zoe. When they'd start letting them on? He asks her. She shrugs.

He frowns. She shrugs again. He looks back at me. Have a good flight, he says, smiling at me as he eases by Zoe and walks down the center aisle. Brian returns and shares a look with Zoe. Then he closes and locks the plane's door. I'll show him to the jump seat, Zoe says, walking off without a word to me. I follow quickly and smile at folks as they look up at me from their seats.

Not a single smile is returned. In fact, most people narrow their eyes or frown at me. A few lean over to the person sitting next to them and start whispering. Then I see Edgar Nye in row 23, C-Dev, his head resting against the plane's wall. His eyes focused on the hustle and bustle of equipment swirling around the tarmac outside. He doesn't even flick his eyes in my direction, which is exactly how I wanted to be. I hurry by, struggling to keep up with Zoe. The frowns and whispers continue.

By the time we reach the very back of the plane, I've been eye-fucked by almost every single passenger. Marshal Marx, we have an issue. Zoe says to a big man seated in the fold-down jump seat, bolted to the wall right past the rear bathroom. The man is busy reading a newspaper, an honest-to-god, actually made of tree pulp, newspaper. I didn't know they still sold those. The paper lowers and the largest mustache I've ever seen appears. Under the mustache is the man's mouth, although it's nearly impossible to make out. But I don't need to see his mouth to hear his words.

What the fuck is this guy doing on board? He shouldn't be here. That's the issue, Zoe says, and returns down the aisle without saying another word, leaving us to our business. Well, the Marshal asks. What's your damage? My damage? No damage? I pull out my badge. He studies it. So fucking what? he asks.

That's supposed to mean something to me? I need your seat. I'm on a case. Good for fucking you. But this here is my seat. Has been for some time. This ain't a seat you just take from me, you hear? There's... protocols. Protocols. Yes. Like the NSA being able to override the air marshal service. That's a favorite of mine.

Won't be for long, he says, and slowly folds his newspaper. When he's done, he stands up, tucks the paper under his arm, and tips his hat to me. I ain't going to fight you too hard on this one. It's been a long, long trip, and honestly, I didn't think I'd ever get off. But here you are. He sighs, and I think he's giving me a sad smile. Hard to tell with that mustache. He leans in.

Can I offer you a little advice? I doubt it. He jerks his head back. and snorts. Well, fuck you then. I watch his features go through a range of emotions. Then he snorts again. Fuck it, I'll tell you anyway.

Get your shit tight, because whoever your bosses are, they done you dirty. Then he moves two steps to the bathroom, his hand resting on the door's latch. Good luck, Mr. NSA override. It's Agent Crackhour, I say and take a seat. Yeah, but for how long? Ego death can be a bitch. Before I can ask what the hell that means, he laughs, then steps into the bathroom. He's probably going to drop a nasty one in there just to stink me out. Doesn't matter to me. I've been in worse situations.

A little crapper bomb won't bother me at all. Ladies and gentlemen, this is your camp seats with your seatbelts fastened properly. Flight time will be two hours to our initial destination. with another 48 hours for our route to be complete. Snacks and beverages will be provided, of course, by our wonderful flight attendants. As always, thank you for flying Roswell Air. We hope your transition will be smooth and pleasant. I can't help but chuckle.

What the hell was that? I know some captains like to have a little fun with their pre-flight announcements, but that was just strange. 48 hours? Cute. Clicking my seatbelt together, I crane my neck. and look down the aisle at row after row of passengers. All I see are the backs of heads or headrests.

My guy, Mr. Nye, is up there in row 23, seat F. But I can't see him. Not that it matters. There's nowhere for him to go. The second he moves from his seat, I'll have a perfect view down the aisle. Flight attendants prepare the cabin for takeoff, the captain announces. As the plane begins to shudder and jostle to passengers, Zoe and Brian move quickly. taking up trash, answering questions, showing off the safety procedures.

Then Zoe moves to the front, and Brian is walking down the aisle toward me. He folds down a jump seat opposite of me and straps himself in. I glance with worry at the bathroom. The marshal is still in there, I say. Doesn't he need a deep plane? There's no one in there, Brian says, without looking at me or the bathroom. No, I saw him go in there. He never left. There is no one in there.

Brian insists, exasperated. Listen, I... Sir, there is no one in the bathroom, Brian says, facing me and bearing his teeth. And I mean, bearing them. He must have been some sorry goth kid when he was in high school, because his teeth are filed to fine points. Jesus, I say, then blink.

His teeth are perfectly straight, perfectly sized, perfectly white. Um, okay. Trick of the light. I try to focus on the problem at hand. But I saw him go in there. Who? The Marshal! Brian sighs like the weight of the world has fallen on his shoulders.

He unbuckles, stands up quickly, and yanks open the bathroom door. I lean forward and twist my head and shoulders to peer into the bathroom. It's empty. But he didn't leave. Apparently he did, Brian says, sitting back down and buckling his belt. Are you going to be a problem, agent, whatever your name is? crack hour. Don't care. You shouldn't be on this plane. I think you'll be happy I am. I doubt that. The plane picks up speed, and I rest my head against the seatback as everything goes waitless for half a second.

We are in the air. An hour into the flight, and neither Brian nor Zoe has gotten up to offer snacks or beverages. Two hours into the flight, and it's the same. Nice service, I say to Brian, who was busy organizing something in the small gallery. alley space next to our two seats. Roswell Air? I haven't heard of this airline before. No reason you should. Well, I am an NSA agent, so knowing shit like this is sort of my job. Then what does that say about how well you do your job? A bell dings, and he hurries away. Obviously happy that a passenger is calling him, so he doesn't have to continue talking to me.

Nature calls and I get up to use the bathroom. At least it's close. When I have the door locked behind me, I pull out my phone. Airplane mode is mostly a myth. It doesn't do a thing to the plane's operation if phones are on. It's just so signals don't mess up the cockpit's comm system. Roswell Air, what can you tell me? I text the AI. One moment, please.

I wait and wait and wait. I could have Googled the airline faster. Roswell Air is not listed as a current operator in U.S. airspace. Are you in a foreign country? No, don't be stupid. I'm flying to New Mexico. You know that. One moment, please.

I wait some more. Roswell Air does not exist. This could be a database error. Or you could be in grave danger. Are you in grave danger, Agent Krakauer? I don't think so. Keep searching for Roswell Air. Also, try to figure out why the pilot said we'll be in the air for 48 hours before the route is complete.

No plane can stay in the air that long without running out of fuel. Also, it makes no fucking sense. A reminder about foul language agent. A moment, please. Before the AI can get back to me, there's a loud knock on the bathroom door. Just a second. The knock comes again, harder. Occupied!

The door rattles in its frame. What the fuck! I snap and jerk it open. Listen up. You can wait your... Edgar Nye shoves his way into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him. What the hell? I snap and go for my gun. Stop! Edgar hisses, pushing me backward.

I slammed the heel of my left hand up under his chin, making his teeth clack together and his head rock back. It barely phases him. I'm still trying to get my gun free with my right hand, but he's got me wedged into the corner of the bathroom, and I can't get the right angle. Why are you following me? He snarls, his face up close to mine.

I'm able to bring a knee up into his groin. He oofs, but the blow doesn't have anywhere close to the effect it should. I'd be doubled over and trying not to puke at that much knee, with that much force hit my nuts. You're a person of interest, I snarl as I twist my body, desperate to get the upper hand. But Edgar only matches me, movement for movement. At no point while I have been tailing him what I have suspected he has the chops to fight off a federal agent. And I am one well-trained field agent, not some pencil-pushing desk jockey. I shouldn't be any of that, he hisses.

And it's not just an affectation. His voice is now a full-on hiss, like a slow leak from a sad balloon. The words truly seem to hiss out of his mouth more than they are spoken. Any of what? Of interest or a person? I laugh hard in his face. He doesn't laugh back. He doesn't answer me at all. What he does do is let go so I can take a step back, his eyes watching me closely.

Someone doesn't like you if they sent you after me, he says it reaches back, his hand finding the latch. Or someone likes you a lot. And this is the hardest test you've ever been given. Either way, the next 40 hours will not be kind to you. 40? We've been barely in the sky for three. He shakes his head. Yeah, someone doesn't like you.

Then he's opening the door and slipping out past a smirking Brian. You are right there, agent? Brian asks, not even trying to hide his amusement. Did you fall in? Move, I reply and try to push past Brian. His hand clamps onto my shoulder, and it's like a bag full of heavy, wet sand gripping me. I try to pull free, but Brian's hand just stays with me no matter what direction I twist and turn. When I reach for my gun, it's not there. It's just gone. I'm going to ask

you to sit down now, Brian says, and directs me to my jump seat. It's for your own good. We'll be making several stops, and I would hate for a frail creature like you to get hurt. Where's my fucking gun? I shout and try one last time to break away. His sandbag hand is having me. None of that, and I'm forced into my jump seat where Brian, one-handed, manages to get my seatbelt across my lap and buckled. Stay, he says, his face an inch for my own. His eyes turned pitch black, and I would recoil, but there's nowhere to recoil to. My head only presses harder against the thin back of the jump seat. Then his eyes are normal, and I'm certain it was all a trick of the low lighting in this part of the plane.

Or he probably has colored contacts, like they reflected something from. Something. I don't know. Listen, I say, and try to give him my friendly agent smile. From the lack of reaction, I fail. Or he doesn't care. Probably both. That man who came out of the bathroom assaulted a federal agent, which means, by law, he has assaulted the United States. And he may have my gun.

I am legally obligated to arrest him and restrain him for the remainder of the flight. Getting in the way of that is not a good idea. Do you understand what I'm saying? I understand what you think you're saying. You're saying. He lets go of my shoulder and straightens up. I try to stand, get nearly cut in half by my seat belt, then fall back and try to undo the buckle.

It won't come undone. What the fuck? I mutter as I pull and pull on the metal release tab. It does not release. Hey, what the fuck?