The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S3E08

Episode Date: August 25, 2013

It's episode 8 of Season 3! We have four tales for you in this episode, featuring stories about people who aren't what they seem, creepy sleepers, and frightening forests.The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first two tales. "2,300 a Day" written by Troy Lewis and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:03:48)"Calls From My Girlfriend" written by Jon Comics and read by David Cummings. Music by Brandon Boone. (Story starts at 00:21:40)"REM Behavior Disorder" written by Elizabeth Brochu and read by Christina Scholz. (Story starts at 00:47:40)"The Midnight Hike" written by Kelsey Donald and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:14:49)Click here to learn more about Kelsey DonaldClick here to learn more about the new book, "Anecdotes in Ashes"  Podcast produced by: David CummingsMusic & Sound Design by: David Cummings, unless otherwise notedThis podcast is licensed under a Creative Commons License 2013. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

As the sunlight fades to darkness, the frightful tales creep into your mind. There will be no sleep. And now he was listening. There's little boys in the window. Brace yourself for the no sleep podcast. It's episode 8 of season 3. Welcome to the show. I'm your host.

David Cummings. We have four tales for you this time, featuring stories about people who aren't what they seem, creepy sleepers, and frightening forests. I want to bring to your attention a new book that has just been released by a group of authors, some of whom have had their work featured on the podcast.

Kelsey Donald, who brings us this episode's final tale, is part of a group of writers known as the Assembly The Assembly Features author such as Kelsey, Leon Chan, Edwin Crow, and T.W. Grimm, along with other writers who have contributed to the

No Sleep and Library of Shadows forums. Their new book is entitled Anecdotes in Ashes, and it is an illustrated anthology of frightening flash fiction. For those who don't know,

flash fiction is the name given to very short stories, usually no more than a few paragraphs long. It might seem difficult to craft scary stories with so few words, but I can assure you these authors have come up with bite-sized stories that pack a wallop of fear. I'll post a link in the show notes to their Amazon page. It is available as an e-book for the Kindle, and a paperback is coming out in the coming weeks. Depending on where you live, the price of the e-book is only around $1, so I highly encourage you to invest this small amount to not only support these excellent writers, but also to treat yourself to their very scary tales that will linger in your mind long after you have finished reading

them. That's Anecdotes in Ashes by the Assembly. Dark microfiction for the sleepless night-time hours. And now let's get to know more about some other talented authors and start the show. Our first tale is about a man who leads an isolated existence in the Appalachian Mountains. One night he convinces his friend to join him so he can explain a deeply unsettling discovery he has made. Author Troy Lewis shares his tale with us as we learn what is revealed during a series of strange late-night radio messages. It's a tale entitled, 2,300 a day. Mickey looked scared when I went to see him.

Understand the significance of that. Mickey had grown up in the deepest, darkest woods of Appalachia, and had shot his first bear before puberty had begun to set in. Two years later, he handcrafted his own long-barrel shotgun, and from that day to this, the quails in the hermock woods have never fully recovered. Wiery, and almost a little scrawny, I had nevertheless seen Mickey Clobbermen twice his size. He was a hard-drinking, fast-living, womanizing bastard. He was also my best friend.

And, as I said, he was scared. Scared enough to incessantly call me until I reluctantly wriggled out of bed and drove the half hour through foreboding hemlocks to his cabin. At first, I thought he had started festivities a day early and wanted me to join him. But he had quickly dismissed that notion. Mickey had never been one for civilization, and the more society seemed to slowly creep into the North Georgia mountains, the more he edged further into the wilderness. He'd even joked once or twice that one day I might come to visit him only to find the forest had at last swallowed him up entirely. But that night it had not, as a faint twinkling of lantern lands.

glimmered from a window in his cabin, casting a man-sized silhouette that trudged forward to meet me. He looked, shook up, even in the blinding headlights of my pickup. But it was only once he'd ushered me inside that I saw his pale skin and the sunken eyes of a man deprived of sleep. Jesus, Mickey! I blurted out as I sat down at the small oak table. You look like you've been on a four-day bender. You've been hitting the sauce?

Didn't expect you to start celebrating this early. He didn't sit down and instead set about pacing the length of his small living room. He shook his head and swallowed. Nah, man, I ain't touched a drop in near a week. Don't think I haven't considered it, though. I frowned in concern, as anything that could drive Mickey away from drinking was no laughing matter. What is it, Mick? Are you in trouble with the law or something? Mickey let out an almost strangled laugh, his throat dry and coarse.

I only wish it were something so trivial, bud. Listen, I... He paused, glanced. towards his bedroom door. Listen, there's something you need to hear. You won't understand unless you do. He said, his voice almost wavering with uncertainty. I was growing more worried by the minute,

but I silently agreed, and he led me to his room. Mickey had never been a very cleanly man, but his room was even more of a train wreck than normal. Newspapers and yellow documents were strewn everywhere along with the usual dirty laundry and refuse. Notepaper scrawled in his illegible handwriting, covered the walls, and maps of various areas in the U.S. had pins pricked liberally into them. I turned to Mickey to ask about them, but he just put up a hand to silence me and motioned me towards his desk, where a large stack of notebook paper lay next to his old ham radio.

Mickey had always been something of an enthusiast, and I was more surprised each time he used it that the piece of crap still functioned. He grabbed my shoulders and sat me down in the chair before reaching out towards a switch. It crackled and hummed to life with a beleaguered reluctance. Just, just listen. He almost whispered to me, as though in reverence of whatever might flow out of the obsolete device. For many long moments, there was nothing but the relentless static of radio void. I was almost about to bark at Mickey for dragging me out of my warm bed for nothing when it started.

35. A child's voice read off the numbers through the signal, and it was somehow eerie and unsettling in the crushing dark of the southern night. The cadence and tone was hollow, an emotionlessness that seemed very ill-suited to such a young voice, coupled with perfect diction, uncharacteristic for that age. I furrowed my brow and leaned forward towards the radio. 18.26.91. And then, as quickly as it had begun, the voice dipped back below the sea of static, vanishing entirely. For a long moment, I sat stunned, as I could not deny the remarkably unsettling nature of the broadcast. A small part of me almost jumped up to agree with Mickey's abject terror, but it was only a few moments before my senses returned to me.

So, I said, looking up at him quizzically, it's just some kids playing with radios. You know how bored we got in these woods as tikes, man. They probably just came up with some silly code to pass to each other. Mickey shook his head fervently. Nah, man, I thought the same thing. But there ain't no other kid. It's always the same one. And the numbers don't...

Well, they don't change. Well, they do, but not like that. They ain't no code. He insisted. I shook my head slowly. Mickey, what does this? But he stopped me with a firm gesture and turned to begin rifling through his vast pile of notes. It ain't no code, I'm telling you.

Look, man, the numbers, they can't be letters, or even words. Some nights, some numbers are gone, but the rest stay. Sometimes less, sometimes more. And sometimes they get switched with others. Others. He slapped down a few sheets in front of me, rows and rows of numbers with dates scribbled next to them. One time a whole week went by and they didn't change a lick. How can that be a code, man? He said as I flicked my eyes over the notes, more worried about the evidence of Mickey's obsession than their content. I don't know, Mick.

I guess maybe it can't be, but we don't know nothing about codes. But Mickey wasn't convinced, and he seemed to grow more desperate to convince me with each passing breath. No, man, it's something else, okay? Look, I went to the country library. I looked up some stuff. I looked into codes at first, but that just didn't seem to feel. fit. Look here. He said, grabbing a few more handfuls of dusty notebook paper and a farmer's almanac, dropping them down on the desk before me with a startling thud. This ain't the only one,

see? They're called number stations. They're all over, all over everywhere. Only they come on just for a minute or so, and they're real short wave. People, figure there's some kind of government spy code or something, but that ain't it. Look. He insisted, rifling through the farmer's almanac while pointing at some numbers on one of his note sheets. Different stations for different regions. People all over write them down. This one hears from Atlanta. See anything? My bleary, groggy eyes glanced over the long string of numbers before I I shrugged with a frustrated sigh. Look at how many there are, man, he said, an almost mad desperation rising from within him.

There's almost 50 of them, but only six for us tonight. And it don't stop there. I've been checking everywhere I can find. The bigger population where the signal broadcasts, the more numbers. Always. I shook my head slowly in disbelief, but as I looked over the swaths of data he collected, I couldn't help but agree that there was a correlation. So why, right?

He continued, almost working him into a frenzy. Why more numbers for more people? I was stuck on that one for weeks, man. But then it finally just hit me. It's because of the people. I looked up at him with a blank expression. He growled softly in frustration and began digging through more notes, tossing unneeded sheets behind him.

He snatched a large helping of newspaper clippings and started thumbing through them. Look here, Atlanta numbers. 20, 48, 11, 56. Now, look at the next day's numbers. Notice something gone? And here. He gasped, pointing to an article about a missing little girl. Just look, man.

And I looked. It took me almost a full minute for my brain to finally grind on it before it hit me. But once I saw it, my blood froze in its veins. No, no. I protested, but Mickey just grinned in mad triumph. Yes, Carlin Knowles, age 11, goes missing on the day number 11 is one of the numbers. Next day, no more number 11. Just goes 20, 48, 56.

Skipped right over. I sat back in the chair and took a deep breath before finally starting to shake my head. Mickey, no, just a coincidence, that's all. I said, needn't to believe it, but Mickey would not be dissuaded. Over the next few hours, he set about throwing massive amounts of data at me, burying me in newspaper clippings and note sheets, pointing to case after case where the pattern held true to form. In every single instance I could find, a number only disappeared when someone of that age was reported missing the previous day. It was easy enough to dismiss at first, but when the examples passed the dozens and began running into the hundreds, it became harder to ignore.

After a while, I just sat in silence, straining my brain to think of an explanation, struggling to find some solace in reason. Mickey seemed to understand what I was doing. and he let me alone for a long while. Just as I was about to open my mouth to utter something, to make sense of my confusion and fear, Mickey spoke before me. 2,300, he said solemnly, and I looked up into his eyes questioningly.

2,300 people go missing in the United States. States every single day. I sank back into my chair. My mouth open as my mind slowly, reluctantly dragged itself into acceptance of what Mickey had uncovered. It's a list, man. A goddamn shopping list of people. His voice now shaken with a terror I'd never noticed before. Where? Where do they all go?

Who takes them? Why? I said, my own voice starting to fill with the same distress. And then Mickey's face contorted into a pathetic grimace of horror and dread. A kind you don't normally see on people's faces when they think they've uncovered a conspiracy. It wasn't astonishment or disgust, and it most certainly wasn't excitement. It was fear. Pure, unadulterated, very personal fear, and it was obvious that Mickey was filled to the brim with it.

12, 68, 35, 18, 266, 35, 18, 26, 91. He said in a waiver and whisper, repeating tonight's broadcast, I don't know why, man, I don't know where they go to, But... And I sat up in my chair, staring at him slack-jawed while every nerve in my body suddenly electrified with the nightmarish realization before the final words ever passed his lips. But I think I'm gonna find out. Mickey turns 26 tomorrow. When a man arrives home after a night of alcohol-fueled festivities, he receives a disturbing phone call that isn't what it seems. Author John Comics describes how both this man and his girlfriend are soon pulled into a strange encounter with something that threatens them both.

It's a story that makes the man question the validity of the calls from my girl. friend. It was a late night last night. I paid the taxi and stumbled back into the apartment, trying to be quiet, but managing to bang into damn near everything. Cringing at each thing I knocked over, I groped my way through the dark into my bedroom. It must have been two, maybe three in the morning by this point. Bar was closed, that was for sure. I stripped to my boxers and tried to crawl into the bed as stealthily as I could. My girlfriend would definitely be pissed off at me getting home at this ungodly hour. She didn't stir, the blanket rising and falling with her resting breaths. I slunk down onto the pillow, eyes droopy and breaths heavy. I was nearly passed out before I'd even

touched the cool, silky sheets. I could feel the room spinning away into a dream, when my phone began vibrating. I grogly rolled to the side of the bed, reaching for the rumbling hums. I looked at the screen. It was my girlfriend's number. She must have left it at a friend's house, and they were calling my phone to let me know. I answered it. Hello?

I slurred. Let me bring in the laundry. It was my girlfriend's voice. But... I snapped my head to the huddled body lying next to me. My mind spewed infinite scenarios of what unimaginable horror awaited me under those sheets. My stomach in my throat, eyes wide with terror, I grabbed a handful of blanket and snatched it away from what it covered. She moaned into consciousness and stared at me, confused.

I shined my phone in her face to see if she was some sunken-eyed specter. No, no, she just looked really pissed off. She saw my eyes wide and mouth open stupidly. You stupid drunken asshole, go to sleep! She seethed and smacked me with a pillow. She kicked my side a few times. grumbled some obscenities and flipped over towards the wall. Yep, definitely my girlfriend.

I must have hung up the phone because it began vibrating again in my hand. I jumped a bit, my nerve still a bit frayed. It was her number again. I answered it and she spoke again. I just got home. Could you help me bring in the... I hung up right away. It sounded exactly like her, but she was asleep right next to me. Her basket of clean clothes was in the corner, filled with folded things she hadn't put away today.

I remember her bringing it home earlier because she had called me this afternoon, and I begrudgingly dragged it all up the stairs for her. I crawled over to the window, and with two fingers, separated the blind so I could peer through. I scanned the lot for her car and saw it nearly directly below our bedroom. It was weird. It looked like she was in the car. But the longer I watched, the more it sank in that there was something very, very off. Her neck seemed too long, her shoulders much too narrow and her head too thin.

Her face began to twist to the side, all the while a toothy grin stretched wider and wider until it was touching both her ears. Her large, shadowed eyes were staring straight forward into the steering wheel, until she suddenly snapped her head upwards, her black eyes wide and staring hungrily into my window. Her mouth began to open into an impossibly cavernous grin. She raised a gangly hand to her head. My phone began to vibrate once more. I had been staring in shock, in complete disbelief of what I was experiencing. The light buzzing in my hand jolted me back into reality.

All the air left my lungs. I collapsed next to my girlfriend and shook her away. awake. Still in her tired stupor, I shook her harder, grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to the window. Babe, I whispered, nearly in tears. Look, look inside your windshield. She looked around for her car, and then she saw it. John, what the? She began to speak, looking very worried. In a split second, it changed to a twisted grimace of pure terror, her suddenly bursting into a shrieking, hysterical sobbing.

She shoved her head into my side, my arms pulling her close to me. Unable to look away from the window, I watched as the thing inside her car opened the door and power walked away, unnaturally quick towards the forested lake to the left of the apartments. It kept its head turned towards me the whole time, its neck bending gruesomely backwards as the rest of its body strutted away. It wasn't grinning anymore. It was frowning.

It almost looked sad. We must have tired ourselves out from all those surges of adrenaline-fueled fear, because right after it had walked away, I remember waking up in the daytime. My girlfriend was still tangled in my arms. Us both slumped towards each other like the letter A. I checked my phone to see what time it was and saw that I had 16 missed calls, all between the time of 1 and 7 a.m. this morning. We hadn't tried calling each other since yesterday afternoon,

before it all happened. I had no idea how her phone had been used like that, as it was plugged in next to her all night. There weren't any outgoing calls from her phone to mine. What's weirder, though, is that when she checked her phone, she also had 18 missed calls, but from my phone number. Each one, same as mine, was made between the time of 1 and 7 a.m. I didn't know what to say to her about it.

So I said, Well, babe, I guess that means no more late-night taco runs for a while. We didn't laugh. We spent the next day in a weird funk, both calling into work and consoling each other. We made sure to never be alone until we were positive things had blown over. There were endless theories on what this creature could be. how we could combat it, how we could stay safe.

A few things were clear. This thing was mimicking Megan and could potentially be mimicking me as well. It wasn't a nightmare fueled by alcohol, as all the proof was there in our phones and in her eyes that morning. Nothing odd happened that evening. I checked my phone before I went to bed, and we woke up the next day. day. No missed calls on either of our phones. Feeling a bit better, Megan went to work and said she'd be

going to a friend's afterwards. That worked for me, seeing as I'd be at work for an evening shift until late. I didn't want her to be alone, and neither did she. Work went slowly, customer faces coming and going in a painstakingly long blur. On my lunch, I grabbed a means to me, and and went to text Megan, checking up on her. The screen stayed black. My phone was dead. Shit, I must have not plugged it in before I slept last night. An aggravating habit of mine that occurred all too often.

I finished my food, went out back to have a smoke, and worried about my girlfriend. A few hours later, my shift was wrapping up. It was dead at that point, so I was able to leave a few minutes early. I raced home, flung open the door to the apartment, and jammed the charger into the phone. A few nerve-wracking minutes went by as the phone built up power. I watched it intensely, waiting for the lock screen to appear, waiting to see if any nightmares had come true over the last eight hours. The lock screen came up, and I read the message of it.

the front. Five missed calls. Uh-oh. I went to dial Megan back and got a shock when the phone began to buzz. Incoming call from Megan. Oh, Christ, this is it. Let's see what's really going on here. I tentatively brought the phone to my ear and answered it. I whispered, shaking, expecting to hear something about laundry. It was her. I'm almost in the neighborhood. I got your call that you were leaving work early, but you hung up before I could say anything. I didn't know when to come home, and I didn't want to get there alone. You weren't answering your phone, so I just waited until you were off work, so I could... Chills shot up and down my spine. My voice, hoarse with sudden panic, screamed at her.

No, my phone has been dead since I got to work. Turn around right now and go back to your friends. Stay there. She let out a little scream. I heard the squealing of tires in the background as her car pulled a U-turn. Oh my God. Babe, that means that it's there right now. She shrieked in panic.

I know, Megan. I'm going to be stupid. Stuck here for tonight. You stay put. Stay safe. Please. I love you. I love you too. I'm so scared, John. I'm so scared. Me too. With that, I hung up. I promptly went to the cabinet and took a shot. Then another. I thought about what she just said. How it was here, right. now, waiting somewhere for her to return. I went to the balcony and moved the blinds open a little. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. It started to dawn on me that something had called

her this time, mimicking me. That meant there was either one trying to fool both of us, or two things targeting us individually. I looked towards my car, anxious as to what I'd witness. It was parked farther down in the apartment complex and I couldn't really see anything from the window. I sure as hell wasn't going to go out and check either. The couple of drinks I'd had put me in a fuzzy, sleepy state. Not drunk, just overwhelmingly tired. I texted Megan, making sure everything was okay and passed out in my bed. It wasn't a good sleep at all.

I jerked awake every hour or so in my bed for no reason. Each time I awoke I would check my phone. No missed calls. I turned the phone to a ring setting so that a call would wake me up in case Megan had an emergency. I'd check the phone and drift back off into an uneasy sleep. Wake up, repeat. This kept going until four this morning when my phone made. made a loud beep.

Megan had texted me. Hey, I'm just going to head home now. Nothing weird has happened, and I work in four hours. See you soon. What was she doing? I had explicitly told her to stay where she was. It wasn't worth the risk to sleep in a familiar bed. If she was tired, she could goddamn call into work.

She was running the risk of running into that monster outside her car door. Seriously, what was she thinking? I called her, no answer. Again, no answer. I texted her telling her to turn back around. She didn't pick up or respond to anything I sent her. I did this for about 20 minutes when my phone rang. It was her.

I answered it and spat. What the fuck are you doing? Get away from the apartment! There was a pause, and then the most blood-curdling shrieks I've ever heard came through the speaker of my phone. It was Megan's voice. Megan's screams of terror. It went on for a few moments until she bawled. It got me.

The terrifying words replayed in my head endlessly. It's got me. I jumped up instinctually, dropping the phone to the ground. I flung the bedroom door open, grabbed a bat from the closet, and stomped out the front door into the apartment complex hallway. Every qualm I'd had against facing this thing had disappeared the moment I got that call. I was trembling in rage. It had Megan, the girl of my dreams, the kind of woman that made a life worth living.

I was going to destroy this creature. I was going to stare into its ogling black eyes until I saw the terror that it had once instilled in me. It would fear me as I once feared it. And when that hopeless, soul-absorbing fear flashed across. its gaze, I would beat it until there was nothing left but a stain on the concrete. I walked out of the apartment into the cool night air. The wind was calm. Everything was still. Gripping the bat tightly in my hands, I stalked between cars in the parking lot, calling out for Megan. My eyes darted to and fro, scanning the vehicles for Megan's red,

sedan, searching for her, searching for it. I must have walked the perimeter three times before I realized that Megan's car wasn't there. She wasn't here. Thoughts raced in my head. They'd found her at her friend's home. They caught her while on the road. She could be anywhere. A sinking feeling of fear overpowered me. she hadn't called me at all and this was a trap for me. Any bravado I had disappeared. I ran towards my car, dropping my bat while fumbling with the car keys. I stood outside the door for a moment, fingers trembling, trying to find the right key.

I looked up to unlock the car when I saw someone staring back at me. It was that same sinking feeling in your gut when you almost fall backwards out of a chair, that sudden jolt to your consciousness. My first thought was that it had gotten in my car and was waiting for me. I did a double take and looked at the person. My fear subsided a bit when I realized it was Megan. She must have gotten into my car to escape whatever was after her. Her face was normal, her green eyes, the narrow chin.

It was really her. I yanked open the door and told her to hop into the passenger seat, but she didn't budge. She looked at me and smiled. Something felt off again. She opened her mouth and spoke to me. I'm so scared, John. I love you too. I just waited until you were off work.

Each sentence she spoke was disjointed, the inflection varying wildly from each punctuated phrase, one of fear, one of anxiety, one normal. Her lips didn't match the words coming out. I stepped back to the end of the car, horrified by the obvious. This wasn't Megan. I'd been duped. Its trick had worked. It got me.

A long, thin leg emerged from the open door as it pulled itself from the seat. Each limb was contorted, lanky, and stretched. It stood up a foot taller than me. It continued to smile as it began screeching those same panicked words that I had heard from the phone. The same shrieks of exasperated fear that my girlfriend had made minutes ago. Oh my God! Its lips, moving at their own pace, continued to scream at a disjointed speed. Megan's familiar face, watching me, plastered onto an unfamiliar monster.

I hadn't moved that whole time. There just aren't the right kind of words to explain what ran through my head. It was empty, blank, devoid of analysis. I just watched, unable to function as she towered over me. It took a step forward at the same frightening, unnatural speed as days prior. That movement jolted me back to my senses. In half a second, she stood six inches away from me. Her neck craned over my head, staring directly.

downwards into my eyes. I didn't scream. I stumbled backwards, turned tail, and sprinted faster than I ever have before in my entire life. As I ran towards the apartment door, I heard nothing behind me except those painful screams. No footsteps, no panting, no sounds that would indicate a speedy chase. That run felt like forever, my feet clomping loudly, punctuated by the shrieks. On the last stretch, stupidly, I turned my neck around to catch an eye at what was behind me. It was right fucking there. That was when screams began pouring out of my throat. I screamed wildly, uncontrollably loud.

Each sprinting step I took, it took five smaller shuffling steps to match. It moved like a cassette tape on fast forward. Each movement a blur, each stride, a jittery shake. Its footsteps made no sound. It didn't breathe. It was unnaturally silent except for the screams from its chattering lips. I swung open the door, jumped the steps four and a little bit. a time and locked myself in the apartment. Darkness, emptiness, maniacal screeching behind the

four inches of wood between my apartment and the hallway. I looked through the peephole and almost threw up. On the other side, a big green eyeball was staring back in. It had followed me up. It was outside my apartment. I went in my room and cried for the rest of the night, gasping sobs escaping at each tiny thump I heard. There were no calls on my phone, no texts. I sat against the wall, knees tucked up under my neck, shaking. I stared at the phone until the night took me. That was last night, or very early this morning, I guess. I woke screaming to the sun filtering through my window. I stumbled to the bathroom and opened it.

Nothing. The closet, nothing. I checked every nook, every little hiding spot that I knew existed in the apartment. Nothing, nothing. I crept to the front door, shivering as I raised an eye to the people. Nothing. I swung open the blinds to the balcony and stepped outside. There was nothing but a few neighbors leaving for their morning commute.

No screams, no gangly doppelgangers. There was just nothing. Still very upset. I went back in the room and checked the phone. I had one missed text message from Megan. Oh, thank God. I sighed in relief. She was okay.

Through all of the bullshit that had happened just a few hours ago, she was okay. I looked at the message. Nothing weird has happened. See you soon. I threw the phone at the wall and broke down once more. Right now, as I'm saying this, at 7.38 p.m., she still still. hasn't come home. That is what worries me the most, because if these things can only mimic things they've seen or heard from us, then what had happened to Megan to make her scream

like that for so long? Your episode has come to an end. Thank you for spending time with us at the No Sleep Podcast. If you would like to learn how you can hear the full-length version of this episode, feature many more stories, please visit the no sleeppodcast.com and click on the season pass link. Purchasing a season pass will help support everyone who contributes to the podcast, and in return you'll get 25 full-length episodes and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 1999. This is David Cummings. Thank you for listening, and join us again. for the next episode of the No Sleep Podcast.