The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S15E01

Episode Date: August 30, 2020

It’s Episode 01 of Season 15. Welcome to the premiere episode of our 15th season! “The Lift” written by Sam Haysom (Story starts around 00:05:10) Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Narrator – Joe Shire, Elevator Man – Andy Cresswell “eTernity” written by Olivia White (Story starts around 00:33:45) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Kurtis Conner, Lily – Jessica McEvoy, Jerseph Cashme – Andrew Tate, 911 Operator – Atticus Jackson “Compelled” written by R Prove Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hi, I'm Nicole Goodnight, voice actor for the No Sleep Podcast. Health is a topic that's been on a lot of people's minds lately for good reason. When we talk about health, we often focus on physical wellness, broken limbs, cuts and bruises, viruses, and sickness. But it's important to always remember our mental well-being too. The brain's a part of the body, after all. And mental health is connected to physical health, suffering from illness or pain or even just worrying about it can take its toll on our minds. Even though physical ailments might seem more visible and intimidating, you can be more. You can't overlook the need for mental wellness and staying healthy in mind as well as body.

That's where services like BetterHelp come in. If you need someone to talk to or just to listen, they're a great option. BetterHelp will assess your needs and match you with your own licensed professional therapist. You can start communicating in under 24 hours. It's not a crisis line. It's not self-help. It is professional counseling done securely online. There is a broad range of expertise in BetterHelp's counselor network which may not be locally available in many areas.

Better Help service is available for clients worldwide. It doesn't matter when you need help day or night. You can log into your account anytime and send a message to your counselor. You'll get timely and thoughtful responses, plus you can schedule weekly video or phone sessions so you won't ever have to sit in an uncomfortable waiting room, doubly important right now during the pandemic. Plus, you can even chat and text with your therapist between sessions

when you need to talk about things. It allows you to take control of when you feel capable of opening up instead of being put on the spot if you're someone who finds that hard. BetterHelp is committed to facilitating great therapeutic matches so they make it easy and free to change counselors if needed. It's more affordable than traditional offline counseling and financial aid is even available. So whenever you need some help,

visit betterhelp.com slash no sleep and join the over 500,000 people taking charge of their mental health with the help of an experienced professional. No sleep listeners get 10% off your first month at betterhelp.com slash no sleep. So don't forget that mental health is just as important as physical health. Reach out for a helping hand. BetterHelp can offer that helping hand. So visit betterhelp.com slash no sleep to get 10% off your first month whenever you need it.

And now, season 15. Tales of Horror, embrace yourself for the No Sleep podcast. I'm David Cummings. We welcome you to the premiere episode of our 15th. season. Thanks for joining us. A new season, such excitement. As always, we thank our composer, Brandon Boone, and senior producer Phil Mikulski for crafting this season's musical theme, along with Jeff Clements' musical stylings. You could say they're the lynchpin of this season's sound. And we have two special guests joining us this episode. Curtis Connor is a commentary YouTuber

and stand-up comedian and fellow Canadian. Between Curtis and me, we have well over 2.5 million YouTube subscribers. There's no need to figure out who has 99.9% of those subscribers. All that matters is we combine for quite a few. We welcome you to the show, Curtis. And Andrew Tate of the Let's Not Meet podcast joins us again after first being with us during the New Decade. If you're not already listening to Let's Not Meet, you should check out their true horror stories written by those that made it out alive.

First person accounts narrated and produced in an anthology of terror and suspense. Thanks for the return visit, Andrew. And so, a new season awaits. Are you ready? Then let's begin our journey down this lost highway. In our first tale, we join a man as he heads down to the basement of his apartment building. But don't worry, this isn't one of those haunted basements. There's nothing spooky below the ground.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Sam Haysom, that doesn't mean the journey down won't be fraughts with Perra. Performing this tale are Joe Shiri and Andy Cresswell. So don't just worry about the destination. consider the dangers on the way. At least if you're traveling down in a certain metal box, that is to say, you're riding the lift. The letters were scrawled onto the lift's metal panel.

Tiny black words, I had to squint to make them out. Press minus one three times to unlock the hidden floor. I snorted. The lift in my block of flats isn't exactly short of graffiti, but for the most part it isn't worth a second look. Swear words, phone numbers, bulbous, badly drawn cocks. The kind of stuff bored teenagers scratch onto any available surface to amuse themselves. At least this new edition was original.

I set down my two rubbish bags and pressed minus one. Hesitated with my finger hovering over the button. I don't know if I did what I did next in tribute to the graffiti's missing. history author or simply because I had a few post-work beers and felt the urge. Whatever the reason, I barely gave it any thought at all. I pushed a button twice more. I flipped my gaze up to the digital display above the sliding metal doors, watching the numbers count down from seven, six, five, I've always hated,

like to get excited by, but something about the block of flats, live in makes the job even worse. It's not like being in a house where you can wander down the garden and pop your rubbish outside the back gate. Taking the bins out in my flat means going down to the bin room, to the basement. Let me set the scene for you. The bin room is a tiny, claustrophobic box that's accessed through a sealed door in my building's lower car park. The reason it's sealed and pleasant, kind of... boxes hugged the wall. It skips in there to be used for recycling. Nobody recycles. Even I don't. I tried at first, but it was like fighting and losing battle. Every skip is filled to the brim with

black bin bags, half of which is split and spilling their contents all over the floor. I really hope God is reserving a spot in heaven for the people who empty that room every week, because let me tell you, those poor bastards deserve it. Three, two. By this point, I'd half forgotten about the graffiti instructions. I was already mentally holding my breath. I reached down and grouped the two rubbish bags, ready to take the plunge. Zero, minus one.

For a moment, the display hovered on minus one without doing anything. I was having visions of being forced to use the emergency button to get the building management to come and rescue me when the thing finally lumbered to a stop. The doors slid open. The floor after all. Steps out into the little no-man's land that constitutes the basement foyer is grim.

Stained carpet or graffiti marks mingling with patches of mould that creaked down from the ceiling like dead flowers. Holding my breath, I walked to the left, dumped one of my rubbish bags down and hit the door release button. Hearing my footsteps echo around a deserted space, I was suddenly reminded of the other reason I don't like doing the bins.

It's kind of creepy down there. The basement level of my building is dark, no matter what time of day it is. There never seems to be anyone around. The size of the space has a weird effect on sounds too. Doors shutting, the scrape of shoes over concrete, every noise has a light reverberation, as though it's being doubled, all too easy to imagine you're being followed. In the interests of getting the job done quickly,

I adopted my usual routine, open the door to the bin room with one hand, and slung the rubbish bags through it without stepping one foot inside. These of the bags crashing down among the rest of the crap in there made me flinch. It sounded far too loud in the stillness. Dusting my hands off, I shut the door to the bin room

and quickly made me. my way back across the car park. My footsteps echoed in silence. A light breeze chilled my skin. It hit against the building across the lobby area to push the lift button. Other the doors of the lift, willing them to open, trying to ignore the smell. What seemed like a full minute, the familiar noise started up again. The metal doors creaked, then began to slide apart, and smart to anything about what he looked like. In fact, he was a little. In fact, he was a little. In fact, Because he wasn't facing me. He was standing in the far corner of the lift,

facing a warm range of horror films in my 30-odd years. But for some reason, the sight of that man disturbed me more than any of them put together. I think it was two things. The shock of seeing someone in the lift at all so soon after I'd left it, coupled with the fact that this guy was obviously fucking crack. Or so drunk he could barely stand. I took a step towards the lift. The more I stared at him, the more my mind began to dismiss the drunk theory.

The guy didn't look like he'd been drinking. He wasn't slouched or leaning against the wall in the way that drunk people do. He was stood rigid, his back completely straight, his head level. You okay, man? I regretted the words as soon as they were out. They were far too loud in the silence of the basement. I almost flinched at the sound of them. I watched the man's back closely.

I expected some kind of reaction from him when I spoke to him. But there was none. Nothing. He stayed in exactly the same position as before, facing the corner of the lift. It was at this point that I made my second biggest mistake. I still don't understand why I... That's what I should have done.

But for some reason, possibly because I live so high up in the building, maybe because I didn't want to admit how freaked out I was. I missed against the control on the digital display above the lift's doors. Then the lift was the gentle whir of the mecca in my chest. I couldn't see his face, but from my angle I could just make out the side of his jaw. It twitched back and forth rapidly. The man was whispering under his breath. I bit my lip to stop myself crying out.

As the lift juddered and worded the man's whispering grew louder. It sounded like he was muttering a string of nonsense sounds. The same noises over and over again in a never-ending looted as close to the lift's entrance as I could. The mechanism word clanked but the doors remained shut. Our beat was up in my neck down, a relentless drum beat. The man's whispering grew louder. He started putting more emphasis on certain sounds. almost spitting.

A fraction of a second before the doors opened, I finally made out what he was saying. It's said to chill down the length of my bat. What's done? Copy undone, what's done, copy undone, what's done? What's done? Can't be undone? What's done? That one phrase,

spoken so fast again and again that the words blurred together. What's done? Can't be undone. The doors rumbled open behind me. I hurried from the lift. Behind me, the man's whispering stopped. When I glanced back once before I rounded the corner,

he was standing in exactly the same position. Facing the corner of the lift, his body still, making sure my front door was locked, as well as each of the windows. I went to the fridge and scooped out all the beers I could find. Then I sat in front of the TV, and I knocked them back one after the other. By the time I finally stumbled into my room,

throwing my clothes in a pile on the floor and passing out on the bed, it was well after midnight because I dragged myself out to sleep in that horrible, lurching way you do after a bad dream. You know, when it feels like you've been holding your breath and you're finally coming out for air. I lay on my side in my bed, panting in the darkness.

My mouth felt like cotton. The room. was silent around me. I reached out a hand towards my bedside table, fumbling in the darkness until I finally found the lamp. I flicked the switch. The yellow light bathed the room. It was empty. I saw the familiar shapes of my furniture in the glue, but nothing else. I let out a breath. I hadn't realized I'd been holding. The room was empty. I'd had a nightmare. Working yourself up over nothing. Acting like you're ten years old again, my rational mind knew to be true. I couldn't shake the, I turned over and lay on my back, trying to clear my mind.

It wasn't easy. My ears suddenly seemed to have become sensitive to every tiny noise in the flat. The drip of the tap in the kitchen, the creak of the pipes behind the walls, the faint hum of traffic drifting in from the road outside. Anything else too. A soft, distant, humming sound. Almost like a twilight of my room, it seemed my mind had other ideas. The more I tried to relax, the more it kept conjuring images from my encounter in the lift.

The metal doors sliding back. The man in the suit. The jaws twitching back and forth as he whispered the same words over and over. What's done can't be? swung my legs out of bed. If my mind was going to refuse to play ball, I wasn't going to indulge it. No way. I'd get up, stretch my legs and go get myself a glass of water. I might not be able to force myself to relax, but I could at least take care of my dry mouth. I padded barefoot across the floor. The light from my bedside lamp faded beside me as I entered the hall.

The plink that I could see the kitchen. There was another sound too. The same noise. The same noise. I heard a moment earlier lying in bed. As I continued down the hall, I realised this was growing louder. The soft humming was so terribly close. For a moment retreat to the lamplick glow of my bedroom. I dismissed it. I wasn't going to let fear get the better of me. He's in my stomach.

The noise was coming from the fridge. That was all. It wasn't a whisper at all. It was only the soft whirer of my feet. fridge's compressor. I should have recognised the sound as soon as I heard it. Shaking my head, I grabbed the glass from the cupboard, filled it up at the sink and down the contents in one. I filled it one more time and flip the kitchen light off. Heading back towards the glow of my bedroom, I started feeling tired again. My mind was beginning to slow down. I'd had a scare earlier,

that was true, an odd encounter with some weirdo that was. in all likelihood have freaked anyone out. But now it was time to let it go. I had worked the following day, and I didn't need to be losing any more sleep over nothing. I walked back through the door of my bedroom, rubbing my eyes. My foot knocked into the pile of clothes I'd left on the floor the night before. I opened my eyes, planning to kick them to one side,

and saw a shape in my peripheral vision. Its weak glow, he was nothing more than a shadow, a dark shape standing stationary among the other dark shapes. Facing the wall, completely still, just like before. The glass of water slipped from my hand, mashing onto the floor, but the noise seemed to come from a long way away. Cold liquid splattered my legs, and the sensation cut through the worst of my shop. I turned to run. As I twisted towards the door, my feet tangled in the pile of clothes and I went down hard on the carpet. My knee flared with agony. I pushed myself back up, ignoring the pain and sprinted from the room as fast as I could. I caught one final glimpse

of the man before I skidded into the hallway and on my way to the front door. It was still frozen in the exact same position. I wrenched open the latch on my front door and filled I fled into the hallway only wearing my boxer shorts, I had nothing but terror in my head. My feet carried me away from the flat, away from the stranger in my bedroom. Less than 30 seconds after fleeing from my bedroom, I found myself standing in front of the lip, my finger, and for once rag itself up from the ground floor. The doors opened, trying to get as far away from the silent man as I could. My finger darted towards a zero button on the metal panel, but at the last minute I stopped myself.

It was the graffiti that did it. The writing was still there, those familiar, tiny black letters. But the words had changed. It was subtle, but I noticed it straight away. Instead of reading, press minus one three times to unlock the hidden floor. The words read, Press minus one three times to seal the hidden floor. My eyes lingered on the words for a second, making certain that I punched a button so hard my finger hurt three times. I shut my eyes and prayed. All of this happened last night.

The trip to the bin, the man in the lift, the same man standing sidelently in my room. The images won't leave my head. The fear hasn't gone away either. I'd love to say it's all over now, that I can tell you this story safe in the knowledge that my ordeal has finished. But I can't say that. I'd only be lying to myself.

At first, I thought the graffiti instructions had put things back to normal. I thought I'd fixed things. I took the stairs from the basement up to the ground floor, of my block of flats, then waited there in my boxes until the cold numbed the worst of my terror. Eventually, I crept back upstairs. The door to my flat was wide open, just as I'd left it.

The hall beyond was dark. I tiptoed along it, the fear seeping back into me like cold water, telling myself over and over again that everything will be okay now. I'd followed the instructions after all. The man would be gone. And he was. I rounded the corner of my bedroom, skin coated in goosebumps, and there was nobody there.

The stranger had left. Or at least, I'd doughty'd left. Now, sitting in my flat, as the sky outside begins to lose its light, I'm not so sure. I'm not so sure at all or glimpses of him See Over and over again throughout the day

Everywhere I go I see him In the distant On my commute to work this morning Standing in the far end of the train garage I see him in reflections too Just quick glimpses There how that sounds

But it's true It's like his shadows following me In the bathroom mirror this morning as I was getting ready for work, in the windows of cars passing me in the street. As I bent down to wash my hands in the sink at lunchtime, I even thought I saw a glimpse of him in the shining metal tap. I span around, heart jackhammering in my chest, but there was nobody there. And then there are the whispers, his whispers.

At various points in the day, I found myself sitting still, mind-wondering. It's like I hear them out of nowhere. That same phrase again and again, hissing in my ear, myself suspecting that there might be some truth to that. I think that I may have triggered something when I pressed the button in the lift yesterday, tapped into some unimaginable gateway that I have no way of shutting. The thing that really did it, The final thing that made me certain that I haven't seen the last of the whispering stranger

was what I found in a lift when I returned home from work. What had happened to the graffiti on the metal control panel? The words from yesterday were still there, the instructions for sealing the hidden floor, but now they'd been crossed out, scribbled over in red pen, and whoever had done it had added the following shaky men. The doors cannot be sealed until all passengers are inside.

When I was a little kid, I'd sometimes wake in the middle of the night. I wouldn't be able to get back to sleep again. I'd lie with my eyes open, staring into the never-ending darkness, and I'd imagine that every shadow was a monster out to get me. But now, I don't have to... After all, I don't need innocuous shapes into ghosts and demons, because this month he'll be back to visit me again soon. In mind, I'm going to take you briefly away from the horror to tell you something important.

I'm Atticus Jackson, voice actor for the No Sleep podcast. I don't leave the house anymore. That's all I have to say about that. Unfortunately, not leaving the house means I can't go for any of my favorite restaurants. Bo! Oh, think of all the amazing food I'm missing out on. At least, that's what old Atticus would say. An Atticus who hadn't discovered a certain delivery wonder.

New Atticus uses DoorDash. DoorDash delivers food right to your door without you having to leave the house and risk being struck by lightning eight times in one journey. But how can you have a wide range of exciting meals without going out? Again, DoorDash. In 2020, delivery is more than just pizza. With a selection of your favorite flavors from across the globe,

you can order delicious, interesting meals from the comfort of your living room. Ordering is easy. Open the DoorDash app, choose what you want to eat, and your food will be delivered to you, wherever you are. Not only is your favorite pizza joint already on DoorDash, but there are over 310,000 restaurant partners in 4,000 cities, so you might find a new favorite too. With door-to-door delivery in all 50 U.S. states, Puerto Rico, Canada, and Australia,

you can order from your local go-toes or choose from your favorite national restaurants like Chipotle, Wendy's, the Cheesecake Factory, and more. With DoorDash, you can have an elaborate meal or quick snacks sent straight to your door, allowing you and your family to stay safe. There's no need to start chowling down on household items just yet. And right now, our listeners can get $5 off their first order of $15 or more when you download the DoorDash app and enter code no sleep. That's $5 off your first order when you download the DoorDash app in the app store and enter code no sleep. So, don't feel restricted. Give your taste buds a world tour without even leaving your living room. And don't forget, that's code no sleep for $5 off your first order

with DoorDash. And now, back to the horror. If you're one of us who's over 35, then there's a lot about modern-day internet culture that can seem baffling, unboxing videos, lip-syncing, channels on YouTube dedicated to slime, and e-boys. I don't have a clue what that means. You neither? Don't worry. In our next tale, shared with us by author Olivia White, we're given an education on the bizarre specimen that is the E-boy

and treated to the sinister truth behind one such individual. Performing this tale are special guest stars Curtis Connor and Andrew Tate, alongside Jessica McAvoy and Atticus Jackson. So let's go on a trip to a portion of the internet that's best avoided, unless you want to be stuck there for an eternity. I'm going to cut to the chase. I'm a fairly well-known YouTuber. I know, I know.

If you're not familiar with the culture, you've probably seen certain people on the news who don't give us a very. very good name. Entitled, spoiled brats who can make a living out of setting fire to our mansions or committing pranks that really translate to felonies. But here's a thing. This represents a really small minority of content creators on the platform. It's just that, unfortunately, they're the ones who make the headlines. They're the ones who you read about in the national papers. And they give the rest of us a bad name. Not saying we're saints. Of course, anyone who gets on camera a couple times a week and expects people to listen to us is going to have a degree of narcissism about them.

But honestly, most of us on the platform just want to make people smile or laugh or learn something. That's why I decided to dedicate a large portion of my platform to, in a humorous way, calling out and ribbon on the guys and gals who sour the social media sphere. I built up an audience and I wanted to do good with it. Call out injustice, challenge sexism, racism, bigotry in general. And most importantly, give an absolute roasting to the kings and queens of cringe who fill the recommended pages of YouTube, Instagram, and TikTok. Where our story really starts. But before that, I want to clear something up.

You might think you know who I am. I guarantee you're wrong. I'm very, very good at masking my voice, making it sound like other people in the same field as me. You're probably thinking right now, hey, this is that one guy. Didn't he go on tour with? We'll stop right there, okay? All you're getting is that my name is Nick. It's not.

It's a nickname. Nick, get it? But I'm staying anonymous, okay? And anonymity is not something I've worried about in my career up until now. I've made enemies, okay? Plenty enemies. Mostly dudes in their 20s who make a career out of showing their abs on social media, but enemies nonetheless.

So I don't shy away from facing up to people I've pissed off. Not saying I fight them. God no, but, you know, I'll stand by my words and actions. Here, though, I've got to protect my identity. You'll see why. Thing is, I've discovered something, something utterly horrifying, something that seems so bizarre as to be hilarious at first

until it wasn't anymore, and it became the scariest thing I have ever lived through. Intrigued, curious, you should be. You're probably on the Internet right, now as you listen to this. So this affects you. It could potentially affect everyone. It could change the world. And like I said, it started on TikTok. And if you enjoyed this video, please press the like button because one like equals one top hat that I will personally save from the infamous top hat burning prankster. And join me next time

where I'll be revisiting one of this channel's favorite topics, creepy fucking e-boys. Yeah, will I ever get tired of Dunkin on these fools? Hell no. So see you soon for some premium ab flexing content from grown-ass men. And I promise you, the Cash Me Baby Boy video is coming, just not next week. It's taking longer than expected. But it'll be worth it. Trust me. Okay, peace. That was me, finishing up my video from last week. No, you haven't seen it. Yeah, I chose not to upload it. Not sure I'll ever upload anything again, to be honest. I'm laying low for it. I'm laying low for for a good while, and you'll see why.

Right the heck now. Weird. Whoever was calling was someone I didn't have in my contacts list. And this was my personal phone, not the one I used for business calls. I figured it must be one of my friends with a new number. Maybe Greg. He was always losing his phone. Yellow?

Nick nickname here? To whom do I have the pleasure of ballin with? Like she said, Lily was absolutely not anyone I recognized. But I didn't really have the time to consider this when she said the words that changed my life. You've been digging into Jersuf Kashmi, haven't you? Oh, God. Was this some kind of threat? Because, yeah, I have been digging into Jersuf Kashmi, King of the E-Boys,

and the hottest social media star this side of Jake Paul's backyard pool. Okay, so let me explain a couple things really quick. Don't know what an E-boy is? Good for you. You probably live off the grid, or you're over 35, both things I can respect. But to follow this, I'm going to have to take your e-boy virginity and explain. Basically, e-boys are weird pseudo-goths who make mad cash out of wearing chains, lip-syncing to songs on TikTok, and pulling really weird faces where they blow kisses

or roll their eyes back into their skull. If this seems incomprehensible and feels like you're missing something, then I promise you it isn't and you're not. This is exactly what they are. Sometimes they do point of view, ASMR narrations where they pretend to be your overly dominating boyfriend, or a dude who's saved you from quicksand, or your friend's sexy older brother who's also a werewolf. Again, I am aware this makes no sense, but this is exactly the kind of shit they get famous and popular for. And for real, this whole culture is hella toxic.

It glorifies abuse and fetishizes bad boys, you know, dudes who treat others like crap. So yeah, I dunk on them. And Jershikashmi, if you somehow haven't heard of him, is the absolute worst e-boy there is. So I've been working on a video about him for a couple months. You know, hitting up old high school peers, watching his TikToks over and over, trying to understand why his cringy, shirtless, sinister POV content have become so popular. And I was getting absolutely nothing. Nobody would say shit about him.

In fact, nobody even remembered going to high school. school with him. Even though I tracked down his yearbooks, his graduating class, everything. It was like their collective memories had been white, or they'd somehow all been warned not to talk about this dude. And I knew, I just knew, in the psychic way that all commentary YouTubers can tell, that this guy had some major skeletons hiding in his closet. And people were clamoring from my video on him, hundreds of messages every day. But up until then, all I had was dude's hell a cringe. I mean, his username is Cash Me Baby Boy.

That's enough cringe for a video by itself. But they're all cringe. I wanted to find the dirt. And now someone was calling, acknowledging that I'd been digging into the guys past? This was more progress than I'd made with people who were apparently his best goddamn friends in high school. Now I just had to hope she wasn't there to threaten my life and make me back off. Hi, uh, yeah, I mean, you can't.

clearly already know I've been digging into old cash-mey baby boy, so I won't deny it. So are you here to dish the dirt or threaten to put me six feet under it? Ask for your help by dishing the dirt to me. Okay, see, this might be a problem. But firstly, can you explain why? So she did. And if you're not familiar with Jersop Cash Me, there's something else you should know. He lives in his massive-ass-L-A. mansion with like a hundred other people.

They call themselves the cash machines. They're all fans, all over 18, but all super fans. Nobody knows exactly how someone gets chosen to be a cash machine. Cash me boasts that there are always 100 of them at any given time. There are often new faces, which means some leave. They can always be seen in the background of his TikToks and YouTube videos appearing to have a hell of a lot of crazy ruckus fun. It always looked like hell to me.

So long story short, Lily's sister, let's call her, Billy, have been chosen to become a cash machine about six months ago. Lily did not know how Billy had been chosen. And Billy wouldn't say. She'd up and moved to L.A. and soon cut off all contact with her family, bar the very occasional email. The only way they even knew for sure she was still alive was based on her frequent appearances in the background of Jershiv Kashmi's TikToks.

And then a few weeks ago, the appearances had stopped. All attempts to contact Billy had failed. Her email address had been deactivated, the cops out in L.A. weren't interested because Billy was a grown adult of 21. It could make her own decisions. And Lily told me they had categorically stated, without even being asked, that there was nothing suspicious, strange, or dangerous about Joseph Cash Me and his cash machines. In one brief phone call, this had changed from me looking for dirt to me genuinely worrying that we had some kind of Jones Town situation going on. In full view of everyone, in a mansion in the Calabasas Hills, broadcast on goddamn TikTok. Suddenly, the scope for a comedy video ripping into this guy was shrinking by the second.

Of course, there was still a very, very good chance that nothing sinister was going on, and Billy had simply moved out of the Cash Machine mansion and gotten distracted by being in L.A. But, you know, that whole commentary, YouTuber psychic thing, I had a bad feeling about this. I explained to Lilly how fruitless my search had been, alarmingly fruitless, in fact. She recounted similar tales of tracking down old friends from Kashmi's life before social media, only for them to claim they don't remember the guy at all. The dude's family?

No, that was a red flag, too. Couldn't trace a single thing about his family in any way, not even any details. Don't even know so much as whether he has a sibling. No old home addresses, nothing. And yet, finding deeds about his old school, his old yearbooks, his old friends, he was all easy. Too easy, in fact. I mean, I have nowhere near the follower account of this guy, and even with my two and a half million subs, I'm a thousand times more careful about privacy.

I blushed. I hadn't intended to be. Compared to someone like Joseph Cash Me, who had 189 million subscribers on TikTok alone, I was a little guy. But then, who wasn't compared to Cash Me? His channel growth on YouTube, a platform that doesn't even host his main content, had demolished all records. He made Mr. Beast look small fry. But hey, who can resist a subtle flex? Totally. I might not be a creepy eye-rolling e-boy who's trying to start the next Manson family,

but I still got my million subscriber plaque. Do you? I immediately realized how I'd put my foot in it. At least I hadn't mentioned Kool-Aid. No, no, I'm sure Billy's fine. I'm sure nothing weird's going on at all. I wish I had more to tell you, but... Hey, leave it with me.

Okay, I'm going to call a couple of my buddies and see what they think. then I'll get back to you, yeah? Really miss Billy. We just want to know if she's okay. I'll see what I can do. Once we'd hung up, I called two of my pals in the commentary genre. They're both level-headed, sensible guys. I knew they'd give me the best advice on how to proceed from here,

how to help Lily with her sister without potentially getting involved in a dangerous situation. And you're absolutely sure that breaking into the multi-million dollar cash-mey mansion is something you're willing to do just to help some rando you met in real life for the first time a few hours ago? Hey, anything for the content? I was being glib, of course, but I was out of ideas. In the five days between Lily's call and now, I'd done as much extra digging as I could

and came away with precisely nothing. I also hadn't told Billy, but I'd attempted to identify and track down some of the other cash machine folk who'd appeared in earlier videos than stopped showing up in more recent ones. I'd only managed to get a handful of results thanks to screen grabs and reverse image searching,

but the few I'd managed to unearthed social media, pages for, well, let's just say that none of them had posted in a while and all their friends and family had been concerned. And yes, before you ask, I tried speaking to the cops. And Lily hadn't been kidding about the responses seeming rehearsed. I even tried calling other departments in California and then resorted to other states entirely. Every single law enforcement official I spoke to gave some variation of the same rote answer, who was starting to feel a little Stepford wives. So what choice did we have but to break into the Kashmi mansion and try snooping around? And I wasn't foolish. I timed it well. Juris of Kashmi had been bragging all week on

social media about a huge party that was going down in the house that night. Invite only, of course, but all the hottest social media stars were going to be there. All the cash machine's friends were going to be there. If there was ever a time to sneak in unnoticed, it would be when the place was teeming with people. As a backup though, I'd had a friend in the area of Scobo to the mansion. After a couple days studying the place, he reported that there was no security, no patrols, no cameras, nothing. In fact, he'd never even seen a single person come or go from that house. And I joked that there sure would be plenty of people coming and going on the night of the party. And yet, here Lily and I were, threw a hole we'd cut in the fence, standing in the darkened, silent grounds of Jersop Kashmi's mansion.

I sure don't hear any sounds of a party. Yeah, this is super, super weird. There weren't even any lights on in the building, from what I could see. The only illumination came from some dim underwater lighting in the pool, famous for appearing on TikTok filled with glittery pink foam on numerous occasions. Now the water lay still, scum and leaves coating the top. It looked like it had been cleaned in weeks. Maybe the party's somewhere else?

Kashmi's just gone live. He's live streaming the party. Let me see that. Lily handed me her cell phone. Sure enough, Cashmi was doing his usual preening and posturing, surrounded by numerous cash machines, and it sure looked like they were inside the mansion we currently stood just beside, with disco lights and pounding techno and all the sounds of a party.

Only all of it was coming from Lily's phone and none from the house itself. But there, sure enough, it claimed Cashme was live. This is definitely like the right house, yeah? It was. I doubled, triple-checked. We stood outside a silent, dark mansion in which a ruckus party was apparently being live-streamed from the main hallway, the main hallway whose windows we now crept up to and peered in. I can't see shit.

I can see enough to know there's no goddamn party going on inside. Before I could say anything, Lily strode past the window and straight up to the large oaken double front door. She grasped the brass knocker. Looks like we have some more party guests, and these are special guests. So I'm going to end the live stream for now and go greet them personally. What the absolute shit. There's nobody there. Do we just go in?

I guess so. I felt an ominous, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Something was horribly, horribly wrong here. Where were the hordes of cash machines and partygoers? Where was the music? Where were the lights? Where was... Anything. We stepped over the threshold into Kashmi's mansion, the home of King Evoie. The silly, goofy, toxic fool I've been all hyped to dunk on in a hilarious new video.

Lily was fumbling for something and must have found a light switch because suddenly harsh white lighting filled my eyes, causing my vision to momentarily blur. When it returned, I wish it hadn't. What I saw in that grand hall defied him. All explanation, and there was only one thing I could say. This is hell. We are in hell. People everywhere.

In roughly the same positions and the same crowds as I'd just seen them on the live stream, dancing and drinking and having fun, but there was no fun being had here. No party, no life at all. Everyone was dead, and it wasn't any Kool-Aid cult-type thing where they'd all drank the punch and dropped, a few, and I really do mean a few of the bodies looked freshly deceased. But the others, they were, I don't even know how to explain it. They weren't decomposing.

It wasn't gory. It was like each body was in the process of mummification, some more shriveled than others. Some were little more than papery skin on bone. Others were dried out, dehydrated husks with features intact, but their skin looked ancient, leathery. Some looked like they've been dead a decade, some a centuries, some more. And you'd expect a room filled with hundreds of corpses to smell bad. It didn't. At least not in that way.

It smelled of dust and crips, of ancient fabric and decaying paper. As we stepped forward, I could see the floor was caked and what appeared to be dust and gagged as I remember that most dust comes from dried human skin. Lily was staring around clearly as stricken as I was. Billy? She began to move a few steps in random directions as if heading towards one pile of corpses than changing her mind and turning towards another.

If Billy was in this room and she wasn't alive, there was nothing alive in here. Or so I thought, until a body that had been lying on the central marble staircase stood up. My eyes widened. Despite his wild, straggly beard and long hair, I could recognize who this was. It was Joseph Kashmi. Only he wasn't the young, virile, creepy e-boy we all knew and loathed.

It was hard to place his age. His eyes looked young, but his body looked to be anywhere between middle-aged and ancient. He was topless as he had been on his live stream, but where once had been glistening, abs there now hung a distended, wrinkled stomach below drooping pecks. His arms were stick-thin. Pockets of almost translucent. skin jiggling as he shakily made his way down the stairs. In one hand, he clutched a cell phone. He held it up, back camera facing us, and stared into the screen as if unable to look at us directly. Lily was back by my side now. Is this?

They come, they go. Until he spoke, I'd entertain the tiny hope that this could be Kashby's father or grandfather, but there was no mistaking that voice. It was him. They come. They feed me. They go. Fame is a demon.

Fame is hungry. I have clout. I have the party. I am so hungry. Lily stepped forward. What the hell happened to my sister, you creepy old-ass freak? Sister? Brother? What do I know?

It came. I fed. It went. It lies here, no doubt. Kashmi gestured around at the pile of corpses, littering every corner of the party. He still hadn't taken his eyes off the cell phone screen in his hand. You, with the sister brother.

View me. Lily and I turned to look at one another. What the hell was this creep on about? View me. He waved the cell phone in his hand, still somehow keeping his eyes fixed to the screen. I think he wants you to view him through your phone? Lily held her phone up and opened the camera app. We both physically jumped at what we saw.

On screen, the party was in full swing around us. Cash machines danced, laughed, drank. And in the center of it all stood Cash Me. His usual young self, phone pointed at us. I looked from the screen back to the reality of the room and back to the screen. Shut it off, shut it off now. But Lily was transfixed. A notification popped up on her phone.

Cashby Baby Boy has gone live. Lily thumbed the pop-up. They come, they feed, they go, I broadcast. The world sees. I am young. I am a boy A man boy Fame is a demon

She is hungry I am hungry On Lily's phone screen I could see us We were watching the feed from Kashmi's camera On screen Lily no longer wore the black polo neck And dark jeans she'd been wearing when we met She wore a short skirt

A tube top there was glitter on her skin And her hand was a drink Not a phone My vision wavered. The live stream was tugging on me. I tore my gaze away. Back to Lily. She was already falling to the ground.

Her eyes turned from a vibrant hazel to a filmy, milky white. Her lips shriveled as I watched. It come. I feed. It go. Now you. I tried to save her. I did.

I tried tugging on her arm, but her bones had already turned brittle. They snapped under my grip. Her skin was already flaking off, her hair falling out. What could I do, but run? Cops, I need the fucking cops. Now, I'm outside the grounds of a mansion in Calabasas. There's been... But I didn't even...

I didn't fucking even... Sir, this is bordering on harassing. We'll send a squad car out. Yes, send a car out. Send all the cars. They're dead in there. Everyone's dead. I can assure you that Mr. Cashme is alive and well.

He's the internet's most... ...the influence her across multiple platforms. Oh my God, I know that, but... Sir, there is nothing suspicious. So best as I understand it, the internet's most popular e-boy is a myth. He's a decaying old man who is somehow luring in young people, draining them of their life, and broadcasting an idealized, imaginary version of his reality across the globe. I have no idea how he does this.

He claimed that fame is a demon, maybe that's literal. I don't... Yeah, I'm aware of the somewhat blunt metaphor all of this. I am a YouTuber myself, after all. But what can I do? His facade is impenetrable. His reach is endless. His influence is unbreakable. I got no footage from that night, and even if I had, I'm not convinced it would have reflected anything other than what Jersif Kashmi wants the world to see. If I come out with this story publicly, if I attach my real name to it, then at best I'll be branded as a kook, a loony. At worst, I'll somehow find myself back in that charnel house in the

Calabasas Hills attending one of Kashmir's forever parties. There's nothing I can do. Nothing I can change. My only hope is that by sharing this story anonymously, it might one day lead to someone else being able to stop him. Because I'm in his sights now. I know this from the messages I've been getting over the last two days. Constant DMs across all my social platforms.

They come, I feed. They go. You come now. next, or stay away, your choice. If I thought I could change things, I would. But if I meet Mr. Cashme again, I don't see it ending well. I'm already having sleepless nights. I feel like I've aged a decade in the last week.

There are bags under my eyes. I found a gray hair when I was looking in the mirror this morning. I need to move on. Get back to my usual self and put this behind me. It's all I can do. A burned out, washed up man on the brink of terror is not the image of myself I want to present to the world. Thank you for joining us on our journey down the lost highway. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone.

Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White. I'm your host and executive producer, David Kornhill. comings. If you would like to find out how you can hear the extended editions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season pass program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 2499. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening.

is the darkness fades. It feels like you're going... This audio production is copyright 2020 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.