The NoSleep Podcast - Nosleep Podcast S2E02

Episode Date: May 20, 2012

The second episode of the second season of The Nosleep Podcast features tales of unwanted gifts, fractured families, and little things like the end of the world. Featuring horror stories from the Reddit.com horror writing community, these stories are designed to afflict your night with no sleep.This episode features these stories:5.5 written by Niko Kurri (Redditor kaamosrutto) and read by Chris Eddleman (Redditor TalksAtYou).The Curtis’ Dragon written by Ariana Selbrede (Redditor TeamTargaryen) and read by David Cummings (Redditor MikeRowPhone).I Want to Help Him written by Mike Morgan (Redditor MessiSpaghetti) and read by Jessica Prokuski.Nine Brief Scenes from the End of the World written by T.W. Grim (Redditor theworldisgrim) and read by David Cummings. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

As the sunlight fades to darkness and the frightful tales creep into your mind, it's time to give in to your fear because tonight there will be no sleep. Welcome to the second episode of our second season. This is the producer David Cummings. We have four stories for you this episode featuring two stories from Reddit's Library of Shadows. As you can probably tell from the name of the show, the No Sleep podcast originated in Reddit's No Sleep Forum, and we get most of the stories for the podcast from there. However, there are more and more subreddits popping up that allow the horror writing community on Reddit a chance to express themselves in a variety of styles. The Library of Shadows, which you can find at libraryofshadows.reddit.com, is Reddit's premiere on online suspense fiction magazine. It's a place where writers can bring a more literary approach to their stories. The focus tends to move away from the first-person accounts of terrifying

events into more fanciful narratives that often span multiple parts. Many of its authors have adapted their short stories into full-length novels, and some are starting to publish their works, and sell them on sites like Amazon.com. In fact, the final The final story of this episode, a tale by author T.W. Grimm has just been expanded into a novel and is available online in both print and a soon-to-beased Kindle version. Make sure you check out the link on our website at nosleepaute.com and support the outstanding writing that Reddit's authors produce. If you're looking for a source of excellent suspenseful fiction, I would encourage you to check out the Library of Shadows. It's one of Reddit's hidden gems. Now, let's begin the show with our first story.

Author Nico Curry invites you to imagine a scenario where an odd gift is given to you through a chance encounter. It sets off a series of events that grow more and more unsettling. Our newest narrator, Chris Edelman, reads for us the tale entitled 5.5. You are driving on the highway at night. You see a hitchhiker and decide to stop. The young man greets you nervously and asks for a ride to a nearby city. He seems troubled and looks like he hasn't slept for weeks. He try to start up a conversation and he replies politely but makes it clear he doesn't want to talk.

You give up and just drive. At the city, you stop to a street corner and he jumps out of the car. I have no money, but... He takes off the necklace you hadn't noticed before. I am number five. He hands you the necklace. It looks old like one of those Victorian pendants with the silhouette image on the middle. Except that the silhouette appears to have been scraped off.

You look up and see the young man running off. You shrug at this. Just some crackhead you probably shouldn't have let in your car. You forget about it. Life goes on. You could never really pinpoint where it started. You lose your belongings and find them in places they have no reason to be in. Some strange girl you've never seen before stares at you in the bus all morning.

The feeling of dread fills you, but you can never quite spot what it's about. You find a black spot high on the wall in your kitchen. Friends have started to be more quiet around you. Your sleep is disturbed. You wake up in the middle of the night, terrified. for no reason. Crows have started to gather around your home, your workplace. You see them everywhere. They don't caw or fly around.

They just sit there, staring at you. There are long black hairs in the shower floor. You live alone, and have always had short hair. One day when you come home, a mirror in your house is cracked, hanging on the wall as it always has, where nothing could have possibly hit it. Something in your apartment smells strange, but you can't put your finger on it. Your mother calls you and asks if you are all right.

You want to tell someone about all this, but decide not to. It would be ridiculous. You hang up without saying anything. You look up. You hadn't noticed it had gotten dark outside. Your kitchen smells unsettling, and you realize the dark spot has grown darker and bigger. You hear a strange faint noise, a half of a whisk. You shrug it off and keep studying the spot.

You make a mental note to look up some kind of company which deals with that sort of thing. The silhouette necklace on your neck starts to itch. You take it off and put it down somewhere only to find it around your neck again. Your mind's just playing tricks on you. You were thinking about taking the necklace off, then forgetting to do it. You take it off again. There are long black hairs in your sink. in your sink. You go on long walks, walking circles around the few blocks in your neighborhood

you've learned to know. The black spot on the kitchen wall has started to grow, and the stench it makes seems to spoil all the food in the room. You never seem to remember to call somebody to look at it. You start to keep your foodstuffs in the bedroom. You sometimes hear little, silent, incomprehensible whispers. Everyone passing you by seems to act strange. They don't look you in the eye. You never see children anywhere anymore, although you think you saw that girl again. Besides the crows, there are no birds. A car brushes by you and crashes to a tree. Nobody else seems to notice. You look inside and there's nobody there. The car is empty. When you pass a the place again, the car's gone. You suddenly recall that it was your car. The exact same model,

same color, with the same stain on the seat that would never wash out. The crows always seem to creep closer, and their silence seems to mock you when you try to shoe them away. You don't see anyone anymore. It's been weeks since you last answered the phone. It rings less and less. The flat smells horrid and rotten It smells like death The black stain on the kitchen wall Has taken the shape of a handprint It's too small to be yours

You take the necklace off You've stopped pretending everything's all right You've stopped pretending everything must have had a logical explanation The whispers become clearer You wake up with weird scars on your body They look like human bite marks. It's been a while since you've last tried to reason. Never go to the kitchen anymore.

The stench reaches out halfway through the apartment. You find black hairs everywhere. You don't leave the house. Perhaps you'll get used to this. You wake up to find loud whispers. They're starting to form words, even short sentences. They talk about you. It's dark.

You don't dare open your eyes. The smell is there, not overwhelming, but strong enough to notice. There's a sound coming from the other end of the apartment, a heavy piece of furniture being pushed across the floor. You lay there with your eyes shut tight. Hours pass, and nothing happens. The lack of sleep has narrowed your brain functions, but somehow you manage to think one thing straight.

Yes. Of course. You get up, put your shoes on, wander off to the city. You walk all the way to the highway. We're going hitchhiking. The car picks you up and the driver seems unnerved by you but for some reason lets you in anyway. He asks for your name. You fight off the urge to laugh out loud. I am number six. The imagination of a young girl can produce some delightful and fanciful stories, especially for school writing assignments.

But sometimes, hidden deep below the surface, there are subject matters from a much darker place. This week's first Library of Shadow's story comes to us from author Danielle Mormont. Join me in the classroom as I read the story of The Curtis's Dragon. Annabeth was a quiet girl. At school, her teachers found her to be shamed.

shy, but responsive to questions, particularly essays. One chilly day in late November, her English teacher, one Mrs. Dorothea Morris, decided a creative writing assignment was just the thing her students needed over their Thanksgiving holiday. Class, I'd like each of you to write a story about your family. It doesn't have to be true, but the characters must be created using your parents, siblings, grandparents, or any other people you were close to. Your stories will be due the first day of class after our holiday break. Remember to have fun with this assignment!

She called after her students, most of whom were already on their way to the door. The bell had interrupted her last sentence. Annabeth was still at her desk, packing up her book and notebooks. She was smiling to herself. Mrs. Morris smiled as well. this assignment was sure to bring a girl like Annabeth out of her shell and allow her a little fun. Dorothea Morris thought little of Annabeth the rest of the day. Hers had been the last class Dorothea had before beginning her own Thanksgiving break,

and she was jubilantly happy to be out of the school for a while and enjoy some time with her own family. Just as she drifted off to sleep, wrapped safe in her husband Robert's arms, she wondered dimly what the quiet little girl would write. The holiday went far more quickly than anyone would have liked, but Mrs. Morris didn't just work as a teacher. It was her calling. She hummed to herself, a stack of grated papers, and a neat manila folder under her arm,

as she walked into the familiar schoolhouse. She was intercepted within moments by the principal, and a somber-looking man she'd never met before. Mrs. Morris, a word, please. No explanation was offered until she, Principal Rachel Flanders, and the strange man were safely in Mrs. Flander's office with the door closed and the blinds drawn. Dorothea, oh goodness, this is hard for me to say. I'll start somewhere simple.

This is Dr. Michaels, the grief counselor assigned to our school for the next few weeks. Rachel Flander's eyes seemed unfocused and a bit teary. Dorothea had known her for ten years and had never seen her cry. She said nothing, but her expression was one of deep concern, as Principal Flanders explained. One of your students has experienced a terrible tragedy. The family of Annabeth Curtis was killed over the holidays. Dorothea Morris stood still. her eyes wide and staring as Dr. Michaels picked up the gruesome tale.

The girl herself was spared. Authorities aren't sure why, but we should consider it a miracle, and be thankful, at least for that. I have already spoken with the responding officers, and because of the nature of the deaths, I was privy to more information than is usually allowed. Annabeth's parents and older brothers were, well, they seemed to have been torn apart by some sort of animal. I know it is hard to hear, Mrs. Morris, but word gets out very quickly these days, and the students may be very frightened by what happened.

We will need to say with certainty that what happened to Annabeth's family was a random event, and the authorities believe that. it was an animal and they are searching for it. Dorothea Morris sat down, shaking in the chair Rachel pulled out for her. Until this moment, Dorothea didn't know she could feel numb and scared at the same time. Her stomach felt very cold. Before she could think of a better wording, the question slipped out. But what about Annabeth? Dr. Michaels looked uncomfortable then, more than he had.

had when he told her about the deaths, the animal. He shifted his weight from his left foot to his right, then back again. The girl is being cared for, but it is unlikely she'll return to school anytime soon. Annabeth's other teachers were told of the tragedy as they arrived, but Dorothea didn't stay to offer them support. Rachel had grasped her arm as she left the office, but hadn't spoke. Their eyes met for a moment, and Dorothea's subconscious was aware the principal had looked scared. She didn't acknowledge this until much later. Dorothea sat down at her desk in the empty classroom and looked at the desk to the right all the way in the back, Annabeth's desk. Other children and other classes sat there too throughout the day, but in her mind it was now Annabeth's desk.

She knew that no matter what she needed to teach today. Her students needed her as much as they needed their other teachers, Dr. Michaels, and their parents. Today would be hard, but she must face it. Once the decision was made, Dorothea let her body take over. Her hand automatically went to the power button for her computer. Swift fingers typed in her password. Practiced Habit opened up her teacher's email account. There she stopped, frozen.

After her usual emails from colleagues and a few memos from the school, there was an email from a student, Annabeth. It had been sent three days after the holiday break. The title was The Curtis's Dragon. Trembling, Dorothea clicked the message. Dear Mrs. Morris, I was so grateful for this assignment and so proud of my story. I wanted it to be the first one you read today. I know you want us to write extra drafts so we get it right,

but I'm really happy with how the first draft goes. This story doesn't start with a faraway land or once upon a time. It is happening now, not far from you. This is the story of the Curtis's dragon. Annabeth Curtis's best friend was a dragon. It had no name because Annabeth never needed to call for it. The dragon came every night and sat on the end of her bed, making the wood creak and bow. Annabeth told her dragon about her day, and it always listened patiently even when she cried.

She cried most nights, usually because her family was cruel to her. Annabeth's father was a drunk, and he frequently hit Annabeth's mother and older brother James. Her mother would cry and hide in the bedroom most of the day and had no time for Annabeth. James was always angry, and since he was too small to fight father, he hurt Annabeth instead. Many years passed like this until one beautiful day. A fairy told Annabeth about a magic spell. It was a spell of words, and it would bind her family onto paper forever, where they could never hurt her again.

That night, Annabeth told the dragon about the fairy and the spell. Oh, yes, whispered the dragon from the foot of the bed. That sounds like a good spell. How will it work? Annabeth told the dragon she was going to write a magic story where her family was kind and treated each other nicely. She giggled and added, and if they don't you'll eat them up won't you

Annabeth fell asleep with the dragon protecting her dreams the next day she wrote her story it was good she thought but when she tried to read it to her mother she was ignored James laughed at her and told her she was stupid father walked in through the big front door and he seemed calmer than usual not as scary as he usually was

James smirked at Annabeth and tore her story from her hands, the crisp new paper giving her a paper cut. Annabeth thinks we aren't good enough, Dad, James yelled as he raced towards Father. She wrote a story about us for school. Annabeth was very scared while she watched Father's face get dark and dangerous while he read the story. She hadn't wanted him to read it. She knew it would make him mad. Father's face got very hard, and he crumpled up her story and threw it towards the fireplace. She went to pick it up, but he grabbed her arms so hard it hurt and dragged her to the kitchen.

You think you should be treated like a princess, do you? He yelled. Well, in my house, even princesses get a beating if they're snotty little ingrates. Mother had come out and looked like she wanted to say something, but just stood right outside the kitchen. James was still smirking because he wasn't the one in trouble. Father slapped Annabeth across the face, and he roared,

There are no dragons. And Annabeth's dragon whispered, But there are. The dragon tore through the house, biting and clawing the horrible family to bits. At last, Annabeth was safe. Dorothea Morris closed out of her email.

Then she stood up, gathered her things, and walked out of the classroom, down the hall to the main office. She informed the secretary that she absolutely could not teach after hearing of the horrible deaths of Annabeth Curtis's family and needed to go home. Dorothea's own children were entering the main doors, having just gotten off the bus with their friends. She liked to let them ride the bus

so they could get a little extra sleep before school, and it was nice for them to spend time with their friends on the ride to school. Today, she took her children by their hands as they walked in and led them straight back out. What's going on, Mom? Her older son, Brian, asked. Something bad happened during the break, boys,

and I thought it would be best if we spent one more day at home together. Even teachers don't always want to go back to school. She tried to smile warmly. Her younger son, Scott, clung to her arm. New things always frightened him a little, and Dorothea had never pulled them out of school unless they were sick. When she and her boys were back at home, she called Robert at work and asked if he could take the day off.

He told her he'd try, and that he heard about the Curtis's at work. Dorothea hung up the phone and brought out a big blanket from her and Rob's bedroom. She wrapped herself up with the boys and watched morning cartoons with them. She'd tell them about everything later. For herself, she vowed to send Annabeth's story straight to the trash tomorrow. Something within her was desperately afraid and wanted Dr. Michaels to read it. to give it to the police. But her sensible school teacher, grown-up mind reminded her,

there are no dragons. When a beloved family member is suffering through difficult times, the love and support of a sibling can mean so much. As author Mike Morgan shows us, the bond that is formed can endure in the most unexpected ways. Jessica Prokoski reads, for us about the girl who tells us, I want to help him. My older brother is sad, and I want to help him. The thing is, I have no idea what to do. Last night I woke up to the sound of him sobbing. He was sitting at the edge of my bed, crying, and coughing,

and I felt so sorry for him. I wanted to reach out and touch his arm. But when I tried to, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I guess I was afraid. It's funny because when we were kids, my brother was always the one to comfort me when I couldn't sleep. He would sit at the foot of my bed and tell me stories that would make me laugh. And I'd forget how sad I was. He was so kind to me and he would always stay awake until I fell asleep, even if it took half the night.

What's more, he would never tell me how much. sat he had been all those nights I had stayed up crying. In fact, I didn't find out about his sadness until last month when I found that envelope taped to a bedroom door. It had my name written on it, and underneath my name in big red letters was a sentence, read this letter, but please don't come in. I trusted my brother a lot, so I listened,

and I didn't go in the room. But when my mom got home from work, she did. Then there was a lot of screaming and crying. And an ambulance came and took my brother away. But I didn't see him because they had spread a white sheet over his body. As I watched them wheel my brother away, I thought how much he looked like the ghosts I had seen in cartoons. And that big white sheet draped across his body and face.

But then, last night as my brother, sat sobbing at the foot of my bed. I realized that I had been wrong. That's not what ghosts look like. Not at all. This episode's final story comes to us, once again, from the Library of Shadows. We are often presented with a variety of

apocalyptic scenarios in the media, be it through global conflicts, extinction-level disease, or threats to the planet itself. We are sometimes forced to imagine what would happen if the human race faced its final days. Author T.W. Grimm presents for us a series of stories of people confronting the reality of mankind's bitter end. So settle in and spend your last few hours on earth with me as I read for you Nine brief scenes from the end of the world.

1. Early in the morning, a deliriously excited group of research scientists from the SETI Institute gathered to listen to and analyze. Incredible. An alien radio wave signal that they had been receiving every 10 minutes since 3 a.m. Over 60 years had lapsed since the original radio signals had been beamed into space by hopeful, forward. thinking men, and now they were getting a reply. It was a top-secret meeting. The group played the transmission several times at the beginning of the meeting, first in awe, then with rising disquiet. It was an indescribable, harsh, nasty 10-second blast of noise, and it induced a strange,

splintering headache in all of them. Ten minutes later, a trusted research assistant who was present at the meeting suddenly doubled forward and sprayed vomit across the board table. His nose began to bleed profusely, and he stumbled around the room bellowing profanities. The scientist whom he assisted, a small Japanese woman, rushed over to quiet the man, and was smashed with lethal force in the face by a metal stool. The raving man was subdued, but he continued to thrash and snap his teeth and was finally chemically sedated. All the others that had been present for the playback

were starting to feel very odd by then themselves. Two, morning traffic was as thick and slow as always. Tim hated how the drive to work was always at least 20 minutes longer than the drive home. To add to the aggravation, there was some sort of annoying static interference on the radio, an awful squawking that hid low in the mix. He snapped it off and impatiently crept forward with the rest of the poor dummies caught in this shit. Abruptly, a big Chevy Silverado jammed on its brakes in the right lane a few vehicles ahead of him,

stopping the lane dead. Horns blared in protest. Bemused, Tim tried to get a good look at the idiot behind the wheel of the truck as he crawled past. As his car drew a breast of the truck, Tim was treated to five surreal seconds of a heavyset blonde woman, staring straight ahead with a bizarre grin on her face, cutting the fingers off of one hand with a pair of garden shears. He didn't believe what he just saw. The shears sliding shut with little resistance, the fingers tumbling down,

the spray of blood that hit the dashboard and splattered the windshield. One finger had stuck to the blades of the shears, and Tim was sure that he saw her shake it free absently, staring straight ahead and grinning insanely the whole time. I didn't see that, he decided. No freaking way that happened. His head was starting to hurt. Three. A man stood on the sidewalk across the street from a restaurant called Giornos and watched the waitress,

worker section of the patio. The man had caught sight of her ten minutes previously as he had been walking, dazed, and uncomprehending down the street. She was pale, pretty, and possessed a cascade of red hair that shimmered and flowed onto her rounded shoulders and down her broad back. Impassive and unmoving, he watched the waitress as she hurried back and forth from her customers to the fancy glass door that led back into Giorno's. She appeared attentive and jovial, a hint of earthy sexuality in the tilt of her impressive chest and the toss of her hair. A tall girl, big ass and tits and hips, full red lips. The man stood and watched and hungered. The man wore a tailored suit from Ralph Laurenne, his hair shaved impeccably close to his scalp. His eyes, his eyes.

eyes were covered by mirrored sunglasses, of the sort that one might see being worn by celebrities in photographs taken on the red carpet of an awards show, glasses that would cost your average working man a month and a half's worth of wages. He did not care about their monetary worth, nor that of the designer suit he wore, or the patent leather shoes that clad his feet. Just a few short hours ago, the man had been very close to obsessed with his appearance and material things. Now, he couldn't recall why something like that would matter. There was a hum in the back of his head, a harsh and alien insectile buzz. His brain felt like it was vibrating, itching, thrumming. The jagged pitch eliminated all sane thoughts from his mind. It was obvious to him now that,

that the only important thing in his present existence was to attack this girl and kill her. After a few more minutes, the girl caught sight of the man, her eyes lingering a few moments too long as she scrawled in order given by a young couple having a late supper. Her expression seemed unsettled, as though she could feel a vibration of the black desires that roiled like a sewer whirlpool behind those sunglasses. The man felt that he couldn't wait much longer. It was getting hard to think. His teeth ached.

His head buzzed. His hands longed to rend and tear the girl to shreds. 4. Shaila was 10. She lived across the city from where the man was presently eyeing his prey and thinking his murky, primordial thoughts. Shila's family was as poor as the man was wealthy. She lived with her mom and younger brother in a townhouse complex that had been erected many years before

to house young families just starting their journey through life together, and seniors who didn't want to have to take care of a lawn anymore. Now it was government-subsidized housing for low-income families, crumbling and shoddy. Shilah sat on the crack steps to her front door and played with something in her lap. The parking lot and common area before her swarmed with the complex, complexes residents, mostly black and Latino youth and young adults, but the crowd was peppered with some decidedly drunk-looking older folks, too. They all milled in large, loose groups, arguing, laughing, drinking cheap beer and passing ill-concealed joints in the hot, fading sunshine.

Spontaneous dancing sometimes broke out as people were suddenly compelled to jive, grind and gyrate to the sounds pumping from a car scario. No one took notice of quiet, chubby little Shaila. She hummed a popular song tunelessly and toyed with the pathetic, horrible thing that was balanced on her already expanding lap. Shaila was introverted and well on her way to being the whale-like woman that her mother was. As a rule, she was universally ignored by the other kids in the complex, except the odd occasion when jokes were told about how fat her 300-pound-plus mother was,

or about how black she was. So it was not unusual that it took so long for anyone to notice her or the small, dripping object that she held. Shila's face was an expressionless mask as she studied the awful thing, eyes unblinking. She turned and manipulated it in her hands. Her hands and arms were smeared to the elbow in maroon, but it was not very visible against her dark skin. The black t-shirt and dark blue jeans that she wore were stiff with drying blood. Flies were beginning to find her. Rakim, a teenager who lived in the unit two doors down with his sprawling extended family, ambled past where Shaila sat on the steps.

He had extremely red, glassy, eyes and a mean smile on his acne-poxed face. Yo, Shila, where your mom's at? Getting baptized at Marine Land? She better get back before that sun go down. They lose that big black bitch in the dark. Rakim snorted laughter at this witticism. Then notice the flies buzzing around the girl and the smell.

Man, you a stanky little bitch. Flies and stink lines like your mums. He hissed air between his teeth and disgust, and his nostrils flared disapprovingly at the sour, meaty odor wafting from the girl in the thick summer air. There was no response. The girl stared vacantly down at something on her lap. Her face was strange, blank, emotionless. You fucking high or some shit? You too young, girl.

Your mama slap your ass if you was getting high and shit. He intoned seriously, completely unaware of the irony in his statement. Still no response. Rakeem took four big steps forward and stopped dead. He had finally gotten a good look at what Shaila held in her hands, and his drugged mind struggled to process what he saw. Ah. He choked.

That... A doll? The fuck is that shit? It's my baby's sister, she muttered. Her voice was thick and slow. Shaila looked up from the bloody, torn fetus in her lap and fixed her enormously dilated pupils on Rakeem. The teenager froze and involuntarily squirted a thin stream of urine

down the left leg of his sagged jeans. The girls' round. found face was a mask of insanity. One cheek twitched spasticly. Up close, he could see the blood smeared up Shaila's arms around her mouth and chin and neck. The smell was sickening. Her eyes rolled wildly, then focused on his terrified face again. She isn't ready yet, but I got her.

Got her. out of my mama so I could play with her. The little girl trailed off and seemed to consider the fetus in puzzlement for a moment. Rakeem tried to speak but could only manage to feebly breathe out. What? This couldn't be happening. This was a fucking horror movie right out of nowhere, in real life, right now. Shaila picked something up that lay beside her on the top step.

A pairing knife. She jabbed it into the fetus's torso right up to the handle. Rakeem felt his mouth drop open and a high-pitched scream tore itself out of his throat. He turned to run and felt the blades slam home between his shoulder blades. 5. June was worried and frightened of how her husband was behaving tonight. He had come home from work looking pale and distant. Not acknowledging her at all, Harry had walked right by her and into the living room,

where he'd sat on the love seat and stared at nothing. It was beyond strange. She let a few minutes go by, and when she had finally asked him what was wrong, he ran over and seized her painfully by the upper arms, screaming, Fucking fire ants! In my fucking head! right into her face at full volume, his eyes bulging. She had flinched back from this sudden and entirely unexpected outburst,

cringing as far away as his iron grasp on her would allow. He immediately let go, his mask of hatred now eerily blank, and he said, I'm sorry, honey, but this weasel in the henhouse won't fucking stop killing my brain chickens, you know? and walked away. She had leaned against the kitchen counter, stunned and trembling, and listened as her usually gentle and placid hairy plotted up the stairs and into the bedroom.

She had heard the bedroom door lock. This happened three hours ago, and it was getting dark out now. The streetlights were on and supper was cold on the table. Somewhere in the distance there echoed the pervasive and howling sirens from public. police and various emergency response vehicles. The sound kept rebounding and swelling instead of fading away.

What was going on out there? June sat in the gloom of the stairwell, back to the wall, looking up the stairs into the darkness above. Up there, Harry was making strange sounds, muffled by the bedroom door, but audible. Crying? Keening like an injured animal? Her neck and arms prickled with goosebumps. Should she check on him?

Call somebody? The sounds were freaking her out very badly. They did not sound sane. Was Harry having some sort of nervous breakdown? He could be dangerous. She summoned her courage and called out, Harry, honey, you're scaring me. Please talk to me.

The keening sounds, stopped dead. Silence for a long second. Then a bang against the bedroom door that made her jump and shriek. Another bang, and she heard the bedroom door fly open and slam into the wall. June immediately leapt from the carpeted floor and ran for the front door, scooping her purse and keys up off the coffee table as she ran past it. There was a rapid pound of heavy feet as Harry charged out of the bedroom and thundered down the stairs.

He was roaring like a monster out of a horror movie. She wrenched open the door and ran like hell down the steps and to her car, jumped in and ram the keys into the ignition. She was dimly aware that she had no shoes on, but that was unimportant right now. As the engine kicked over and caught, Harry exploded through the open front door of their modest home and ran down the steps at her.

He was naked, save for his dress socks. his penis erect, his face contorted horribly. The unreality of her naked husband attacking her in their driveway threatened to freeze her, and she barely locked the doors in time. Harry slammed into her door and wrenched futilely at the handle. He peered in at her through the driver's side window, and to June his eyes looked like dead fish eyes, all black and glassy. Get away! I don't want to run over you, Harry!

Stop it! Why was this happening? How? Harry slammed his fist into the window hard enough to crack it, and June put the car into reverse, squealing the tires as she tore backwards out of the driveway. She ran over and snapped Harry's leg in the process. June belatedly looked to the left in time to see a pickup truck bearing down on her,

accelerating. For a split second, she could see the driver's face behind the windshield, and it was a visage of madness identical to that of her husbands. She stomped down on the gas pedal in an effort to accelerate back and away, but it was too late, and the truck's impact was terrible. Six. At the Coventry Estates Nursing Home, all but two members of the staff on shift had also succumbed to the insanity that was spreading across the world like wildfire.

The two sane staff members had tried barricading themselves in a supply closet once they realized what was happening to their co-workers and many of the residents. But the ones who had turned were very energetic door kickers, and within minutes they had demolished the barricade and dragged the two screaming people out by their hair. With unspoken lunatic agreement, the insane held down the two terrified souls and bit them over. and over and over until their shrieks had faded to gargles and then silence. In the background, there was considerable havoc as the more ambulatory of the insane old folks

attacked and feebly murdered other residents. Finished with their unfortunate colleagues, the staff joined the psychotic elderly in their hunt for the remaining survivors that cowered in bathrooms and closets. Seven. Two young teenage siblings, a brother and sister, hid in the attic of their family's home amidst boxes of old clothes and discarded appliances. They were watching a newscast online. On the sister's iPhone, their faces drawn with terror. Downstairs their parents were smashing the place apart and howling and screaming.

The sounds of destruction they wrought echoed the chaos outside. The world they had always known had turned into hell in a matter of hours. On a CNN newscast, an official-looking man spoke of an epidemic, of martial law, and a situation rapidly getting out of control. A reporter asked if the madness was caused by a genetically engineered virus. The official-looking man replied that no one knew yet. Avoid contact with anyone and everyone, he said, and lock you. yourself indoors. Turn out the lights and hide. Wait for rescue. There was a resounding crash on the second floor and cackling laughter. The girl silenced the iPhone and they huddled together

staring at the trap door in the center of the attic room. They had slipped away to the attic a couple of hours ago when their parents had been out shopping after seeing the first news reports online and observing the psychotic behavior of their neighbors through the windows. The kids had called mom and dad's cell phones repeatedly, but there had been no answer. Half an hour ago, the kids observed their parents arrive home from their shopping trip through a small slit in an attic window curtain. The family minivan now had a large dent in the front end, and a scrap of bloody cloth fluttered on a sharp point along the edge of the dent.

It rolled too fast up the driveway and smashed into the garage door. Mom and Dad had lurched out of the still-running van and ran like cavorting demons into the house to begin their murderous search for their offspring. In the meantime, the siblings prayed fervently that their parents wouldn't find them and quietly watched any news report they could find online. Kids, come out here. Come out? Pig shit fucking fucks.

This was from their mother, somewhere below them. Her voice was a cracked, evil hiss. The kids looked at each other with wide, wet eyes and shivered. Listen to your mother, kids. I want to fuck your skulls. Get out here. Get out here. Get out here.

Get out here now! Their father's bellow shook the house. Both teens sobbed quietly. On the silenced iPhone, the official-looking man was now grappling with someone in a highly decorated military outfit, who had previously been standing in the background in a small line of other official-looking men. There was a sense of pandemonium in the shakiness of the camera's image, the people running through the frame in frightened blurs. The official-looking man was being overpowered, bitten repeatedly on the face.

and neck by the military man. His face was twisted into a scream. One of his eyes appeared to be missing. They fell into the microphone-laden podium and tumbled out of sight. Someone knocked the camera over, or it was dropped, and all that could be seen now was running feet. Oh, holy fuck, the brother whispered. A sharp knock made the trapdoor jump,

and the kids shrieked in unison. The brother had screwed it shut with a drill and three-inch wood screws, and the screws held. Oh, you're up there, pig fox? Oh, pigies! Mom crooned on the other side of the door. The daughter curled up into a ball on the dusty plank floor and started to rock. Another heavy thud against the trap door. Another.

They came in rapid succession now. Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham! And the old wood groaned and cracked. The brother grabbed the baseball bat he'd brought up with them, and advanced, slowly, toward the splintering door.

Bat poised to strike. 8. A big screen television in a sports bar informed the empty room that the madness had spread worldwide and that there was no known cause or cure as of yet. Stay tuned for upcoming developments. Stay indoors. Keep the lights off. And do nothing to attract the attention of the wandering maniacs whose numbers were growing rapidly. 9. Missile silos in China spat nuclear death. The resulting mushroom clouds and associated devastation could have been seen in all its awful detail from the space. station. Had there been anyone left alive on board? Our time together is drawing to a close.

Thanks for listening to this episode. Join us again next time when we unleash more disturbing tales designed to afflict your night with no sleep.