Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - I'm The Only Human On Flight 313, And We Haven't Landed in 36 Hours | Part 2

Episode Date: June 13, 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. Heads turn and look our way. Shh, be quiet. Ryan snaps at me. What part of your own good do you not understand? The part where you are physically restraining an agent of the National Security Agency. His hand clamps across my mouth as more heads look our way. I plead with my eyes for at least one passenger to come to my aid.

But despite having a flight attendant's hand over my mouth, or having announced to most of the cabin that I'm a federal agent, No one does more than frown at me. After a few seconds, all heads face forward, and I'm suddenly ignored and forgotten like yesterday's news. I'd yell at the cowards if it wasn't for the flight attendant hand on my mouth problem. I am going to give you some hard truths, Brian says. You don't have jack shit for jurisdiction right now. The National Security Agency doesn't matter.

The United States doesn't matter. All that matters is this plane finishes its route, so all of the lovely passengers can reach their final destinations. I mumble a response, and he rolls his eyes. Will you stop shouting? he asks. I don't nod. Let me put it this way. Did anyone come help you when you shouted last time? I'll answer for you. No, no, they did not. Because you are not a hero here, Agent Crackauer.

You are a tool at best, and an obstacle at worst. An obstacle none of them will have a problem removing. Get my drift. I think for a second, then slowly nod. He lifts his hand, but I can see by how he tenses that he's ready to silence me in an instant. What do you mean by removing an obstacle? Do you mean they'll throw me from this plane? If you are lucky, what do you think will happen when we land?

My office knows where I am. They know what plane I boarded. If this plane lands and I'm not on it, then every single passenger will be hunted down, questioned, and those responsible will be arrested. I have seen some high horses, Brian says with a snigger. But yours is easily the highest. You are working from a set of rules that do not apply on this plane.

I will not help you again. Sit there, be good, and before you know it, this will all be over. We have ways of making the time pass for those who are not, like us. What the fuck does that mean? He shakes his head. Just sit still and don't make trouble. trouble, please.

I sigh and nod. Not much else I can do until I figure a way out of this shit. Thank you. Our first group of on behalf of Roswell here. Brian spins and raises his arms over his head. I can see Zoe at the other end of the plane doing the same thing. Then they both start whooping, literally going, as their arms wave back and forth, back and forth.

Edgar Nye is turned in his seat and staring at me. I flip him off and he faces forward with an angry sneer in his face. Then there's a flash of light, and several of the backs of heads I have been staring at are gone. The space where they were is empty, and no one seems to notice, or care, or mind. But I do. I try to stand, forgetting about the seatbelt, and once again, I'm almost cut in half. A strange thought crosses my mind that if I keep fighting against the seatbelt, being cut in half could be a distinct. possibility. Brian and Zoe are back to their normal, attendant selves, checking on passengers, answering questions, taking trash that's being held out to them, all very normal, except for

this smell. Instead of the canned, semi-fluoral smell that is piped through the vents, I catch a whiff of scorched plastic and burning hair. I've worked enough scenes after explosions to know what burnt plastic and scorched hair smells like. Brian returns to the galley, ignoring me as he passes by. I watch him open cabinets and pull out mylar pouches. Are those MREs? I ask. I haven't seen those since my days in Afghanistan. They are not MREs.

They are prepackaged gourmet meal pouches, specially formulated for our passengers. Specially formulated? What does that mean? But before he answers, he slices open a bag, and the smell tells me what that means. It means something nasty died in that bag, and Brian is about to serve roadkill to a lot of people. Jesus, what the fuck is that? I ask, tucking my nose down in my shirt.

Even the ripeness of my sweat is better than the smell wafting up out of that bag. This is considered a delicacy, Brian says, and spoons out portions into small plastic bowls. Once those bowls are full, he opens another pouch and fills more bowls. Then he continues to repeat the process until he has an entire cart with tray after tray of bowls filled with rotten gunk. What the hell is going on?

I ask, as Brian wheels the cart past me. What kind of plane is this? Brian pauses and looks over his shoulder. A plane you should never have boarded. I watch him walk to the front of the plane where he stops the cart just before reaching first class. He begins to ask people what they would like to eat. I can't hear what he says exactly, but I can tell by his lip movements and body language that that's what he's asking.

I've been on more flights than I can count, and flight attendants have a very set routine. What troubles me is why even ask? I watched him spoon that rotten slop into each bowl. It's all the same. Yet when he lifts a bowl from the cart, it's no longer a bowl. It's a plate with shredded green stuff, or it's a plate with what must be pasta, although it kind of looks like it's moving. Or it's a bag of some sort of snack with packaging

I don't recognize, and words that aren't in any language I know. Or smoothies. A lot of the bowls become tall, frosted glasses that have straws sticking out of them, each filled with puread something. I think I smell strawberries and bananas, but it's hard to tell over the lingering odor of three-week-old dead armadillo that the empty bags in the trash are still giving off. Would you care for some tea agent? Brian asks me when he returns with an empty cart.

I'd love some food too. Do you have any of that smoothie left? Not for you, no. What does that mean? It means that what you think is a smoothie is far from it and not meant for human consumption. I'd ask what that means, but I doubt I'll get a straight answer. I try a different approach. Can I speak with the captain? Brian pauses as he cleans up the cart in the galley. What for? What for? Did you really just ask me that? I did, because I will have to tell him why you want to speak to him. Do you know what he'll ask me? He waits a beat. What for? That's what he'll ask me. So I'd like a ready answer. Um, because you've illegally restrained me in this jump seat? But I haven't. What the fuck? This seatbelt is strapped down tight and locked. No, I mean it's not illegal. All staff are within their rights to restrict. a passenger for their safety or for the general safety of the airplane. You have been restrained for your own safety, as I have stated before.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a rush from his mouth. Rot fills my nostrils. I would suggest that you close your eyes and get some rest. Time moves faster with your eyes closed. I'll keep them open. Brian shrugs and goes back to clean. 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 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 to entrepreneurs just getting started. With Shopify, everything you need is in one place, from customizable store templates to built-in AI tools that help write product descriptions and enhance your images. It also makes marketing easy with integrated email and social campaigns. And if you get stuck, Shopify's award-winning customer support is there for you 24-7. See less cards go abandoned

and more sales go with Shopify and their shop pay button. Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at Shopify.com slash DNS. Go to Shopify.com slash DNS. Go to Shopify.com That's shopify.com slash d ns. When I come to, I know two things. I don't remember falling asleep, and I have to pee. Bad. I need to piss, I say, my mouth dry, my voice groggy. When I look down the aisle at the rows of seats, the heads aren't right.

I see feathers and tentacles. I see spikes and horns and ears that stretch to the ceiling. I see eye stalks. I see mouths with teeth. where neither teeth nor mouths should be. What I see are nightmares. Here, Brian says, shoving a small water bottle in my face. His hand is covered in gray scales and rough bumps that look like calloused warts.

I look up at him, terrified. But his face is normal, and when I look down at his hand holding the water bottle, it's normal too. Thanks, I say, and slowly take the bottle from him. I crack it open, down half, then replace the cap. My breath comes in shuddering hitches. Relax, Brian says.

Nothing to fear as long as you stay right there in your seat. My eyes move toward the rest of the cabin, braced for more horrible, impossible sights. All I see are the backs of baseball caps, messy buns, and several folks who have lost the battle with male pattern baldness. I assume they are men, but assumptions seem reckless right now. Still got her piss, I say to Brian after I finish the water bottle.

He eyes me carefully. Unless you want to clean up the mess I make. Fine, he grunts and leans in close. Then he jerks back. You aren't going to try to attack me, are you? Nope, I say with a smile that doesn't do much for my cause. I let the smile fall away and shake my head, completely sincere. No, I won't attack you.

Good, because I don't want to harm you, he says, leaning in again. My bladder hurts so much that I don't even try to argue the point that, again, I'm a federal agent, trained in defensive tactics, and he's just a flight attendant. A flight attendant with one hell of a grip, sure, but still a flight attendant. Brian unbuckles my seatbelt. He doesn't use a key. He doesn't have any special trick. And trust me, I'd seed the trick because I'm watching him like a hawk. He just unbuckles it, as if it's a normal seatbelt and hasn't been keeping me careful.

captive in this jump seat for who knows how long. Thanks, I say and hurry into the bathroom. I don't even waste time stretching out the kinks in my back or the stiffness in my legs. I hurry to the head, close and lock the door, and barely get my fly open. When the long-held stream hits the toilet basin, I try to formulate a plan.

But as I go over the situation in my mind, I can't find an angle. I'm unarmed and not amongst friends. Even when I was shouting for help, I was either ignored or looked at like I was the problem, so going to the passengers to try to rally them doesn't seem feasible. I could attempt another meeting with the pilot, but Brian is still the gatekeeper there. Then it hits me. I'm thinking too small. Instead of looking at the situation like it's me against the plane, I need to look at it like it's the plane against the mighty war machine of the good old United States of America.

I pull out my phone and text the AI. I need air assistance. I wait for a response. Nothing. There's a tap at the door as I send the text again. Still no response from the AI. Are you all right in there, Agent Crackhour? Brian asks.

There's a strangeness to his voice, and it's not just because we're on opposite sides of the bathroom door. Agent Crackauer? Just a second, I say, still waiting for a response from the AI. Sir, Agent Crackauer, If you were trying to use your phone, unfortunately, there is no service in our current location. I look at the little icons in the right-hand corner and, yes, I see no cell service, but I should at least have Wi-Fi. I'll be right out, Brian, I say then text.

Response needed immediately. Situation is Fubar. The text sends, nothing. Then all of my texts suddenly become read and say that they cannot be delivered. Agent Crackhour! Hold the hell! My words catch in my throat as a thin, rubber strand of flesh slides under the door. After about a foot and a half of the strand is inside the bathroom, it plumps up like a sausage, or, more precisely, a tentacle.

I stare at it, my mind reeling. Yes, it's definitely a tentacle. Oh, fuck me! Just to make it even worse, an eye appears at the end of the tentacle, and it blinks at me. Put your phone away, Agent Crackhour. and says, still on the other side of the door. I can't respond. All of my attention is focused on the eye.

An eye that is at the end of a tentacle. An eye that is at the end of a fucking tentacle. Agent Crackhour! Still pissing! I say and tuck my useless phone into my pocket. The eye shifts its gaze for me to the toilet, then back to me. Looks like you are finished. How could he...

Oh dear God. What are you? That's a very rude question, Brian says. Please wash your hands and rejoin us in the cabin, Agent Crack Hour. We're about to reach another passenger departure window, and you need to be seated for this one. The tentacle flattens itself once more and slips out of the bathroom. I don't know what to do or say.

So I wash my hands, open the door, and stare at the semi-smiling face of Brian. Please take your seat, Agent Crackhour, Brian says, just before the captain announces. Folks, we have reached our second departure point. Thank you for flying Roswell Air. As I sit down and buckle myself in, Brian and Zoe put their arms over their heads and repeat their whoop routine. This time the noise is a million times worse.

Every instinct in me says not to look, to just let the craziness happen and deal with it afterward. But the agent training in me squashes that fear and forces my head to turn so I can study the insanity. The nightmare heads have returned, I don't see messy buns or male pattern baldness. I see ridges oozing pus. I see tentacle after tentacle after tentacle.

I see undulating clumps of jelly. Then there's the flash, and so many more seats are suddenly empty. Including Road 23, seat F! No! I gasp and tear my left hand away from my left ear so I can unbuckle my belt. And it works. The belt comes undone, and I'm suddenly up on my feet. Left hand pressed to my left ear once again,

even though it really doesn't help anything. Agent Crackhour! Brian exclaims, rushing toward me. I juke to my right. He takes the bait, and I juke back to my left, slipping past him easily. I raced to row 23 C-Def. No! I mutter.

No, no, no, no, no. Hey, pal, get a grip. A man says from the row behind 23. Mind your own, damn! My voice chokes off as I stare at a head full of eyes. No mouth, no nose, no other features other than eyes. So many eyes. Blue eyes, cat's eyes, shark eyes, green eyes, so many eyes.

What the fuck are you staring at? The man made of eyes asks. Fucking weirdo. Agent Crackhour, let's get you back to your seat, Brian says from over my shoulder. His hands grip me firmly, but gently, and steer me toward the back of the plane. No, I have to find Edgar Nye, I say, but without much conviction, since my mind is filled with eyes. brown eyes, frog eyes, spider eyes, hazel eyes. Did you see them? I ask as Brian eases me into my jump seat.

All those eyes? I did, yes, Brian says, buckling me in tight. It's not nice to stare. No, not nice to stare, I echo. As Brian walks away, I reach out and grab his wrist. It feels bony and rigid under the cuff of his uniform. He looks down at my hand, but doesn't try to remove it from his wrist. What's happening? Leaning down like he's going to tell me the most precious secret, he says, You got on the wrong plane. Then there's the ding of a bell, and he's off,

and hurrying down the aisle to the passenger calling for his attention. My phone chimes. I yank it out so fast that I bobble it, and it falls to the floor. Oh, here you go, a woman says, picking up my phone and holding it out for me. Doesn't look like it took any damage. I take my phone. Then my eyes follow up the arm.

arm and to the face of the woman standing next to me. Her body turned toward the bathroom. It's the woman from the airport, the one Edgar Nye was talking to. Leasel de Long. She's gorgeous. The most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I don't remember her having this effect on me at the airport, but God damn is she hot. First flight? She asks. I don't know what to say. Her beauty has stolen my breath. I'm lost in her almond eyes. The pertinent. of her nose makes me want to nibble at it. The swell of her chest has my heart pounding in mind. I don't even want to look down at my crotch. I know I'm embarrassing myself. She opens the bathroom door, glances inside, then looks back at me, and I pretty much melt.

Care to join me? she asks as she slips into the bathroom. I have my belt unbuckled, and I'm jumping up after her before I can form a single coherent thought. I'm on autopilot, and even my field agent training isn't kicking in. Squeezing in close to her, she reaches past me, closes the door, and locks it. You ever been part of the Million Light Ear Club? She asks. Then she undoes the buttons of her blouse. The what?

I gasp, as her hands remove her blouse and her breasts are revealed. Sort of. No, no, these aren't breasts? No. What are... I try to scream as too small, Puddy-like creatures leap off of the woman's chest and wrap themselves around my face. My scream is lost, covered by things that worm their way into my mouth, my nostrils, my eyes,

and around into my ears. Pain like nothing I have ever experienced before shoots through my body. My nerves are pure fire, and I collapse against the bathroom wall. Oh, you are so good, the woman moans. So delicious. They said a new human was on. on board, but I didn't believe them. Then I saw you and remembered you from the airport. Oh, you looked delectable then, but you have far exceeded my expectations.

I can't breathe. My lungs burn, aching for fresh air. Yummy, so yummy. My world turns gray as my oxygen-starved brain begins to shut off, which, in a way, is a mercy, since it seems to lessen the excruciating pain. "'Baby, where have you been all my life?' She sighs. Vaguely, somewhere outside of the agony and the suffocation, I hear a loud rattle and slam. The nans have me and are yanking me out of the bathroom.

I hear shouting and screeching and growling and hissing and snarling and, I'm due this time. I have a warm blanket wrapped around me, and the faint smell of lavender drifts in the air. There you are, Brian says, kneeling in front. of me. Looks like someone learned a tough lesson. Won't be messing with a homuncley vessel anymore now, will we, Agent Crackauer? I don't... I don't know what that is, I reply. My voice a harsh croak. Here, sip this, Ryan says, and lifts a cup to my lips. I sip and instantly feel

better. Not whole, not even close, but better. That's good, I sigh. What comes? What comes? What kind of tea is that? Just tea. Plain old human tea. Tea, T, T. My throat clenches and I stare at Brian. It's not tea, is it? Fewer questions, more sips.

You have been touch and go these last few hours. Last few hours? I ask, then sip more tea. Subconsciously, or shit, at this point, even consciously. I know it's not lipped in tea I'm drinking. But with every swallow, I feel a little. little more like myself. So I pushed the mystery of the liquid's origins away and focus on what Brian said. How long was I unconscious? Oh, about 24 human hours. Human hours? Hours? Hours that humans perceive.

Brian places the cup in my hands, waits to make sure I have a solid grip, then stands up. I'll be back in a sec, agent crack hour. You just stay put, keep drinking your tea, and rest up. I've been out for 24 hours. How much rest do I need? As much as you can get, trust me. He's off down the aisle before I can respond. So I sip the mystery tea and let the warmth do its trick. When I finish my cup, I remember something from before that woman did what she did to me.

Pulling out my phone, I unlock it and press the message button. There's a new message waiting for me. Assignment complete. New assignment incoming. New assignment? What new assignment? I text. Then I wait.

Moment, please. It's frustrating, but at least it's a response. Brian hurries around the cabin, attending to the passengers in the main cabin. Beyond him, I can see the first-class drape flutter. Zoe must be up there taking care of the elites. My phone chimes. Your new assignment will be revealed

upon the completion of the plane's route. Please be patient and remain calm. Not liking the sound of that, although I already am calm. The T is helping with that, the captain announces. Hold tight to your what? I ask, as Brian hurries back to his seat and belts in. This is it, Brian says, his eyes on me. The 36-hour point.

What does that mean? I ask as pressure builds inside my skull. It's not a squeezing so much as it is a filling. like if wet cement were being poured into my skull. The 36-hour point is the make or break for new air marshals. I'm not an air marshal. I'm an NSA agent, I say, or I think I do. It's hard to tell with all the wet cement leaking out of my ears.

Then my bones shatter and my blood vessels boil, and my skin peels off, and every molecule in my body, and all the molecules I've shed since I was born, all of those two become red-hot pokers. Kill me! No! Brian only watches me with mild interest as I continue screaming to be killed. Out of the corner of my eye, I see nightmare faces lean out of their rows to stare back at me.

Even as nightmares, I can tell the faces are annoyed. In a second, they all lean back, bored with me and my mad ravings. Memories of me riding my BMX bike as a kid flood through my mind, followed by images of my childhood home and of my parents fighting, and of the dog I loved who ran away during a thunderstorm. and never came back, and have my first kiss and my first prom, and the year in college where I became allergic to latex, finding out the worst way possible.

And the time I got in that car accident and the... And thank you for flying Roswell Air, the captain says. I blink and realize Brian isn't sitting in his seat anymore, but walking down the aisle, returning to the back of the plane. I have a vague memory of the whooping, but I can't be sure because I also have a vague memory of being flung across an Afghan road after an IED detonated while I was on an assignment. There may have been whooping then, too. I don't know.

You live, Brian states, going to the galley to fetch a bottle of water. There are black specks swimming about in the water, not floating, but actively swimming. Transfixed, I watched Brian crack the seal and down the water in three gulps. He wipes his mouth and gives me a smile. How are you feeling? he asks and tosses the empty bottle into the galley's recycling bin. I don't know. An honest answer. He aims his chin toward the rest of the plane. All passengers have departed. We'll be returning to the airport any second now. Which airport? Does it matter? It should. Trust me. It doesn't. Especially now that you are our new air marshal.

I'll be honest. I didn't think you'd make it. When you stepped on board this plane, I would have bet good money that you'd crack after the first passenger departure. But you didn't. You held on. Yeah, you needed some help, but everyone does on their first assignment. I'm not an air marshal. I'm an NSA agent. You've said that before, Brian replies. Better check your phone. I do. Welcome to the Intergalactic Air Marshal Service. Former Agent Crackhour, now Marshall Crack Hour. You did splendidly on your first flight. The Intergalactic Air Marshal Service thanks you for holding it together. We look forward to you serving on millions more flights.

Your future holds centuries of promise. Millions? Centuries? I gasped. We always have to have at least one human on board while we fly through the galaxy. Something about relative intransigence? I don't know. That's not my concern. I'm here just to keep passengers happy. What is happening? Didn't that text on your phone explain it?

Not really. Well, you'll figure it out. You have plenty of time. How much time? Not centuries? That's a joke, right? Marshall Mark served for 3,000 human years. Good guy.

But speaking of jokes, he told the worst ones, mostly sexist and racist stuff. Although I didn't really get the racist ones, since there are approximately 84,000 races in the galaxy. So I don't understand what's so funny about a guy with brown skin screwing. in a light bulb a certain way. Are lightbulb's a funny thing for humans? When he doesn't continue, I realize he actually expects an answer. I don't know, I say after a long pause. They used to be. Well, I hope you have better jokes, Marshal Crack Hour, because we'll be working together for a

very long time. Flight attendants and our new air, Marshal, please prepare for landing, the captain announces. Brian sits down and buckles up. I'm already buckled, so I just sort of look around, dazed. You know what I can't ever figure out? Brian asks, just as I feel the landing gear bump onto the tarmac outside. Whether or not this assignment is a punishment for something you humans have done, or whether it's a reward for being the best of your kind, he shakes his head, and I stare as his eyes extend from his head, each on the tip of a thick tentacle. His The skin is gray and scaly. He shrugs.

Oh, well, it's no big deal. Uh, it's kind of a big deal to me, I say. That's cute, Brian replies, and nods at the bathroom as the plane comes to a stop, and he unbuckles. Better go now if you need to. The next wave of passengers will be boarding in a few minutes, and we'll need you keeping an eye on things, Marshall Crackhour. One of his tentacle eyes winks at me, and I just smile. Not much else I can do. Except take Brian's advice and hit the bathroom.

Looks like I have a few thousand years ahead of me. So who knows when I'll get to go again?