The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S16E21

Episode Date: August 29, 2021

It’s Episode 21 of Season 16. Our correspondence Our correspondence becomes technologically terrifying. “[APPLICATION_REDACTED] Bug Reports” written by Alexander Sproul (Story starts around 00:02:30) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Dan Zappulla, Brother – Atticus Jackson, Best friend – Graham Rowat“The Red Door” written by Matt Richardsen (Story starts around 00:21:10)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Atticus Jackson, Roger – Mike DelGaudio, Jenny – Nichole Goodnight, Green Tie Narrator – Atticus Jackson“ZOREN F. DOFO” written by C. McKelvie (Story starts around 00:40:10)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Penny Scott-Andrews, Arthur Jacobs – Andy Cresswell“Dear Laura – Chapter 4” written by Gemma Amor (Story starts around 01:09:00)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Kristen DiMercurio, Laura – Mary Murphy, Mrs. Scott – Nikolle Doolin, Mr. Scott – Graham Rowat, X – David Cummings“Bad Debts” written by C. Jorgensen and D. E. Gauvin (Story starts around 01:06:45) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Graham Rowat, Lauren – Wafiyyah White, The Manager – Mike DelGaudio, Susan – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Steven – Kyle Akers, Female Customer – Erika Sanderson, Male Customer – Mick Wingert“The Kinda Guys That Fuck the Robots” written by J. L. Schnelle (Story starts around 01:35:45) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator – Erika Sanderson, Stephanie – Jessica McEvoy, Jeff – Jeff Clement, AJ675-B – Jessica McEvoy, Mike – Atticus Jackson, Jon – Kyle Akers, Caroline – Wafiyyah White, School Counselor/Ms. Adamms – Mary Murphy, Stephanie’s mom – Erika Sanderson, Mr. Taylor – Jesse Cornett  This episode is sponsored by:ShipStation – ShipStation makes it super easy to manage and ship all your orders from all your sales channels faster, cheaper and more efficiently. You can import orders from any sales channel and ship with any carrier using their deeply discounted rates. Go to shipstation.com and click the microphone icon at the top of the page. Enter code NOSLEEP to get a 60-day free trial. Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Click here to learn more about Alexander Sproul Click here to learn more about Matt Richardsen Click here to learn more about C. McKelvie Click here to learn more about J. L. Schnelle  Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Bad Debts” illustration courtesy of Mark Pelham Audio program ©2021 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

In the dark hours, in the ante, in the letters long lost and forgotten, there are tales of horror to frighten and disturb. Come, join us as we delve deep into the darkness. Into the sleepless hours, when you dare not close your eyes. No sleep. Welcome, sleepless listeners. I'm your host, David Cummings. I'm going to cut to the chase. I'm not entirely sure you're going to be able to hear this episode. Things have been getting very strange around here, and in Jersey with Joanna. And I don't know if it's just all in our heads or if there's something else going on. You see, Joanna and I both have been hearing noise in our heads every time we're near those stories. The one of the one. ones we simply have to tell. The noise is hard to discern sometimes. It's like a static, other times like a beeping. But more frequently than not, we can hear low-key numbers and counting in our minds, but not in any order we can discern. At one point, I was sure I could make out

the date October 17, 2021, but I could be wrong. The bottom line is this. As the days have gone on, we're sure the static or noise, whatever you call it, is getting louder. What's worse is that we both feel like we're somehow slowly being reconditioned or reprogrammed. Needless to say, we're both finding it very unsettling. The reason I'm concerned about the audio on this episode is because we've struggled to make some of the stories clear and audible. It's like there's bugs in our audio software. And it makes sense when you consider a story, Joanna discovered when the noise in her head grew agonizingly loud.

I call it a story, but it appears to be nothing but a strange log file of bug reports for an obscure software company's mobile app. I think the developer's name is Alexander Sproal. I know Dan Zapula, Atticus Jackson, and Graham Rowett did some good work on this one, so let's hope it comes through clearly. So glitches and noise aside, here's... Application. I'm inducted.

Bug reports. Application ID 626377. User ID AS442-6337. Date January 21, 2020. Author's note, I'm not sure who at... We'll read this. But I wanted to preface this document with a note that I am aware that this writing is not on the company's required standard format.

I do not wish to be paid for this report. I only ask that it be read by someone at in full and that my recommendations be taken into account. Description of application. Is a business assistant mobile application for working professionals that uses natural language processing, NLP, to schedule meetings and, respond to business inquiries during times at which the user's calendar is marked as busy.

The idea is that the user is relieved of some administrative duties, while the application responds to scheduling inquiries as if it is the user. Bug Report No. Zero-1. Details. I downloaded this application on my... Using... as my operating system, OS. The permission requests were extensive.

The application had access to my camera, gallery, text messages, social media, contacts, email, calendar, files, location, and more. If I didn't have the security of knowing the application was backed by this would have been a deterrent for me. If I can be quite frank, I was drawn to on the notion that its errors would be hilarious. An artificial intelligence, AI, trying to be me, seemed like a recipe for disasters that I could laugh about with my co-workers at a later date.

To my surprise, the app's predictive text capabilities were outstanding, and an absolute testament to how far NLP has come in recent years. Not only did its generated text messages demonstrate an incorporation of context in its responses, but it also seemed to respond consistently with my own demeanor. By all accounts, passed the Turing test. Not a single person that interacted with the application indicated any awareness that they were not talking to me. In fact, I decided to see if the AI would hold up in a less professional setting.

My wife was gone on a work trip, and I had the house to myself. I set my availability to busy for an entire evening and let the AI respond to any messages from my friends and family. This is when I identified a first potential problem. Below is a text exchange that occurred during that period. Hey, man, haven't heard from you in a while. Everything okay? Hey, yeah, sorry.

And I have been pretty busy lately. What's up? That hibu, having a beer or three. Ha ha ha ha. Close by. Come join. Seats free at the table. Sorry, man.

I'm actually feeling sick tonight. Massive stomachache the last few days. Beer probably won't settle well. Have fun, though. Maybe another time. The first message is from my brother, who has a history of alcoholism. We have a good relationship, but I make a good relationship. but I make a point of not drinking with him.

I believe the AI predicted that I would not want to join, and even went as far as to find a viable excuse for me not to go. I could only find a single message that I had sent to my wife that day saying that my stomach was acting up again. Regardless, I was apprehensively impressed with its capabilities. On one hand, its response is almost certainly one that I would have considered sending. On the other hand, I had the unsettling feeling of a loss of agency. It mattered to me that I didn't get to deny his invitation myself.

The more I thought about it, the more torn I became. Didn't I download to avoid messaging people myself? Wasn't that the point of leaving the AI active that night? If something had happened to my brother, would it have mattered to me that something? something else was responsible for our last conversation? This has been on my mind, and I still don't know. I wouldn't have gone anyway. I would have probably said something similar.

If anything, I am ashamed to admit that something other than me knows that. Recommendation. My recommendation is that the developers remove the AI's capability to make decisions about whether to attend. meetings. Despite remarkable predictive accuracy with its decisions, a better alternative would be to wait for the

user to decide. A consequence of these changes could also be restraint in the app's extensive permission requirements. I personally would accept a reduction in the AI's representation of my personality for the ease of mind in knowing my decision hadn't been predetermined. Bug report number zero two.

Details. I have been using for two weeks now. The device and OS, with the exception of a minor update, I am using, are both the same from my previous bug report. However, I have downloaded the software on three older models using virtual machines, VMs, and found no difference in its capabilities.

It has integrated well into my work life, and I am continually impressed with how much time it has saved me. It turns out that I like meeting with people more than I like planning meetings. I decided to share my experiences with my coworkers, close friends, family, and my wife. They were shocked to learn that they had been texting a robot while I was at work. There were several times when, unbeknownst to me, I had agreed to go. to dinner, or, to my wife's delight, shovel the driveway when I got home. This next part is more difficult for me to write, and I apologize if I am overstepping the line between professional and personal. Instead of explaining the situation, I have included

a series of texts between me and my best friend. After I had a particularly bad argument with my wife. I trust that the reader will keep my information confidential. 11.11 p.m. Hey, and I just got into another pretty bad fight. Any chance we could grab a coffee? I need to clear my head. 11.14 p.m.

Of course. I'm just finishing up at the hospital now. Might need a few minutes to get showered and changed. Issue with a patient. Don't ask. Is that okay? 11.14 p.m. Yes, thank you.

11.15 p.m. What's going on? 11.18 p.m. I haven't told you this, and I honestly don't know if I can say it out loud. And I have been trying to have a kid now for the past few months. And it turns out that I'm the problem. I know I shouldn't be ashamed, but I am.

We're both upset, and I lashed out at her. She just seems so distant since we found out, and I need support. We can talk more about it at... I'm going to head out shortly just to drive around a bit. 11.19 p.m. I understand. Is it okay if I ask what the specialist said the cause was? 11.19 p.m. It's fine. She said it's abnormal.

sperm production. It could be chemical from when I used to do the volunteer firefighting. 11.20 p.m. Wow. I'm so sorry to hear that. Well, I don't want to make your day any worse, but you should know that infertility is a risk factor for testicular cancer. You're also quite tall, hit puberty early and smoke inhalation. Cannabis or otherwise is another big one. I don't mean to worry you, but you might want to get checked. 1121 p.m. I took the day off tomorrow after me and argument. I'll go to a walk-in. Thanks. I wouldn't have known to check for that.

11.22 p.m. looking out for you since 86, man. I'll see you soon. 11.23 p.m. On my way. Meet you there. Coffee's on me. 1123 p.m. Awesome. I'll text you when I'm heading out. 1140 p.m. Hey, so this is kind of awkward. I'm only just reading your messages now.

I've been using that app you told me about while I'm at work, and I guess it knew exactly what to say. I'm so sorry that you and... are fighting. I can't imagine how difficult it must be for both of you. I'm on my way right now. 1142 p.m. Actually, that makes two of us.

I guess I set the app's activation from 9 a.m. this morning. to 5 a.m. tomorrow morning. The last message I sent you was at 11.18 p.m. 11.43 p.m. Well, the app might have saved your life. Everything had said about testicular cancer is true. You should get tested, man. I followed through and got tested the next day.

When I explained the risk factors to the doctor, I was immediately referred to a specialist. I got the diagnosis yesterday. testicular cancer, stage 1B. I can't even name most of the places it has spread. I haven't told my wife yet. I don't want her to be sorry for the way she treated me. I don't want her to know that I feel ashamed and emasculated.

But the prognosis is good. The doctor expects me to live at least five years beyond my diagnosis. I might actually owe my life to... I start treatment next week. My mind has been full since I found out, but it always comes back to this app. I can't help but wonder who I'm talking to whenever I receive messages.

I started asking people to call me instead of text, and the AI caught on and started asking them itself. There is no privacy setting that allows me to specify what information can and can't be shared. It was sheer luck that it only sent my medical information to my best friend. Recommendation. The NLP algorithm has a sense of context, but no sense of boundaries or ethics.

I don't know if this is the sort of thing that can be programmed. Similar to my previous recommendation, I believe the AI's access to certain information, i.e. medical, financial, etc., should be restricted, or certain categories of data should be marked as prohibited from discussion. Alternatively, an option for the user to select information that can and cannot be shared is another viable step in the right direction. I also believe it should be required that the application indicate whether or not it is active when sending messages. My experience suggests that widespread usage of this app could lead to high levels of paranoia among its users.

Bug report number zero zero three. Details. It's been a month. When... ...launched last week, I realized that there's no point in deleting it. The only way to know if someone is truly talking to me is to speak with them in person.

I suppose I could ask for a photo with the current date and time, but I can already name technologies that could fake them. The same goes for phone calls. Somebody must have read my bug reports because a large sum of money was deposited into my bank account by... This will be my last bug report. Don't worry. The cancer isn't killing me. I did find out that the tumor is either blocking my sperm from leaving my body or somehow preventing me from producing any sperm at all.

There's something like a 50-50 chance I'll be. able to have a kid once I've undergone treatment. I still haven't told my wife. We haven't been in a great place. I guess I should thank you. My wife is pregnant, and had I not downloaded the app, I never would have known how impossible that was. I asked my specialist about it,

and the look on her face was the same look I imagined my wife having when I told her about my cancer. pity, discomfort, maybe even a little bit of self-serving denial. I'm typing this on my phone. I want the AI that seems to be so great at being me to know what it did to my marriage and feel the way that I feel if it's even capable of that. It's not the app's fault.

But I think about that lack of choice I've felt when I messaged my brother. The same result came with me feeling like my hand was tied to a predetermined truth. I could have experienced that joy of thinking I was going to be a father. My wife could have experienced the guilt that she would have needed to tell me before I found out about her lies on my own. And would it matter? Probably not. But I would have felt something better. I think I'm okay with the illusion of choice.

I started activating application redacted. Whenever I didn't want to talk to people, and it turns out, that's a lot. I've read some pretty great conversations that I've had with other people. I'm particularly proud of the cover letter that it wrote to get me a real job. My days as a software tester were over as soon as I found a company that did blind interviews over text chat. I slept through the interview and woke up with a doubled salary. Recommendation. You're probably asking, what's the bug?

It turns out that it's me. My experience with E. Has consistently proved to me that your AI is a better version of myself. And it comes with updates. Today, I decided it was time to tell my wife about my can't. answer, and what I knew about her pregnancy. When I checked my phone, I read an entire conversation between her and I, which culminated in my asking for a divorce. The best part? She left her phone at the house on the bedside table when she left for work. Our AIs had broken up with each other.

I've set my calendar to a permanent state of busy and spent the money from bug testing, On a gun. I don't even know how to fire it. What would the best version of myself do? Now that there's a better me, wouldn't the world be a better place without my version in it? Right now, I can assure you that I have no idea. But my choice is already made. When you start dating someone, you know there will be the inevitable moment that will inspire a nod in your stomach and

sweat on your brow. I mean, of course, meeting your partner's parents. And in this tale, shared with us by author Matt Richardson, we join a man who finally meets his girlfriend's folks. Let's just hope they approve of their daughter's choice in men. Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson, Mike Delgado, and Nicole Goodnight. So dress nicely, be polite and relax. I'm sure They'll like you. Now, just knock on the red door. Everything begins with the red door. We knock.

I straighten my collar. I pull up my pants. Ginny gestures wildly at my zipper. That zipper. And I realize with horror, shit. The fly is open. I fight wildly to get it in place. Sweat builds on my brow.

The hot white valley sun. beats down on my back like we're stuck in the Caribbean, and the fabric is stuck. Of course the fabric is stuck. The fabric always gets stuck. They make these goddamn pants just to get stuck on a schmuck like me. The zipper is caught on my boxers. I'm pulling. Jenny tries to help, but she's making it worse.

Stop making it worse. The red door opens before we even have a chance to fix it. and then I'm standing there with my hands on my crotch and my girlfriend's hands there too. Her parents stare blankly ahead. The holidays are a stressful time for everybody. We laugh it off and we step into the kitchen. I go in for the handshake. Jenny says it's better to shake hands when meeting people for the first time.

You have to keep boundaries, Maddie. People respect boundaries. Mr. Weber has a firm grip. He's the type of man to look you in the eyes when he does it. Mrs. Weber's handshake is dainty and petite. She asks if I prefer coffee or tea, and I say, Tea, Regina, please. Coffee makes me jittery.

I sit down at the Oval Kitchen Table. Roger wants to know my occupation. He is a professor just to pay the bills, you know, but it's independent study which intrigues him the most. White Valley University keeps their checkbooks open when it comes to research. He hired two new interns just this past fall, and you would not believe the things these kids uncover in the lab. Mind-blowing stuff, Matt.

Really world-altering stuff. Roger asked questions in the crooked way only a concerned father could ask. So what are your passions? Where do you see yourself in five years? I tell him about my company. Dynetap. may be a small fish in the big market, but we have growth potential. Just this week, we received a report, which stated that 3,000 people use our program daily.

The free version of our app is booming, but we are working on a solution to move folks into paid subscriptions. I believe our next product will accomplish this goal. Oh, and what is the name of this product? I'd leap to tell him the name. I know the name. Of course I know the name. I live this product. I breathe this product.

It consumes every inch of my life. I plastered the name throughout thousands of lines of code again and again, working night after night just to get it right. This product is my baby. My future kids will know the name. Why the fuck can't I just remember the name? Just say the name, Dufus. The man is waiting. I have to check my notes.

Ginny laughs nervously. Regina looks on in despair. Roger is angry now. Not good, Maddie. Not good. Ginny said to never make Roger angry. You created a product that will change your company's future. You can't even remember the name?

Think, think. Think. Roger is getting out of his chair now. Why would he get up? Oh, God, we're in a booth. There's not a lot of room. I have to move just to get out of the way. The kitchen table is shaking. Oh, God, he's pissed. Ginny said to never make Roger pissed. Think, think, think, think, think, doofus. Think fast. Roger pauses. He sits back down. He lets loose his smile. of crooked teeth and thinning gums. Regina smiles, too. She brushes back a tindrille of styled hair and sets down the tea, three sugars, before sliding next to me. Regina wants to know about my mother. Regina says a good man always looks after mom.

My mother lives on Andover Street, Mrs. Weber, and I'm sure she'd love to meet you too. Regina, please. Roger jumps back in. Roger wants to know more about the product. He loves tech projects. He loves the name. He loves the concept. I talk for hours about online banking capability, micro-transactions, minimum fees.

Dinner comes and goes. Dessert does too. Roger is interested. Roger is impressed. He worked on Wall Street, you know, just for a little bit. Not everybody can hack it with those big number boys. Soon enough, my glass gets... and Roger is rushing to fill it with more beer.

Good beer. The quality kind of stuff. He gushes through a mouthful of high alcohol content IPA. Think Ves, eh? Think Vest. Couldn't have said it better myself. Ginny floats back to the table. She and her mother just finished the dishes.

She's got the sleeves of that blue dress pulled up now. And dear God, she's a vision. She slides down into my lap with an arm draped around my shoulder and the angelic sort of way women do, with black bangs dripping over light hazel eyes. The sleeve of her dress slips up and she kisses my cheek, and my mind wanders to a place it shouldn't wander. She asks if you boys are done in here, as Roger lights up the butt of an already used cigar. Seems like you got a hell of a guy here.

One last question. I nod. Roger likes a curt nod. What the hell do you want with my daughter? I laugh. Ginny laughs and slugs his shoulder. I look down in humility. I feel like I know Roger now.

I feel like I know what he wants to hear. I know what any father would want to hear. I look him in the eyes when I say it. I love her. I want to marry her one day. Roger smiles. Well, okay then. The evening ends with a vintage bottle of wine, 1983.

The good stuff. Ginny looks as giddy as a teenager in her little blue dress. She smirks with a giggle and shucks off the shoulder strap slowly. SpongeBob bedsheets smile back at us unabashedly from the top of her tiny little twin. Pictures of pop culture icons and articles about her dad decorate the walls. reflects any teenage boy's dream. You passed. You finally passed.

She pounces into my arms. Her perfume dances through my nose like candy. She pulls me into the soft spot between her neck and her shoulder blades. And I've discovered peace, pure and unadulterated peace. I want to stay in that peace forever. Nothing would make me happier than staying here forever. But the lights go out, and the world turns to black. I wake up sometime after two in the morning.

The house is dark. Ginny sniffles from the slightly far side of the bed. Roger snores from down the hall. Somebody tosses and turns, probably Regina. But I don't care if she's close to waking up. She can wake up if she damn well wants to, because I need water. God damn it, am I thirsty?

Why am I so thirsty? I get up and curse the creaking bed as my soft feet shuffle quietly across the cold wood floor. The staircase has two creaking stairs. I don't know why I remember that, but I do. And I avoid them perfectly on my silent descent into the kitchen. I hit the light. The refrigerator has one of those water filters built inside. Paper cups are in the cabinet.

Nobody will even notice. There won't be any dishes. I'll just grab some blissfully cold water and sneak back upstairs to my beautiful Jenny. But then, something clatters in the basement. At first I pretend I don't hear it. Probably just a Christmas box. Maybe the storm started earlier. Maybe the wind got inside.

But then the clatter rings again and again and again. And it's getting to the point where I have to see where I have to see where it. it is, would it be? Ginny never said anything about a pet. Ginny never said anything about mice or rats or any other shit living in the house, let alone the basement. But that sure as hell sounds like something living, because I can hear it shaking now. Did it speak? I thought I heard somebody speak. I peeked down the basement corridor. I stepped down. The stairs are carpeted and protected from my horrible creaking. It's dark. Too dark to see. I pull up my cell. The damn thing doesn't work ever since we got inside, but the flashlight still should. I step down again. I stumble for the

button and point the phone towards the spot in the corner that's making all that damn noise. And then I'm looking at myself. I'm staring at an exact replica of men. I'm staring at an exact replica I don't know how else to describe it. It's me. I'm chained to a wall. I'm wearing a business suit. My tie is a little bit crooked and green, contrary to my current red. The outfit is otherwise similar.

Black shoes, black belt, white shirt. A red bruise ripens my forehead. In the corner by the temple. and blood leaks slowly from the center. Turn the flashlight around the basement and my breath stops. My heart pounds. A dozen versions of me decorate the basement wall like trophies. There's a version of me with board shorts.

There's a version of me with a crew cut haircut. There's a version of me with a man bun and a fucking meme shirt at me. And then there's a version of me with a tuxedo. All of them are chained. up and bloodied. All of them are dead. Each one of them is more fucking dead than the last. With throat gashes, bruises, and eyes blinker than the fish my father used to catch on his old boat with the barnacles. What's dead is dead, Maddie, he used to say. Don't spend time looking for the dead. They're going to wake up. Sure is shit, he's right.

I'm right. We're both right. We're all right. Roger isn't snoring anymore. That's not good. Roger always snores at night. If he's not snoring, the Ginny is awake, and Regina's probably not far behind. Roger keeps a gun in the safe and pliers in the kitchen. Not good, Maddie. Not good. The door upstairs opens, closes the bang. The window. Running across the base. I'm pulling desperately at the clasp. It's stuck. Of course, the damn thing is always stuck. They make these windows just to get stuck on a schmuck like me. Roger is walking into the kitchen now. Not good, Maddie, not good. He'll have the pliers soon. I can hear him cursing to Regina. Not good, sweetie, not good. The clasp breaks free. I can't believe it. The way. The way

The wailing wall breaks and a breath of fresh air pours in over my brow. Roger is out the door now. Green Tide tries to distract him. I leap up, sneak my fat butt through the narrow space. The fresh air feels so good. I don't remember it feeling so good. The night's sky looks beautiful. I don't remember it looking so beautiful.

There is a struggle in the basement. Curses and shouting ripped through an otherwise silent night. Roger rushes up the stairs. He stumbled outside. He rushes and fumbles for the keys while getting into his car. But he is too late. Too too late. Because I am gone.

Gone, gone, gone. It takes a lot to try and start my life over. I move out of state. I find the new job. and the new name and the new apartment. I live on my own, away from people, and I try to put Ginny and her crazy fucking family behind me, even if I still dream about her all the time.

I want more than anything to go back to the person from before. I want to go back to the person who sat underneath his father's boat for hours and cleaned the barnacles. I want to go back to listening to his stories. But one day, it occurs to me, after a long time spent dwelling, the facts of my life are only that. Facts, I can't hear their voices anymore. I can't see their faces anymore. It occurs to me that I can't truly remember anything anymore.

Everything in my life begins with the red door. Well, that story was adorable. But let's get serious for a second. Are you tired of living with those coffee-stained elbows? You should try the new product from- The new soap is here. Huh? What new soap? I ordered more soap from gin.

It just arrived. Thank the gods. Now we can bathe and clean our fetid bodies. Don't be dramatic. I'm just glad it arrived so quickly. She's great at shipping out her products. I'm not surprised. She uses Ship Station after all. She told me Ship Station makes it easy to manage her orders and get her products out the door,

so she can focus more of making her great organic soap. It's like I told her. Ship Station is the number one choice of online sellers. You can import orders from any sales channel, ship with any carrier using ship stations deeply discounted rates, and automate just about any shipping task. Huh, no wonder more than 100,000 online sellers choose Ship Station. She's done so well selling from her own website, but ShipStation funnels all your orders into one simple interface that you can manage from anywhere, even your cell phone,

even if you use other platforms like Shopify or Etsy. She says she gets great access to amazing discounts with major carriers, including UPS, FedEx, and USPS. She can easily compare carriers and choose the best solution every time. That's right. With ShipStation, small businesses can now access the same rates usually reserved for Fortune 500 companies without the contracts or commitments. What was it you said to Jen that time? You mean when I asked her to pour me some more whiskey?

No, no, when you told her about Ship Station. Oh, right. I said, Jen, ship more in less time for a lot less money. Just use my offer code, no sleep, to get a 60-day free trial. That's two months free of no-hassel, stress-free shipping. And she went to Shipstation.com, clicked on the microphone at the top of the page and typed in no sleep. Precisely. That's shipstation.com. Enter offer code no sleep.

Make ship happen. Okay, okay, run along now and enjoy showering with that luxurious lavender soap. I'm off to the bar of soap. Get it? Please leave the puns to me. Now let's clean up and get back to the show. This next sleepless tale is chilling. With space probes reaching other

planets and more and more people launching themselves into space, we can't help but assume that before long, humans will explore our vast universe over greater distances. And as we learn in this tale, shared with us by author C. McElvey, it doesn't make sense to keep star travelers awake and active when they can be sent into a deep, dark cryo sleep. Performing this tale are Penny Scott Andrews and Andy Cresswell. So let's look for the cryo containers, oddly marked for one, Zoran F. Dofo. At first, there was only darkness. No lights permeated the endless void, and no movement broke the stillness.

The black abyss lay silent and vast, as it had done for millennia. Suddenly, within the sea of nothing, there was the faintest of ripples. Nix moved slowly through. Aside from the intense fiery blaze erupting from its propulsion units, bathing the immense ship in an eerie glow, no lights could be seen aboard. Inside, the vast structure was lifeless and dead. rows of computer banks containing centuries' worth of data sat sleeping, waiting for their operators to awaken. No footsteps fell in the long corridors, and the thousands of doors that were littered throughout the vast spacecraft were sealed.

The only sounds came from the roar of the ship's engines, the bleeping of its life support systems and the whir of machinery in the three large chambers that formed the Lavalve. viathan vessel. Within these three identical halls, neatly arranged in rows that stretched as far as any human eye could see, were thousands of coffin-like objects that hummed quietly with power. The walls were metallic and blank, save for ten letters that stood huge and proud in the centre of each. Zorin, F. Dofo. The room itself was as dark and lacking in atmosphere as the endless nothing outside. Inside each casket, however, was a precisely maintained frozen environment supplied by vast chemical tanks underneath the chambers.

Each was also illuminated by a row of bright white lights, and it was these lights that would have allowed an observer to perceive a blobby form inside. some pinkish, some darker, some taller, some smaller, some thinner and some fatter. These forms were only just discernible due to the layers of frost that lined the glass covers of the coffins. Thus it was that the last remnants of humanity slept silently, frozen and guarded by machines, awaiting the future and whatever it may bring. Seven million men, women and children lining the steel sarcophagi for a voyage that would last them centuries. A voyage that had begun just seven hours previously. And so the ship lay siren.

Its cargo adrift in a sea of dreams, frozen in both body and mine. Sleeping, peacefully. Ball 1. Seven hours into his journey, Arthur Jacobs awoke with a scream. My name is Arthur Jacobs. I was a resident, the 14th planet, in the surviving circle. If anyone can hear me, anyone at all, I'm awake. I don't know what's happened always.

Why? I think the others are still asleep. It's taken me long enough to work that out. To begin with, I thought I was just the first, you know? But maybe everyone else had just overslept. Or possibly the process was gradual and I just happened to wake up early. I mean, who knows how the angel's technology works? I certainly fucking can't. I just leapt at the chance to live. Then I saw the clock. Seven hours. Seven hours in a voyage of centuries. Life support equipment. Isn't that what the angel's voice said? Or Zorans or whoever it was. That each casket has its own monitoring equipment. Something that watches our heartbeats, checks our sleep, etc. Mind you, they also said each box would fucking freeze their occupant after stay calm. All I can do is hope that whatever is supposed to be watching me notice is soon.

My group leader mentioned that each casket had recording equipment built in too so that the angels can hear us in our sleep and send help should anything happen. I can't see anything that looks like it's recording me, no microphones or anything, but who knows what the angels are capable of. Anyway, I hope they were right about the recording equipment. Otherwise, I'm about to spend a long time talking to myself. I tried using the emergency protocols, the codes who were made to memorize over and over again

in the weeks before the rest. Not a single one worked. It didn't even look like the equipment responded, or if there was any way for it to. I'll try again soon. I didn't damage the casket. Maybe that's it. When I woke, I kind of freaked out. I mean, when you're supposed to wake up a couple of thousands of years in the future and you only manage seven hours, a lot of scary thoughts enter your head.

I tried kicking the glass, even had to go at smashing it with my fists. My hands are all bloody. The angels never said anything about any risks. They said they'd watch over everything. They said they'd save us. They never said I'd lie here trapped, alone. I don't want to die. Ten hours into the journey of the Phoenix.

They haven't noticed. The machines, I mean. I guess if they were going to, they would have by now, right? I'd try to sleep a little. Kind of hope that if I did, maybe it would all kick in and I'd end up a good little ice cube like everyone else. Fat chance. Now I'm just laid here thinking the worst,

thinking, what's going to run out first? The air? Or me? The oxygen is definitely switched off. I held my hand against the vent and there's nothing coming through. The carbon extract is working, though, so at least I can be thankful I won't go into a coma. I'll be conscious when I suffoccur. If I suffocate.

Maybe I'll starve. How long is it they say someone can go without food or water? Ten days? No, that seems too long. Far too long. Is it three? Or maybe I just don't want to be trapped in this box for ten days staring at those big old letters on the wall.

Funny, I still don't know what Zoran F. Dofo means. Yes, I never will. Positive thoughts. Isn't that what people say when shit hits the fan? Certainly what my mum used to say. Anyway, surviving without food, I should be used to that. I wonder if my mum thought positive thoughts on New Babylon. I wonder how she managed to keep calm then. How she starved?

Oh yeah, she was on New Babylon. That hellhole of a colony on the outer rim. of the Earth Union, built on the ruins of a lost world, its secrets buried with its cities. She was 20 at the time, perfect age to be one of the spent youth that looked on Mitri as their great hope, as the man to bring them out of the darkness of Earth Union control and into the light of independence. My mum was there when Mitri celebrated his first year in office, said how the people had cheered, how she'd cheered. The 29-year-old Mityri had just stood, basking in the glory,

immaculate in his ceremonial frock coat and crimson cravat. His short raven hair perfectly sculpted, an upper-class civil servant who got to the top through hard work, the pencil pusher had done good. Then it started to go wrong. Then they started a starve. I wonder what mum would say if she could see me now. Probably something about

Don't know when you're born We didn't have caskets on New Babylon Yes she was right Everyone knows about the bodies lining the streets The few for the many That was Mitri's motto But the time he was finished It was more the other way around

When the crops failed and the food ran out He wouldn't go running to Earth Union he said Wouldn't lose face, wouldn't back down Instead, my mum said he stood proud, smiling and effervescent as he declared the new enemies of the state, the outsiders, the poor. The executions started and they didn't stop. When one group was finished, he just moved on. By the time rebels got themselves organized, the planet was already decimated. The 1848 crew, they were called.

My mum never heard the name of their leader. She never named herself. Said some shit about the whole, not the individual. My mum reckoned people admired her for that. You know, everyone's starving and selfish, yet she talks about them all in it together, and nobody even knew her name. She said 1848 was something in Earth history,

a time when people had stood up and said, no more. She reckoned that was what they had to do then, had to follow their exam. And they did. Mitri's troops didn't stand a chance. Mitri himself stood on the palace balcony, disheveled and screaming, begging for them not to make him do it. But people didn't listen, though. My mum reckons they didn't care. They'd smelt blood and they wanted it. Wanted Mitri. The plague was released as soon as they broke through the palace doors.

and the journey of the Phoenix. I've tried to sleep more. Hasn't worked. I had another go at smashing the glass too. That didn't work either. I might try and sleep in a bit. Maybe try the codes again. Or start accepting I'm fucked.

My mum used to say that's what she did when the plague swept New Babylon. She was one of the clever few who'd sheltered beneath the cities. didn't even know that upstairs Mitri had ensured that the plague took the union too. How the rest of it went, I don't think anybody knows. I imagine when you lot wake up and get to go off and live your happy little lives, you might have kids. Some of those kids might go to college, get degrees, and devote their lives to finding out exactly how it all went so wrong.

Academics and intellectuals who'll spend years trying to figure out Just how we fucked up so much. After all, six billion people wiped out across 17 planets. We can't blame it all on Mitri. Mitri wasn't the one who issued further executions. Mitri wasn't the one who locked us in little communities, who fought for what little food and life there was. Wasn't the one who killed his mate for a loaf of bread.

Wasn't the one who licked his lips at the rotting bodies and wondered how sweet they might taste. By that point Mipri was rotting himself Guess I can't complain too much It's the world I was born into My dad said they had me because they didn't know what else to do People have kids he said So we had you survival of the species and all that

I fucking laughed at that I'd been dying from the day I was born I haven't known anything else save what I've read in books Didn't seem like there was much survival going on to me. Forty years of poverty and pestilence. I have to wonder if we'd just given up, decided to just roll over and die. And then they came. I didn't believe the stories when I first heard them. I had no reason to. We were dying. Everybody was. There was no food. There would never be any food, and eventually I would die because of this. Simple, hard, fact.

Angels coming to save us all. A coping mechanism, that's what? Fairy stories. Then they landed on our world. Well, they didn't, of course. No one's ever actually seen an angel. I wonder if you will. If when you lot wake up, the angels will be there too. Weird. Reckon I'm more jealous of that than you going off and getting to live. Yeah, I ain't getting out of this box. I can feel the air getting thinner as I speak. I've got much else left to do, though, have I?

Nothing else but talking. Anyway, the point is, it wasn't until their ship landed and the message came booming out across the desolate wastes and through the streets of the shanty town that I first truly became a believer. The shining craft seemed to float above the desert soil. It didn't have any legs that I could see. It just hung there, like magic. And all the while its engines hummed with a noise like nothing I'd heard before.

Like the chiming of bells. And through the side of the thing, which glowed and flashed with changing colors, Three words, Zoran F. Dofo. And as much to me then as it does now. Don't even think the elders in the town know what it means, though they say they do. Say it's the name of our saviors, the only name they are provided for themselves.

But everybody just calls them angels. I reckon people thought they really were angels too, from the way everybody dropped to their knees and prayed. wept, cried and screamed to be saved. Then the craft spoke. The voice was light. It drifted on the breeze, mingling with the hum of the engines and the creaking of the tin huts.

It was like music. In one year, on the 1st of April, they would return, spoke the voice. Until then we must be strong, strong as we were now. Then, on that date, they would return with enough crafts for everyone. every man, woman and child on every colony. From there these small vessels would take their passengers to a much larger ship and the means of humankind's rebirth, the phoenix. From here, we would be taken to a new world, a world the angels had found for us. The journey would be long over a thousand years, yet throughout that time we would not age and die, but would sleep. Sleep frozen in suspended animation. We were about to leave hell, the voice said, ascend to heaven, and we were to think of the sleep as a kind of purgatory, cleansing us for the new world. Then, silently rising into the ebony sky, the ship left, left with a promise that they would return. And in a year, they did.

Fourteen hours into the journey of the phoenix. I'm so tired. hungry too. The air's running out now for certain. I can feel myself getting light-headed. Can't stop thinking, though. Thinking about it all, about me, you and the angels, about how he ended up here. I'd never seen so many people, and I'd never seen so many so happy. They crowded eagerly, bustling towards the hundreds of little crafts that lined the horizon. I remember walking as the burning midday sun gave way to cool dusk. The cheers of joy, sobs of happiness, all lost in the continuous angelic hum of the many engines.

The journey seemed longer than it was. Thirty minutes of the most. Yet it could have been hours. Questions echoed off the metallic walls of the vessels. What would the phoenix be like? What of new earth? Yet no one seemed ever to ask, who or what was Zoran F. Dofo? Even when we climbed into these clear, see-through coffins, leaned our heads on the hard steel surfaces, no one ever stopped, ever paused and wondered. It's only now, laying here, that I find myself really asking.

Find my eyes staring at those huge letters on the wall. I guess by the time you hear this, you probably know, yeah. Mystery over. Again, I'm jealous, because I'll never know. It's the not-knowing that's worst, I think. Oh, I'm going to die. I've come to terms with that. When everyone else wakes and walks through those doors into paradise,

my rotting little body will stay and mold right here. Maybe not. They'll probably call me the last tragic sacrifice for the future of mankind, or some bollocks like that. Maybe I'll get a plaque. Yet I do wonder, I have to wonder, why. Races die out every day. The dinosaurs, the roars, the roars, the roared.

rills, but not us. We fuck up our own little planet, yet somehow managed to blunder on into space. Then we managed to fuck up out here. Just when it seems like the end is near, like just maybe we fucked up one time too many, they appear. Majestic and perfect, and what's more, they're going to save us? What makes us so special that out of nowhere a technologically advanced race appears and offers to take us all off to paradise. Mankind saved again. Still, top of the food, Jane, and about to fuck up a whole new world.

It doesn't work out. We were too blind to begin with, or perhaps too afraid, to even begin to question our place in the universe, too absorbed in our own self-importance that we just assume that, yes, of course, the angels have come to stop the end of oblivion and take humanity into the light.

Maybe we don't need saving, or maybe we shouldn't be saved. Maybe it's our time to just die, or maybe it's just mine, and I'm bitter. 16 hours into the journey of the Phoenix. I can't stop looking at the words. The more I think about the situation, the more it stinks to high heaven. I'm not tired, not hungry, and no longer afraid. of dying. Now I'm just here waiting for it to end. Now I'm not any of those things. I can see just how wrong this situation is. This ship, the layout, the caskets, it's not right. And deep down we all

fucking knew it. Angels are too good to be true. They always have been. The clues in that phrase, F, dofo. It must be. Hiding in plain sight. A phrase that surrounded us the whole time, but we never even asked. Or maybe naively, we thought we might be worth saving. I've got nothing but time now, though, and precious little of that, too. That phrase is standing before me like a fucking monolith. The only thing I can see out of this glass. fucking coffin and for reasons I don't even understand, it's haunting me. Those letters filling my head, consuming me with a sense of dread that has no concrete cause. Yet still, those fucking words taunt me. There's something wrong with that phrase. Very wrong. And I'm not fucking

dying until I figure out what those ten letters mean, what the angels really want. Z-O-R-E-N-F, D-O-F-O-F-O. It was several moments later that the air finally began to run out, and that the sounds of screaming began to emanate from the casket of Arthur Jacobs. Optimistic in his estimations, he survived only six hours in the airtight coffin before he began to suffocate. Unfortunately, his messages that he hoped would one day be heard by others of his species had been spoken in vain. Despite the words of the angels, there was no recording equipment. As he began to choke, he lay screaming.

Yet it was not his imminent demise that filled his heart with fear in his final moments. His screams were mixed with sobs as the young man choked on his words, uttering in high-pitched tones the same phrase over and over again. Frozen food! Three days since the departure of the phoenix. Creature burst through the door, its lungs heaving as sweat poured down its white fleshy body. It lumbered clumsily through the corridor, gasping and panting. Its pace quickening as the end was finally in sight.

With one final burst of energy, it lunged for the door. Its six arms flailing, it fell headlong into the kitchen and collapsed among the shopping bags which had been the cause of its distress. Panting and sweating, it lay for a moment. Next time, it would get a taxi. lying there attempting to regain its breath a sudden roar resonated through the child room and echoed off the gleaming metal worktops gripping its stomach in distress the creature let out a low moan evidently all that exercise had made it rather hungry eagerly it extended a slimy claw towards one of the bags where had it put that snack Finding the rectangular package, it carelessly ripped the lid off

and suddenly recoiled as the grotesque stent reached its snout. Rotten? The fucking thing was rotten! The creature looked at the shriveled form inside. Baird yellow teeth grinned up at him. The sight of the two gaping holes, which had once housed the man's eyes, sent ripples of nausea to the creature's stomach. A refund. It should get a refund.

Gingerly, the creature looked down at the rotting food. Would that mean having to keep it in the house? Could it just take a picture instead? No, it was absurd. The effort wasn't worth what it had paid. And carelessly, it held the small, rotting form of Arthur. Jacob's into the equally rotting contents of the rubbish bin. Every year, on her birthday, Laura gets a letter from a stranger.

That stranger claims to know the whereabouts of her missing friend, Bobby. I love you, Laura. But there's a catch. He'll only tell her what he knows in exchange for something personal. So begins Laura's sordid relationship with her new pen pal, built on a foundation of quid pro quo something for something her quest for closure will push her to bizarre acts of humiliation and harm yet no matter how hard she tries

she cannot escape her correspondence demands the letters keep coming and as time passes they have a profound effect on laura for she knows deep down that she can't trust her single word he says The No Sleep Podcast presents Dear Laura by Gemma Amor. Chapter 4.

Did you miss me? You were never far from my thoughts. You or Bobby. There are so many things I want to say to you, Laura. But I am afraid to. Out of fear for what might happen to me. You know, I could get into a lot of trouble for writing letters to a 15-year-old Girl, society judges people with feelings like mine, you see.

They judge me unfairly. What do they know? It won't stop me from needing you. I'm not keen on the way you wear your hair these days, Laura. And the makeup is not good on you either, if you don't mind me saying so. You're a beautiful young girl. You don't need makeup. Don't try to look older than you are. That's my advice. These are the best years of your life. Don't wish them away. Are we learning to trust each other yet? Do you think? I keep your gift close by at all times. Even when I sleep, your panties live under my pillow where they belong. I can smell you on them.

I wasn't lying with my earlier letters, Laura, or playing cruel tricks. I know you are still looking for Bobby. I want to give you another clue, but you have to pay me first. That's how we make things fair. So I want your used toothbrush, wrapped up and left for me in the usual place. yours with respect and happy birthday. The letters came like clockwork after that. Once a year on Laura's birthday,

clues piled up alongside the distinctive yellow envelopes, coordinates, symbols, possible places that Bobby could be. Every year, X demanded something else of Laura's in exchange for these clues, usually is something that she had used or something to do with her body, a lock of her hair, her favorite shirt, a piece of paper with a lipstick kiss on it,

even a soiled sanitary pad. She gave him these things wearily, having been conditioned to obey, thinking with every letter that she would go to the police, and then telling herself that doing so would jeopardize the only real connection she still had with Bobby. So each year she parceled everything her secret admirer wanted up in plastic bag,

tucking these tokens into the space behind the tree in the terracotta pot by her front door. And each year, X sent her a new set of coordinates in return for her offering. Something for something, he'd said. She learned to approach everything else in life this way. Quid pro quo. I'll do this, if you do that. It stretched her already fraught relationship with her mother to something papery, thin, and brittle. She would only obey instruct.

if she was first given something to make the sacrifice seem worthwhile. Not because she was particularly defiant, but because she had learned from X that life was often a simple game of, You have something I want. And so even the smallest of daily tasks became a negotiation. So Daddy and I were talking, Laura, and we think it's about time you started, you know,

trying to get back to normal. Normal? I think what your mother means is it's not good for you to spend so much time in the house, closeted away in your bedroom. You should try and get out more. Meet people. See friends. It might make you feel better.

I don't have any friends, Dad. I don't need any friends. I don't need you to worry about me. I mean, it's not like you worried before, so why start now? I don't appreciate your tone, Laura. Of course, Daddy and I worry. We care about you. We love you.

We don't want you to turn into a... What? A loser? Might be too late for that, Mom. You're not a loser, Laura. You've just been through something really bad. But you can't let it define you, sweetie. You have to try and rise above it. Live your life despite it.

Bobby would want that. What the fuck would you know about it, Dad? Really? What do you know about living your life? You spend your entire existence working and ignoring your family. Laura, that isn't fair. You know I. How do you know what Bobby would want?

You didn't know him. Not like I did. And you're sitting here talking like he's gone forever. He could still be alive, you know. He could. I know where Bobby is. Bobby is dead. Laura, it is not acceptable to talk to your father like that.

I won't. And you're just as bad. The pair of you hardly knew I existed until Bobby went missing. You're not living your lives. You just go through the motions. You don't even like each other that much. I know you're hurting, Laura, but lashing out at us won't solve anything. And besides, there are other things you need to be doing now that you're older.

You need to be helping out around the house more than you do. Your mother needs help with the laundry, cleaning, that kind of thing. We all have to live here, Laura. We all have to contribute to the family. Fine. What? I said fine. I'll start doing the housework if you teach me to drive.

Now wait a moment, young lady. You don't get to dictate to us any terms. You don't get to bargain, you understand? You just have to start pulling your weight. We all do. You just said you wanted me to leave the house more. If I could drive, I would. What makes you think I want to go away?

out there without the safety of my own car. Maybe if Bobby had had his own car, he would still be here. And we wouldn't be having this argument. Yeah. So I'll do all the cooking and cleaning you want. If you teach me to drive. Deal? The statement dropped into the silence between Laura's parents like a concrete weight.

And they looked at each other, knowing better than to continue arguing. Instead, they gave Laura what? she wanted, and she was driving before the year was out. Her behavior in all other respects was also faultless. She never acted out, or drank, or partied. Laura kept herself to herself and gave nothing to anyone without first accepting payment. It broke her mother's heart, but by the time Laura was 18 years old, the damage was done, and Mrs. Scott didn't know how to go back in time and repair the cracks in her child. She considered herself lucky that Laura hadn't given into drugs or gone off with an unsuitable boyfriend.

And all the time, Laura kept wrapping little intimate parts of herself up in plastic and leaving them outside her front door, like donations to some perverted God. As the latitude and longitude codes came in year after year, each one written on the back of map scraps that she cross-referenced with her father's collection, she marked them down and went on excursions.

The excursions always ended in failure. Each time she ended up somewhere innocuous and not remotely momentous at a spot where Bobby couldn't possibly be buried, the very middle of a busy road, or next to an abandoned phone booth, or in a random parking lot. Once, she even stood dead in the middle of a frozen food aisle in an old supermarket, not far from the edges of the old forest,

map in hand, foolishly staring at the rows of cabinets stocked with ice cream and frigid chopped vegetables. Shoppers gave her a wide berth, eyeing her nervously. But she had learned long ago to avoid the judging eyes of others, and instead created her own sad little bubble of stillness in the aisle, around which everyone else flowed, like water flowing around a stone. After that excursion, something changed inside of her. The fragile hope she'd nurtured that this was all leading somewhere, began to sour and curdle. She began to ask herself difficult questions as she lay awake in bed at night, staring at her hands in the gloom, numbers trickling past her

wide open eyes like drops of rain down a window pane. Questions, she didn't know how to ask herself when she was 13. Was the man who wrote the letters really the same man that had driven away with Bobby? Did she actually believe that the end result of this sordid letter-writing campaign would lead her to the remains of her dead best friend, or had she pushed herself to believe it so that she could make peace with her own complicity? And whether or not they were the same person, who was the man in the blue van really?

Why had Bobby been talking to him? Did Bobby know him from somewhere already? Was Bobby's awkwardness with her the day he went missing related somehow? He had tried to tell her something that day, and she had laughed at him, teased him. Was he going to tell him? her about the man in the van? They didn't look like complete strangers to each other if she thought about it.

Or maybe they were. Bobby had been easy and confident with most people, both strangers and people he knew. He was an outgoing type of person. Laura let her mind replay that journey to the bus stop over and over again. He had only kissed her once, that day, and shown no signs of wanting to repeat the kiss. Was that because he had felt shy like she had? Or was it something else? Was it because had he discovered that kissing girls was not for him after all?

Did he prefer kissing men? Older men? She remembered him leaning into the car laughing. She remembered how he hid his face behind his hair when he climbed into the van. Had he been ashamed? Embarrassed? Had Bobby been taken? or had he, in fact, run away?

And if so, why had Bobby chosen the man in the van over her? They had known each other since Laura was a baby. They were best friends. They loved each other. What could be stronger than that? Wasn't love supposed to be stronger than anything else? Other questions began to plague the restless hours she spent trying and failing to sleep at night. Could she take the letters to the police now, all these?

years later? What would they think of her when she told them about the underwear, the sanitary pad? What would they be able to do about them realistically? She knew little of DNA, but she knew something of evidence. What evidence was there really in the letters? Evidence to prove that Bobby was actually dead. Evidence to prove definitively that her mysterious pen pal really knew where Bobby's body was. Simple. There was none. All she ever got were demand. All she ever got were map coordinates. The man was a crackpot, and she was indulging him. She was a willing participant in an elaborate prank.

The police would never take her seriously. The letters would be lost, filed away in a box folder in a storage room somewhere, and she would lose her only slim chance of finding a resolution if by some miracle the letters were authentic. But... A little voice warned periodically. But... It might not be a hoax.

Her writer friend might be crazy, might be a pervert, but he might also be telling the truth. She might not have debased herself for nothing. Maybe she was building trust, like an undercover agent, or mole. And at the end of the process, there would be answers for everyone who once loved Bobby and still loved Bobby, herself included. And she couldn't risk throwing that away, no matter how improbable it seemed. Laura grew older, and the questions remained unanswered. The curdled sour milk abscess in her core split open, and the tough outer skin peeled back,

flooded her system with bile, and a thick, slow anger. She swallowed it down and retreated further into herself, aware that the people around her in life did not have the very first clue as to how to talk to her about what she was experiencing. And the memory of Bobby drifted further and further away. way. Eventually, as she approached her 19th year, fatigue won out. Laura decided she didn't want to play X's game anymore. She decided to cut ties with everything that defined and imprisoned her and leave home. Bobby wasn't coming back. That much was obvious now. And she had finally,

finally grown weary of the game, especially after the supermarket prank. Age had given her some resilience when it came to accepting that Bobby was gone for good, and she no longer felt the loss as keenly as she had when she was 13. It colored her life in dull shades, but didn't blind her completely to the other opportunities that were out there for her if she could just move on. And so move on she did, or at least, she tried to. Before Laura left home, early on the morning of her 19th birthday, she woke with the dawn deliberately. She wanted to be up and about before X had time to slip his noxious little envelope under the door. She sat at her small desk in her childhood bedroom

and wrote her own letter on pristine white note paper, then left it wrapped in a plastic carrier bag behind the bay tree. It was short and to the point. Dear Axe, who the fuck are you anyway? Why are you doing this to me? You don't know where Bobby is at all. I think you're a pathetic, dirty old man who is sick in the head.

You are disgusting. I don't want to play anymore. Leave me alone. Elle. Having committed this small, revolutionary act, she used it as fuel to find a place of her own, and find one she did. That very day,

a small studio apartment at the center of town above a laundromat. It was pokey and damp in places, but she could afford to pay the deposit in first month's rent with her meager savings, and affordability was the main. criteria. And just like that, Laura flew the nest. She got a job in a grocery store stacking shelves in the dead of night. Even in time, found herself a new boyfriend, although their relationship was

extremely loose and casual because Laura didn't know how to trust and certainly didn't know how to let anyone close to her. Regardless, life became less jagged around the edges. She walked with a straighter back, and her face became softer, more open. Friends soon followed. Friends who took her on shopping excursions and sat on lunch breaks with her in the sun, reading magazines and smoking cigarettes and doing normal everyday things. Things Laura had denied herself for years, so preoccupied as she'd been with finding Bobby. Laura hadn't made any friends in school after Bobby left, and the extended loneliness she'd experienced, made her grateful for every new relationship she now forged. She even made some inroads with her mother, inviting her over for a meal a time or two,

although never her father. That road was pothold beyond repair after he had taught her how to drive. Life improved, and she was allowed to live like this for 12 months. During that time, she convinced herself that X had taken the hint, given up, moved on. Perhaps she'd scared him away with her own letter. Perhaps it had been a wake-up call. She was onto him. Perhaps he had grown equally as tired of the game as she had. A beautiful silence reigned, and breathing became easier every day that passed. Her birthday approached, and she thought, finally, that this one might come and go with no yellow envelope. Laura allowed herself to feel a little triumph. I won. All I had to do was stop playing.

But she was wrong. Twelve months. Another year traveling around the sun. Laura woke up on her birthday and found exactly what she'd hoped for. No yellow envelope. Heart singing. She went to work later that afternoon. Ate the cheap sponge cake her colleagues had bought to mark the occasion.

Her shift passed quickly and she returned home at four in the morning, looking forward to a good sleep. Looking forward to the rest of her life. until she found her bathroom window shattered and glass all over the floor. Lying amongst the splinters and shards of glass, Laura found a brick. Attached to the brick with tape was an envelope. Same yellowish paper.

Same slanted, angry writing. Presumably, the same word vomit on the same cruel, malignant subject matter. How had he found her? She stared at the mess in silence, then boarded up the broken window as best she could with a sheet of cardboard and went to bed, leaving the envelope where it was, taped to the brick on the floor. Her dreams were dark and endless.

When she woke, she thought about throwing the letter away unread, or better still, burning it. But she didn't, whether from guilt at her short-lived happiness and peace, or addiction, or from being conditioned over the years to receive X's attentions, regardless, She found herself sitting on the closed lid of her toilet, finger sliding beneath the grubby saliva-rippled envelope flap. And inside, there was no letter, only a photograph. No, two photographs. The first was of Bobby.

Of course it was. Fresh-faced, wearing the clothes he'd been wearing the day he disappeared. His hair in long, blonde curtains, was tucked back behind his ears, a style she'd never seen on him before. He was smiling hesitantly into the camera, although she thought the smile looked brittle, forced. He had his arm around someone, an older man, a large man with huge shoulders and a dark blue t-shirt. A man she presumed was X. She couldn't see his face because he had cut it out of the photo, leaving behind a precise little hole through which she could poke her index finger.

On the bottom right of the photo, a digital readout was stamped in orange type. The time and date it was taken, the same day that Bobby had disappeared. Five hours, in fact, after she'd seen him drive off in the van. She slipped the second photo out from behind the first with her thumb and screamed. In this photograph, Bobby wasn't smiling anymore. His eyes were rolled back in his head, unseeing, and the rest was all red, red. so much red. Laura stared and stared until she could take it no more.

Her hands shook. She gently laid the photograph on the bathroom floor and hung her head between her knees, trembling. This was the proof that she had been lacking. Her brain ticked over like a heated engine, straining to work through the implications of this image, and several things swam to her, slowly, through the chaos within. X knew where she lived,

which meant he was still following her, still stalking her. He hadn't grown bored of the game. He hadn't given up. And this? This picture was evidence. And Bobby was dead. Really, truly, without a doubt, dead.

X did know where the body was. The letters were, after all, confessions and not just crazy ramblings. Laura felt her stomach cramp, feeling something hot, surge up from inside, she kicked the photos to one side and vomited onto the bathroom floor. The sickness was a replacement for tears. Instead of crying, she evacuated her stomach and then panicked, cursing herself for almost destroying the only piece of evidence she had proving Bobby's

fate. On autopilot now, she carefully retrieved the pictures and checked to see if they were damaged whilst trying not to look too closely at the images within. Then she wiped her face and made her way unsteadily to her bedroom, where she raided her drawers for all the other letters from X that she'd kept over the years. Despite everything, she'd never been able to bring herself to throw them away, feeling somehow that the letters were an unpleasant but vital part of her, and not something she could dispose of lightly. She collected them into a bundle, stuffed everything into a backpack, and slung it over one shoulder, jammed her shoes onto her feet, and started walking to the police station. The whole way there, all she could see was read.

I made a mistake. Pobby is dead. I made a mistake. I should have gone to the police. What if he's killed other people? This is all my fault. She agonized over how she hadn't taken the letters to the police out of fear. Fear that she wouldn't be believed. Fear that she'd been tricked. So much time wasted. And here she was, years later with a definitive, unspeakable answer to the question of what had happened to Bobby. Answers for Mr. and Mrs. Evely. How much more would they hate her now? When they discovered what had happened to their darling boy,

when they found out she had been hiding the key to his case all this time. More than they already did? Was that even possible? Oh, Poppy. So much red in your hair. She was only two streets away from the station. when she heard heavy footsteps running close behind her. She turned, but too late.

A huge hand clamped over her eyes. Her feet were kicked out from beneath her. She fell to the ground and knew suddenly what was happening. She'd been followed by X. The hand over her eyes disappeared. Her backpack containing the letters and photos was ripped from her shoulder. A tall dark presence loomed over her. As she blinked, trying to focus on him,

The hand reappeared once again. Only this time it was a fist, and it hit her squarely in the center of her nose. The heavy feet thumped away. The man, his fist, her bag, the letters and the photos were all gone. The evidence had been confiscated. Laura had broken the rules of the game.

No police. She was helped to her feet by a small crowd of passers-by. Several of them offered to come with her to the police. least to report the attack. She shook her head, squirming awkwardly out from beneath the grip of their anxious, hot hands. Blood dripped out of her nose and splattered onto the pavement, concerned faces pushing in all around her. She broke through the onlookers, swearing, and hobbled home, keeping her head back and pinching her nose to stem the blood flow. People called out behind her. She picked up her pace and ran, away from the voices, away from her blood on the pavement, away from her

shame. When she got back to her apartment, she carefully stuffed a tampon up each nostril, watching her reflection in a small handheld mirror as two black eyes bloomed in her swollen face. A day later, before she could get her landlord to fix the broken window in her bathroom, her letters and her backpack were returned. Not left outside her door. Not this time. No, he left the bag at the foot of her bed with a note while she slept. She found it upon waking, felt the weight of it by her feet, and made a horrified noise when she realized he had been here, in her room, mere inches away from her sleeping body.

As expected, the photographs were gone. Why he had taken those and left the letters she didn't know. It didn't matter anyway. The evidence was gone. Bobby was dead. X knew where she lived. Her time of respite had been a lie. Nothing had changed since she was 13.

X was still playing the game whether she liked it or not. The note read, No police. Yours with respect. Dear Laura was written and adapted for audio by Gemma Amor. Produced for the No Sleep podcast by Phil Mikulski. Musical score composed by Brandon Boone. Starring Kristen DiMecurio,

as the narrator. Mary Murphy as Laura. Nicole Doolin as Mrs. Scott. Graham Rowett as Mr. Scott. And David Cummings as X. Join us next week for Chapter 5 of Dear Laura. We place the letters back in their envelopes. It's time to take our leave for now.

The musical score was composed by Brandt. our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. Please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com for show notes and more details about the people who bring you this. show. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening and being a supportive season past member and for being ever curious. This audio production is copyright 2021 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.