The NoSleep Podcast - Nosleep Podcast S2E10

Episode Date: September 9, 2012

We’ve reached double digits in Season 2 of the Nosleep Podcast with episode 10. This time we’re featuring five stories about nasty home environments, futuristic frights, and workplace terrors!This episode features these stories: The Silent written by Asher Rice (Redditor OminousOnes) and read by Guy Lester (Redditor BaphometJr).I’m Sorry, Daddy written by Hagen Loyd (Redditor Hagenisnotacat) and read by C.H. Williamson (Redditor pomochu).Talent Show written by Sam Hunt (Redditor Left-Hand-Path) and read by Wendy Corrigan (Redditor EchoWind).Working Late written by Leon Chan (Redditor straydog1980) and read by David Cummings (Redditor MikeRowPhone).Basement Cameras written by Alan Coakley (Redditor breadofthedead) and read by Travis Newton (Redditor thetravisnewton). 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 into your fear because tonight there will be no sleep. Brace yourself for the No Sleep podcast. It's episode 10 of season two. Welcome to the show. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have five tales for you this time, and the themes, include nasty home environments, futuristic frights, and workplace terrors. Before we begin, I want to make an

official announcement. As I release this 33rd episode of the No Sleep podcast, I feel it's time to finally make an internet home for the show. So I'm proud to announce that the podcast now has an official website in its own dark foreboding corner of the web. Just point your browsers to the no sleeppodcast.com for all things no sleep podcast related. There you'll find every episode we've ever done available to download or stream online. There's information about the history of the show, how to volunteer as a narrator. And there's even a page where I whore myself out. Um, I mean, where I promote myself and my speaking, goodly, narrating, yapping skills.

Uh-huh. If you go to the About page, you can listen to or download the theme song for the podcast. Some people have been asking for a downloadable version, so I spiced it up a bit, and you can get it from there. There are links to our Facebook page, our Twitter account, our Reddit page, and you can find our RSS feed and our iTunes feed as well. And in case you're wondering, our feeds are not changing. So however you currently subscribe to the show, it will still work. Whether it's via iTunes, Stitcher Smart Radio, or other podcast delivery systems, it's all good. Each episode has its own page and a place for you to leave comments about that episode. But I'm also excited to mention that there is now

an official forum where you can go and discuss everything your heart desires about the show. I call it The Basement. And there you can comment on each and every episode. The stories themselves, the narrators, and all things related to this show, and even discuss other horror storytelling podcasts. You can suggest stories for us to read, and from time to time we'll have polls and surveys to get an idea of how you, the listeners, feel about the show. Just head on over to the no sleeppodcast.com and look for the link to the basement at the top of the page. So I hope you'll take the time to visit the site and bookmark it as the home of the podcast. I've always appreciated the feedback we've received on our old pod bean site, so feel free to make

the no sleeppodcast.com your new headquarters for the show. And in case you've forgotten already, that's the no sleeppodcast.com. Here ends the commercial. Now, let's start the show. Our first tale involves a new house, or perhaps I should say a new family moving into a very old house. As author Asher Rice describes, when this family moves into their new home, its history soon makes itself quite clear in some very unsettling ways. Our newest narrator, Guy Lester, reads for us the tale entitled, The Silent.

The feeling you get when you walk into a dark room. The paranoia you feel when you hear something late at night. Those few seconds of ominous silence that seem to last a lifetime. I've never been a big believer in the paranormal. But considering what's been happening recently, I don't have any other explanation. Here's a bit of a backstory. My family and I moved into this house a couple of months ago. It was built in the 19th century and has been the home of many famous authors and scientists since then.

Apparently this house is perfect for inspiration and relaxation, which is probably what drew so many creative people to living there. Its most recent resident was an older woman. I think her name was Doris. She was a poet and wrote about life and her experiences. Before her, there were dozens of other residents, and now it was our turn. There were four bedrooms, so as kids got our own rooms. My parents got the master bedroom, obviously,

and my two brothers and I fought over which room we got. I got stuck with the room at the end of the hallway. It was less maintained than the other rooms. The floorboards creaked with every step. The color of the walls had decayed to a lugubrious combination of gray and brown. I guess this is home now. I didn't unpack right away. I was tired from the long drive, and there was already a mattress in my room.

So while my family unpacked and explored the house, I went to bed. I wrapped myself in blankets and laid down on the mattress that squeaked so loud I was convinced it was mocking me. When I woke up the next morning, I didn't have my blanket.

I went downstairs when my family was cooking breakfast and asked them who took my blanket off me. They said no one went into my room and that I probably just kicked it off of me in my sleep. That seemed reasonable, considering I was wrapped in the blanket, and I would have woken up if someone tried to take it. When I went back to my room, my bed was made.

A few nights later, I was lying awake in my bed when I heard my brother scream from his room. I jump out of bed and run to his room, and I find him calmly asleep in his bed. I begin to think that the stress of moving is getting to me, and I turn around to go back to my room when I see someone standing in my bedroom. doorway. A woman. I couldn't see her face. I thought it was my mom, so I ask,

Mom? Nothing. She just kept standing there. I looked down the hall in the other direction to see if my parents were awake, and when I turned back around, this woman was walking toward me. She was no more than ten feet from me when I screamed for help. As my whole family, I was my whole family emerges from their rooms, this woman seems to become part of the darkness. My mom tells me I'm seeing things, and I hope that she is right. I was getting insomnia. Most of my nights, which I should have spent sleeping, I spent keeping an eye out for anything. One night, at around 5 in the morning, I was looking around my room, using the dim light of the rising sun to see.

Everything suddenly got eerily quiet. The random noises of the house, as well as passing cars and wind, all faded into a sinister hush. My muscles tensed up. I heard a click followed by a squeak. My door was opening. I tried to tell myself that it was just in my head, or it's the wind, or it's just my mom checking on me.

My muscles were tense to a point indistinguishable from rigor mortis. I watched as the door slowly squealed, open. There was nobody there, but it felt like there was. I was slightly relieved that there was no one there, so I assumed that the wind did it.

But then I felt something that wasn't wind at all. I felt like I was being watched. I hear that all the time in horror movies, and I didn't know whether to feel better that this was a recognized feeling, or worse, because they always ended up getting killed after feeling it. I could almost feel where I was being watched from. It started at the doorway, but moved slightly to the left, and then real low to the ground, moving toward me. I felt cold and sad and terrified. The only sound was my own breath shaking. That feeling of being washed was coming from right next to my bed.

Then it was gone. It just disappeared. I was able to hear cars driving around and birds singing in the trees once again. Events like these continued for about another week. My mom saw the lack of sleep and constant paranoia taking an effect on me. She decided we should all go out and go to a movie together. I was up for it. Anything to get me out of this damn house.

We got back later that night, and I felt considerably better having my mind off the things that have been happening. When we walked into the house, we all felt it. That ominous being watched feeling. We all stood absolutely silent, glancing at each other. silently asking if we were all feeling this. My dad breaks the silence by saying something must have happened with the electricity or thermostat, so he goes to the basement to see if he can fix it.

He came back up with a manila folder filled with paper. It's a collection of poems, he says. It must be from the old lady who lived here before us. We start reading some. They were all describing the house. I picked one up that looked a bit more sloppy. It's as if she was shaking while writing it. And I read it.

She cannot be heard. She watches you at night. When her presence is made known, there is no reason to fight. Her intentions are unknown. She occupies this place. And if you make her angry, she will show you her. her face, when all goes quiet, and you are frozen in fear, stay perfectly still, and you will know that she's here. When you feel her coming close, though she will not seem violent,

you are not safe, you must escape from the silent. If her room in the hall is ever in your view, Don't look in, for the silent will stare back at you. I feel sick as I type this out. I know she's here. I can feel her standing behind me now. She's the silent. A child's love for a parent can be the most precious part of life, especially for a single parent after a rough divorce.

As author Hagen Lloyd explains, knowing how much your child loves and needs you makes the struggles worthwhile. Narrator C.H. Williamson reads for us the tale entitled, I'm sorry, Daddy. I was a single father at the time. My wife had been a narcissistic madwoman who wasn't capable of taking care of herself, so our divorce was more or less a blessing to me. When we had separated, I was granted custody of our young son, who was my entire life. During our marriage, my wife had complained that I spent too much time doting on him rather than her, who apparently thought she deserved acknowledgement.

Having that witch out of the house and away from my boy had many advantages. about it, but it also had many drawbacks. I was working at the time, so often I would hire a babysitter or call my parents and see if they could watch my son. I usually tried to get my parents to do it, but every now and again I had to settle with Marcy, the only babysitter who was ever available on short notice. I never particularly liked Marcy, as she was. was always a bit on the irresponsible side. Marcy would often spend most of the time babysitting on the phone rather than paying attention to my child, and every time she saw my car pull into the driveway, she grabbed her things and left through the back door. She, she was a pain, but she was

all that was available. One night when I stepped into my home, I called her name, but there was no answer. I assumed she must have left through the back door again, so I paid no attention to her lack of answer. I walked into the living room and saw that at the top of my stairs was my son, still in his pajamas. Hey, sport, I called to him before noticing the look on his face. Something wrong, son?

I had a nightmare, Daddy. He told me before running down the stairs to hug me. It was so scary. What happened in it? I asked. He hugged me tighter. I was walking down the hall when I heard the sound of Marcy humming downstairs. I hid in the dark at the top of the stairs, where she couldn't see me, and I spied on her doing her homework in the kitchen.

After a few minutes, the pantry door behind her opened silently. She was listening to her little music thingy, but she didn't hear it. Out of the pantry there was this naked monster man with tiny little black eyes. He shivered. "'Go on, son,' I said. "'Well, the monster man watched her for a long time, "'and then he waved his hand at the closet in the living room. "'It opened, and another monster man came out of that door.

"'She was focused on her homework, and her music, "'and it was dark, so she didn't see him either. The two monster men watched her for a while before the second monster man waved at the window. The curtain was pushed away, and there was another monster man behind it. Marcy didn't see him either. So then the third and the second monster man waved at the basement door, And two monster men came out, but I tried to be quiet, and none of them saw me.

They all watched Marcy for a few minutes before the one right behind her started growling. She didn't hear it. It growled louder. She made a face and blinked. I was praying that she wouldn't turn around, Daddy. But she did. She screamed and screamed and screamed and cried and screamed and all the naked monster men ran up and started attacking her.

They ripped her to pieces and ate them all. And when they were done, they licked up all the blood on the floor. Then they all nodded at each other and they all went back to where they were before. in the pantry in the closet behind the curtain in the basement. And I just sat at the top of the stairs. I was so scared, Daddy. I pulled the boy closer as he softly began to cry.

I gave him a soft kiss on the cheek as I tried my best to comfort him. Then what happened, son? I went to leave and get the neighbors to help. I thought that if I ran fast enough to the door, they wouldn't catch me. I ran as fast as I could. But they all jumped out at me, Daddy. They were so scary. They grabbed me and were about to eat me when...

What happened, son? He stuttered as he attempted to weep out the rest of his tail. You can tell me anything, son. What happened? I stroked his hair as he began to compose himself. I told them that if they let me go, I would stall you when you came home so they could get you too, Daddy,

and spare me. All was silent for a moment, and in that moment I could hear a series of doors opening all around the house. My son buried his face in my chest. The future. That time just beyond our reach, where technology has advanced so far that our lives are fully automated and immensely comfortable. But as author Sam Hunt writes, working with this futuristic, advanced technology can sometimes get a little too intense. Narrator Wendy Corrigan reads for us the tale that reminds us,

technology is not just a simple talent show. Very good, Blanco, I said, praising my subject. I held up another card. this one with a picture of a Bengal tiger on it. He leaned closer and I could hear his eyes focus more precisely on the card. He seemed to be processing it and then said, It is an image of a tiger. Very good, I repeated.

I continued to hold it up. Can you tell me what kind? I do not understand the question. What specific type of tiger is this? Blanco blinked twice, then sat back to think, his eyes cutting from the card to me and then back again. It would appear to be a Bengal tiger, he said, and then elaborated,

probably quoting Wikipedia as he is wont to do. The Bengal tiger, Panthera, Tigris, Tigris, is a tiger subspecies native to the Indian subcontinent. That's in 2010 had been classified as endangered by IUCN. The total population is estimated at fewer than 2,500 individuals with a decreasing trend. And none of the tiger conservation landscapes within the Bengal tiger. range is large enough to support an effective population size of 250 adult individuals. Excellent. I held up another card. It was a picture of a little boy with blonde hair,

wearing a striped shirt and red overalls. I asked him for the name of the boy's best friend. Blanco's eyes focused on the card for a moment, and he said, Joey MacDonald, I believe. I could be wrong. There are three characters in Dennis the Menace that could be construed as his best friend. I gave him that one. I held up another picture. This card had a very complicated picture of a molecular structure on it. That's easy, Karen. That is the... the polysaccharide alguronic acid. Is this a trick question? He was named Blanco because he was comprised of stainless steel, fiber-jacketed wiring and tubing, and finally the eponymous white plastic and silicone. He was a robot and an exceptionally advanced one. Inferred depth

cameras for eyes, much like the old Connect peripheral developed by Microsoft for the Xbox 360 and improved for following consoles, gave him an unprecedented capacity for environment navigation, language and pattern comprehension, and face recognition. The rest of him was fairly standard fair, if a bit superior. Silicon skin for humanoid warmth and softness, gentle and intimate. incremental actuators for his musculature, accelerometers that kept him balanced, heat sensors that kept him from getting burned, touchpad-style tactile sensors that gave him a sense of touch, and for a brain, one of the most advanced and complex compact neurological replication supercomputers

on the planet. An air-cooled 2016 cray-Michelangelo, protected by a ceramic skull, reinforced by a nanotube mesh that channels heat out of his smooth head through canals in his face. So he breathes, but not like you or me. It is a constant one-way flow of air, in through his mouth and a filter in the back of his throat, out through heat sinks in his nose and ears. He can pull information off the Internet at a whim because of the wireless interface he uses to access the building's network. He's capable of downloading songs from my Amazon account and listening to them with his internal music player completely silently

or singing them to me himself by playing them through his own voice projector. He can also download and recite e-books from the same account as well. He does not store materials he downloads, opting instead for performance rather than memory capacity. These days, you can't throw a stone without hitting a wide, fiefield. He is never without knowledge. The evening's exercises are completed, and it's time for me to retire for the night, so I explain this to the robot as I put away the deck of cards and begin to gather my things.

Okay. He said. I turned at the sound of his voice and must have caught him looking at me, because he immediately looked straight ahead, like a soldier at attention, with a faint twitch of eye movement. I think we've made a lot of progress this week, I said, as I put my jacket on. As do I. I am appreciative of the opportunity to better myself. I was mildly surprised by this show of sentiment.

That's very nice. It shows initiative. And hope. And hope. I agree. Hope for what? A future. He looks directly at me then.

His blue irises whirring open to encompass my image. Good night, Karen. I look forward to our session tomorrow. Good night, Blanco, I said, closing the hydraulic portal to his chambers. It was a large glass disc three inches thick. that rolled into place from inside the frame of a round archway. It settled into place and locked with a clunk. I could still see him inside the brightly lit room,

gazing back at me through the transparent block with his perpetually unimpressed expression. But before I pressed the button to turn the glass opaque, I could swear that a look of longing flickered across his features. Chocking it up to a trick of shadow, I turned off the lights and headed for home. It's an hour's dark drive from our research complex outside Banger, Maine, to my home. The car is entirely autonomous, accounting for every obstacle with cameras similar to the ones in Blanco's eyes,

instantaneously adjusting the vehicle's speed and direction. I sat in the left-hand seat with my arms folded, listening to the music and staring at the black windshield as I drew close. and closer to home. There are no headlights because they are unnecessary. The car's navigational cameras are infrared, and I do not need to see where I'm going. However, should the instrumentation fail,

the car's speed will decrease dramatically. The headlights will immediately switch to the visible spectrum, and control will be immediately given to myself. I was slipping in and out of a dose as the car pulled into my driveway and offered control to me, as I prefer when it traverses rocky ground. I took over and parked, turning off the engine. Immediately, the light came on over the front porch,

as did the lamp in the living room, triggered by the car's proximity. I got out and approached the front door saying my name. Karen Mulgrew. The bulletproof door unlocked and clicked open. I stepped inside, and it shut itself behind me, like a haunted house, locking tightly. I relaxed, surrounded by the comfort of my state-of-the-art home. From the outside, it resembled any average upscale Cape Cod from the early 21st century.

But that's where the similarity ceased. Beyond the skin, my abode was a marvel of armor and technology. All expenses paid for by my defense contractor company, silent. Being the head of one of the leading artificial intelligence projects in the world has its advantages. The exterior structure of my home is impenetrable by nothing less than a minor nuclear charge. There are no windows, only screens that display the property outside, fed in via cameras, via head tracking 3D displays, that can conclude. correct for up to 10 different occupants by showing each person a different image filtered by distance

and position. Desktop on, I said, hanging my jacket by the door. The screen sitting on my desk at the other side of the living room came on and began to load the operating system. By the time I had taken off my jacket and slipped out of my shoes, the computer's desktop was already waiting. system and weather statistics populating over the wallpaper. It was 54 degrees Fahrenheit outside.

Music on, I added. Pandora. Mumford and Sons. 40%. EQ, high bass. Bluegrass music began to pour softly from the speakers in the ceiling as I walked into the kitchen. A black and white shape leapt onto the counter,

and I slapped the countertop. My cat, Isis, hopped back down onto the floor and began to complain to me. I poured him a handful of kibble. I didn't like leaving this task to the house's system. It seemed too impersonal, too neglectful. Besides, I didn't want the computer to malfunction and overfeed or forget to feed the cat altogether. Display News NPR, World Affairs.

A projector in the ceiling spun 180 degrees, pointing in the direction I was looking, and displayed recent headlines in front of me. Plastered in 80% opacity across the fridge door with the phrases, Al-Qaeda, second-in-command slain. VB-I-E-D kills 14 in Iran shopping center, and other political things. Disgusted as usual, I found nothing worth reading, and asked for technological headlines. The phrases faded away, and after a few seconds of searching,

were replaced by new sentences that popped in at irregular intervals until the whole list was populated. I was just about as sick at these headlines as I was at the news of death and destruction. Our stock is falling, which means our funding is going to be cut drastically in favor of our weapons tech department. And that means our progress. with Blanco and the other systems are going to slow down exponentially, or perhaps altogether. This was not a surprise. It had been going on for the last couple of weeks, ever since the

malfunction at the demonstration. But that was a fluke. I opened the fridge, and the words before me decomposed into gibberish. I took out the milk and poured it into a glass from the cabinet, stirring in chocolate-flavored nutrient powder. Isis Miao, insistently. No, I told him, smiling down at the cat. This isn't for kitties. I walked back into the living room and sat down at the computer

to check my email and peruse Reddit. There is no mouse. I navigated the site by gesture and clicked on links by jabbing my finger at the screen lightly. My inbox had two emails waiting. One was from Robert in optics, inviting me to his wife's

baby shower next week. I clicked on it and replied that I was coming, and what would she like for a gift? The other email was from Blanco. A frisson rippled across my shaven scalp as I took in the short message. Hello, Karen. I am only checking to make sure you arrived home safely. I remember the conversation you had with Dr. Wood last Tuesday about. about the declining state of your vehicle.

2973-B-B-U-I-8. Inocuous, perhaps? This was the first time Blanco had ever contacted me after hours, and I didn't even know he knew my personal email account. Only the dot-edu I used at the laboratory. Yes, I'm fine, I typed in response. No car trouble today. I started to type,

How did you get my personal email address, Blanco? But worried that it might be misconstrued as confrontational. So I backspace and typed. Thank you for worrying about me. I'm glad somebody cares. The men around here sure don't. I haven't had a date in weeks. Seven seconds after I sent the email,

an I.M. window popped up with a soft piano. It was someone with the screen name White Ghalem. Two guesses as to who it was. I am glad you are safe. It is a shame about your lack of intimacy. The symmetry of your face and the dimensions of your figure are classically considered attractive by most conventional standards. Perhaps it is your cool demeanor? I knew the insult was not intentional. Do you think I'm standoffish? The answer came back almost instantly. I have studied your interactions with the other members of your research department,

and it appears that Daniel has feelings, as evidenced by his increased heart rate and rhinole, no labial blood flow when he is in close proximity to you. Really? I replied. Genuinely surprised. Also, I have witnessed him examining your buttocks on numerous occasions. I cackled like a witch. Please unlock the door so that I may enter. My entire circulatory system flooded with ice water.

It felt as if the entire planet had shifted two inches to the left. What? I am particularly distressed at the moment. I would like to discuss a few matters with you in person. What are you talking about? I typed. My hand suddenly trembling. Not from fear you understand, but from shame. I knew he wouldn't hurt me, but I felt horrible about having to withhold information.

I had come to think of him as part of my family, in a way, a particularly intelligent infant. After you left, I decided to take the opportunity to catch up on my intake of recent media. I have completed the game you presented to me last week, and I wanted to see if the Bulls had won. So I accessed my news feed. Blanco was strangely obsessed over sports matters, ever since we'd taught him the rules of basketball and showed him how to play

as a way to increase his stability and hand-eye coordination several months ago. The robot continued. And I discovered the article about silent enterprises. I glanced at the front door, hoping that he wasn't standing on the other side of it. What do you want to know? I asked, choosing to drop any pretense. I want to know when you were planning on telling me that I am going to be discontinued. What? I typed in reply. No one is going to shut you down, buddy.

Why don't I believe you? I get up and approach the entrance to my house, pressing a button by the door handle. A tiny screen flared to life, and in the dim light of the illumination panel, I saw the slender white figure standing on my front porch. Thanks to the high-definition camera mounted above the door, I could even see the wet grass clinging to his rubberized feet and the condensation collecting on his upper lip from the heat sink in his nose. A piano key told me that he had sent me another instant message.

Display desktop here, I said, and a nearby projector through a rectangle of light on the front door that resolved into a copy of my computer screen. I know why I don't believe you. because of the fucking email you sent Gloria. I was speechless. Where had this robot, this assembly of pneumatics and solid state drives,

learned to use profanity? And then I remembered that he had total access to the internet and all that entailed. I pressed another button above the camera screen and said, Nobody's going to deactivate you, Blanco. A new kind of terror engulfed me. Blanco had been constructed according to strict military specifications.

With only slight exterior damage, the robot was virtually impervious to small arms fire. I could punch through a car door as if it were chocolate. But then, I remembered how safely ensconced I was in my shell of a house. Fucking, lying to me, Karen. roared the robot directly into the camera. His disturbingly bass voice was so loud I could hear it through the house's armor plating. Then he was calm.

He stood there motionlessly for what felt like an eternity, but was probably less than 30 seconds. Startling me, the computer made the piano key sound again and my eyes focused on the desktop screen displayed on the front door. You should choose a better password for your wireless network, Karen. The front door unlocked with a click. Starting a new job?

That can be frightful in and of itself. The new coworkers, the new office rules, the new deadlines, all scary stuff. And when those deadlines force you to work later than normal, there are even scarier things to contend with. Author Leon Chan makes that very clear, as he describes for us why he will no longer be working late. I don't work late anymore. That's what the guys told me the first day I joined the company as a cubicle rat.

We don't work late here. The office could be any one of a million around the world. Partitions about five. Five feet high, too high for a person to be distracted by looking or talking to cubicle neighbors unless he was standing up. The air swirls with a miasma of electronics, printer toner, stale coffee, and air freshener. A soft whispering of curse words muttered, the scratchy sounds of music leaking out of cheap headphones, and the drag of smart shoes across the dull gray.

carpets. Roes upon rows of cubicles. A graveyard of college dreams. I'm in the last row of cubicles before the drywall, all the way in from the doors to the elevator and the fire escape, and the windows, and any form of natural light. The only consolation was that there was a good eight feet of walking room behind me to give enough space for copiers and for the occasional conversation with my fellow cubicle rats. It was the second week of work and already the learning curve was getting to me. I had to turn in a report the first thing on Friday morning and it was already Thursday evening. I hadn't even finished half the number crunching I needed for the report. I was in full work mode

headphones on music blasting it was already one in the morning when I received the first pop-up on my computer We watch It was on our I-M system sent from Brad's desk No working late my ass I thought

Guess they don't want anybody pulling ahead of the rat pack. Stop fucking with me. I gotta rush this. I type back. One 30 a.m. and it was time to start loading up on caffeine. I stopped by Brad's desk on my way out. Nobody was there. I figured that Brad had left sometime in the intervening half an hour. I brewed myself an extra strong coffee at the pantry and looked out of the window at the car park. I see one solitary car, mine, and the wobbling shine of a torchlight as the building's only security guard made his rounds. It was just going to be me and the spreadsheets for the rest of the night. I headed back to my desk. Another message waited from Brad.

Play with us There was no way Brad could have been in the building The car park was empty Stop fucking with me I'm in the building and I need to finish up my report I texted him angrily and dropped my phone onto the desk I stomped over to Brad's desk I was certain that I would be able to find some VPN bullshit

that let him pull this trick through the corporate firewall. I scanned through the running programs but couldn't find any traces that he was accessing his computer remotely. Puzzled, I took my headphones off, and I froze for the first time that night. The ventilation sounded strange. Instead of the usual low rumble in the background,

It came in intermittent pulses. With the pauses, it gave the eerie feeling that the entire building was breathing. I was already seriously considering giving up on the report and getting the hell out of the building. When something else made the decision for me, messages started appearing on Brad's computer, too fast to open all at once. with us. They were being sent from all the computers around the floor. I looked into the next cubicle,

and the screen had lit up with the same flood of messages. Even if this was an elaborate joke, I was thoroughly freaked out. Okay, you guys win. I yelled at the empty office, with a bravado that I did not feel at all, flipping the bird at any hidden cameras they may have been filming this with. I ran back to my cubicle.

When I got there, I was confronted with the sight of my own terrified face on my computer screen. Someone had switched my webcam on. Someone or something was in the room with me. There was an actual switch for the webcam that needed to be. flicked to turn it on. As I watched, one last message popped up on my screen to play. That's when the lights went out. Every single light on the ceiling and every single computer screen except mine.

By this point, I was already half crazed with fear and I let out a little yelp. The entire room was dark. except for the faint glow of my computer screen. Since my cubicle faced the wall, there was nothing but pitch blackness behind my face on the screen. I scooped up my car keys ready to leave. That's when I saw it. In reality, this must have only lasted for seconds, but I remember it feeling like hours. Two bright points above my left shoulder in the darkness outside my cubicle.

Goose bumps rose on my arms as I shivered, mesmerized by the two points. One disappeared for a second and reappeared. Then I realized what they were. Eyes. A wink. The points were the reflection of the last. light of my computer screen off a pair of eyes from behind me. That's when I made the only good decision the entire night. Instead of turning around, I clambered up on my desk, crushing my keyboard

along the way, and went over the cubicle wall. I tumbled into the next cubicle and scooted backwards on my ass. I strained my ears to listen for any sound of breathing or footsteps. Anything that could have told me which direction that person or thing was coming. I didn't hear a thing, but I could feel it. The room was practically pitch dark apart from the emergency lighting coming from the fire escape and the elevator. But I could feel the darkness growing. deeper down the aisle. I realized then that I had never known true fear before those last few moments. That absolute terror when your entire body seizes up and your muscles will not obey you.

Like when my cat had cornered a small mouse and I saw it shaking in a corner instead of attempting to run away. My breath came in short, Rasp, iron bands tightening around my lungs. I tried to get up, move backwards, or just move, but I was shaking like a leaf. My body was soaked with sweat, but I felt like I was naked in a snowstorm. Brad saved my life that night. The banal tune announcing an incoming message rang clearly through the sun.

The dark paused. Its attention shifted for a second, and the spell was broken. I was up on my feet and down the fire escape in seconds. A few days later I learned that the message that saved me was a simple, get the fuck out, now. I tore down five flights of stairs. I was already belting down the lobby to the main door. when I heard the little chimes of the elevator coming down from the fifth floor. I burst out of the building and sprinted across the car park. As I burned rubber out of the car park,

I took one last look through the lobby at the elevator. It was totally dark inside the elevator. Not just as if the lights were out. It was as though the light from the lobby itself was being repelled by what ever was in the elevator. I didn't get back to work till two days after my ordeal. My boss was surprisingly understanding about missing the deadline. I told him that I tried to stay late to finish it up, but fell sick instead. There was a flash of understanding in his eyes. He gave me another two days to finish up. Brad and some of the others looked at me differently

after that night. I wasn't the first one to experience something like that. We never spoke about it. I still remember the message left for me at my computer when I came back two days later. We're still watching.

That was the last time I stayed in late for work. Now that we've frightened ourselves out of an office job, in the cubicle farm, why not try being a security guard? It's not a very stressful job when you get to work during the calm, quiet night shift. However, author Alan Copley might not agree with that. In our final tale, he shares with us his story, read by Travis Newton, about how patrolling dark Calls and watching security monitors can be anything but relaxing,

especially when you see everything picked up by the basement cameras. One summer while studying at college, I worked part-time as security at a psychiatric hospital, working the night shift. I worked with an older guy named Vincent. He had worked security there for years, so he sort of broke me in until I was ready to spend the shift on my own. The building itself dates back to 1845, although it makes it. not have always been hospital. From outside, it gives the impression of a sprawling Victorian mansion house. That first week he showed me around most of the building, which took about

half an hour considering its size. We started in the security office where the monitors are. Later we passed a large set of double doors on the basement floor. That's the abandoned section of the hospital, he told me. I thought he shivered a little when he said it. He told me the elevator breaks down quite often. You have to pass through several corridors in the older abandoned section of the building to reach the stairs back up to the first floor. It's pitch black down there, and you have to fumble around in the dark to find the light switch, and there's a slight delay before the lights come on. He told me all of this with a sympathetic look on his face. He put a hand on my shoulder and said, you'll be okay, like he

was trying to reassure me. I didn't understand why he was making a big deal of it. Before we left, I took another look at the basement corridor, and something didn't seem right. Then I realized what it was. I was sure I had seen a metal stretcher down here when I looked at the image on the monitors above. It was gone now. Maybe I was mistaken. By the second week, I was on my own.

It was a little lonely, but I enjoyed the solitude, too. I would bring my laptop along and read while listening to music. On this particular night, something caught my eye, a flash of movement on the monitors. It was too quick, but I could see one of the doors was wide open. One of my duties is to make sure the rooms are clear and locked, so I got up to check it out. I found the open door. It was just an empty room.

I'm not sure what its purpose had been. Clearly there was nobody inside, so I locked the door, did a quick sweep of some of the other rooms, and then left. I pushed the call button on the elevator, but no elevator came. I pressed my ear to the metal door as listening for the sound of movement. But all I heard were faint creaks, and the occasional indeterminate sounds of pipes and other noises that old buildings make. I turned to the heavy doors of the abandoned section. I'd have to make my way through to the stairs that Vincent mentioned.

I could understand why Vincent might be uneasy about the place. It was hellish. Apart from the almost total lack of light, it was also incredibly warm and stuffy down there due to the heating being on constantly. I don't know why they'd bother to continue heating it. You're completely alone there, surrounded by pitch-black empty rooms and hallways. Even during the day, it's likely that the nearest living soul is halfway across the building. I started to navigate through the corridors,

remembering to turn off the lights as I went, leaving each preceding corridor in darkness. I wished Vincent had at least walked me through, so I'd know how far I had to go. I flicked the switch of the next corridor and waited for the lights to slowly blink on, one by one. But nothing happened. I flicked the switch again uselessly.

The lights from the corridor behind me provided just enough light that I could make my way through and find the switch to the corridor beyond, which I managed to do successfully, only losing my nerve once when my arm brushed against a spider web. I had to make a second trip to turn off the lights from the previous corridor before I proceeded again to the next room. I could see the exit sign ahead now, and from behind I heard a faint squeaking sound. I turned and peered into the blackness beyond the doors, and I could tell the sound had come from a good distance behind me,

somewhere back there in the dark. The sound came again, louder this time, nearer. Whoever was back there was getting closer. It sounded like someone running their fingers over glass. Is somebody there? No answer came. There was a loud crash of metal that startled me so much, I recoiled a little. I was genuinely creeped out now, so I booted it out of there pretty fast.

I reached the stairs to the second floor. I had forgotten to turn off the lights, but I didn't care. I climbed the stairs, my heart thumping out of my chest. I pushed the crash bar on the fire doors and escaped into the reassuring brightness of the hospital. I began to relax again as I walked back to the security office. I felt pretty silly, actually, for getting in such a panic. But still, I wouldn't like to venture down there again tonight, I thought. The rest of the shift went by without any strangeness,

and I had to put the experience behind me. until the next morning when I saw Vincent he was sitting in front of the monitors but he stood up when I walked in he asked me how the shift went and if I had any problems I told him about the elevator not working and I didn't mention what happened after that

he got that sympathetic look in his eyes again who was that in the basement who was who I asked he paused for a moment you didn't see anybody See what? Then he showed me the surveillance footage from the basement. There were two cameras on the basement level,

since that area connects to the morgue where bodies are brought out and where deliveries are brought in. I stared at the monitor, and I saw myself leave the elevator and walk down the hall. There was nothing apparently unusual until I noticed something on the second hallway camera. Standing just below the camera, almost out of frame, was what appeared to be the naked figure of a bald man.

Only his upper half was visible, and he was facing away from the camera, with his face in his palms, like he was in pain. I felt my blood go cold as I watched myself turn the corner and walked down the hall. It would have been impossible not to see him standing there, but I walked straight towards him, completely oblivious to his presence. I locked the door, did my sweep, and headed back to the elevator. All while the man remained standing there with his head and his hands. I left the frame as I headed to the abandoned section. The man made some movement.

He jerked his head from his hands as though something had caught his attention. And now he was listening. Moments passed, and the man made no further movements. There are no cameras in the old section of the hospital, so I estimated that I should almost be to the stairs at this point. Then it happened. The scene that has caused me endless, sleepless nights. I witnessed the nightmare that the security cameras had recorded.

The man's arms reached behind him to grab something. And then he began off at a sickening speed, and I saw that he'd not been standing at all. This man had no legs to speak of, and I could see he was dragging behind him a metal stretcher, on which was piled various human appendages, hands, arms, and legs, all of which appeared to be moving. The eviscerated man's upper body

was somehow propelling itself down the corridor at such speed that the stretchers swerved and struck the walls. Suddenly the image flickered and there were hospital apparatuses strewn in the corridor that had not been there before and blood and grime seemed to coat the floors.

The second camera revealed more of the stretchers containing animated human parts. A leg lay on the floor flopping about and kicking the air. A man, missing his arms and legs, struggled in a wheelchair he was tied to. A group of monstrosities had just begun to shamble into frame when Vincent stopped the tape.

You see some strange things on cameras sometimes, he said. I let out the breath had been holding and waited for the feeling in my legs to return when he said, just be thankful you don't see those things with your eyes. Or sleepless tales have come to an end. Thanks for sharing the darkness of the night with us. Join us again in two weeks' time when we unleash more disturbing tales designed to afflict your night with no sleep. To continue your sleepless experience, visit the no sleeppodcast.com.