The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S4E06

Episode Date: August 10, 2014

It's episode 6 of Season 4. We have five tales for you in this episode featuring stories about freaky photographers, figmental friends, and frightening families. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first two tales.  Trigger Warnings "The Man with the Camera" written by Edwin Crowe and read by Peter Lewis. Music by Brandon Boone. (Story starts at 00:07:30) "Mr. Leaves" written by Michael Whitehouse and read by David Cummings and Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts at 00:17:50) "The Disappearance of Ashley Morgan" written by C.K. Walker and read by Corinne Sanders, David Cummings, and Jessica McEvoy. Music by Brandon Boone. (Story starts at 00:43:45) "Her Name Was Emma" written by S.C. Young and read by Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 01:11:45) "Relationships" written by Natasha Franks and read by Jessica McEvoy and David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:34:40) Click here for The Drabblecast Click here to learn more about Edwin Crowe Click here to learn more about Michael Whitehouse Click here to learn more about Nikolle Doolin Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: David Cummings, unless otherwise noted The NoSleep Podcast uses the PSE Hybrid Library exclusively for its sound design. This podcast is licensed under a Creative Commons License 2014. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The sunlight fades to dark. The freight flight. To give into your fear, there will be no sleep. The no sleep pot. He whispered to himself. Small chuckles peppering the solitary conversation as he began to get more excited. Something had changed to me. The house didn't feel as comfortable as it did when we first arrived.

The air had become closer and stifled. I remember a big policeman talking to me, asking me what I was. I remember had I heard anything in the middle of the night. We decided that we wanted to be lame and come up with a name for our group of friends. We decided on the Unbreakable Six, even though there really were only five of us. The door wasn't locked. I almost expected it to be, though there wouldn't be much point to that, considering how little movement the chains allow her. It's episode six of season four.

Welcome to the show. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have five tales for you in this episode, featuring story of the story. about freaky photographers, figmental friends, and frightening families. I want to make everyone aware of a new feature on our website. Thanks to the feedback of a number of listeners, we now have a page where people can find trigger warnings for applicable stories. To save time, I'll invite you to search online for what trigger warnings are,

but in a nutshell, they are short and largely spoiler-free warnings of certain themes, which some people may find upsetting. As I hope all our listeners know, I do my best to make sure our stories are frightening without going too far into graphic descriptions of heinous acts. But these are horror stories, and so there may be some tales which address themes, such as child endangerment, sexual violence, or suicide.

For those of you who need to avoid certain themes which trigger traumatic memories, you can go to triggers, the no sleeppodcast.com to see a list of episodes and only the stories on those episodes which contain potential triggers. The list is still in progress, but we'll be expanding on it soon. There will be links to that page in the show notes of any episode with a story requiring a trigger warning. It's my hope that this will allow the No Sleep podcast to be enjoyed by the widest audience possible, with entertaining and safe forms of blood-curdling terror.

As you know, I like to make our listeners aware of the other great audio fiction podcasts out there. One of the best and most lauded podcasts you should be listening to is The Drabblecast. While not strictly limited to horror audio fiction, it features, in their own words, Strange stories by strange authors to strange listeners. In August, the drabble cast will be featuring its month of HP Lovecraft-inspired tales. But don't take my word for it. Feast your ears on this short promo and be enthralled. Cumulative dread of the unknown.

The monstrous indifference of space and time. The lunatic spiraling into the abyss. The inhuman universe buried under the thin skin of humankind. Clearly, it's HP Lovecraft Month at the Drabblecast Audio Fiction magazine. Each August, the Drabblecast podcast, commissions original mythos fiction from some of your favorite authors, producing their twisted tales for the first time in full audio. Authors like Tim Pratt,

This was an escape route. So what exactly were the creatures escaping from? Jay Lake. Oddly, she wore a latex skull cap just like mine. And latex gloves, no different from my own. Her features were as familiar as my mirror. No, I thought. Not again.

Elizabeth Bear and Sarah Minette. Wasabi was probably dead by now, or dying. Wasabi and dog collar and, well, not dead. If they were lucky, they were dead. Because the opposite of Lucky was those canisters the Migo were carrying. She hoped Dog Collar was lucky. And afterwards, you hear from the authors with background about the story and their process.

I have upstairs neighbors, and one night this strange, skittering, clacking noise started up above me while I was lying in bed. I couldn't figure out what it was, and it turns out the neighbors were watching a dog for a friend, and what I heard was its claws clattering on the hardwood floors, but my mind had turned to far more ominous possibilities. Because a little scholarly wisdom never hurt anyone, right? The window, bro, the window. www.

www.drablecast.org It's the antediluvian, cacobiniacal cyclopean blab-o-whateverian event that critics everywhere are redundantly describing as indescribable. Act now. Shit up there as getting gibbis. Subscribe to the Drabblecast Audio Fiction magazine at www.trapelcast. If that snippet doesn't wet your appetite for the amazing work done by Norm Sherman and his team at the Drabblecast,

well, you clearly aren't strange enough to know a good thing when you hear it. Do yourself a favor and make the Drabblecast a regular on your list of podcasts, especially in August. You may even hear a familiar voice amongst their narrators. So we've got trigger warnings, and we've triggered your interest. in a great podcast, now it's time to start the show. In our first tale, we head down to the subway. After a late night at work, a weary traveler just wants to get home without any hassles. But as author Edwin Crow writes, he can't help but notice the strange actions of another passenger on the train. Narrator Peter Lewis reads the tale for us as we find out why it was so disturbing to sit beside

the man with the camera. I finished work late, as I always did on a Friday. The shutters on all the other shops had been long since locked shut. The air was still humid but comfortable enough that I would not be sweating the whole way to the subway station. Camden Market is an odd place at night. The area does not seem to sleep. Even past the time the revelers are gone and the bars and clubs are shut, Somewhere in town, somebody's awake and doing something.

That's when I noticed him, the man with the camera. He came into view, appeared to be in a hurry. Looking back over his shoulder, he slowed his jog to a stop, putting his hands on his knees to catch his breath. A digital SLR camera dangled down in front of him from his chubby neck. Long, labored breaths came from the man who was clearly not. fit. His body was illuminated by the yellow sodium street lighting, sweat glimmered on his balding scalp. Imitation aviator-style plastic glasses sat on his bulbous nose. His more than ample gut

pulled at his shirt buttons that did their best to hold the structural integrity of the garment. Anonymous trousers and scuffed shoes finished off his unkempt look. I broke my gaze, realizing I'd been staring at the man. I pulled earbuds out of my pocket and plugged them into my phone. By the time I looked up, after selecting the music I wanted to play, the man had gone. Sometimes I worry being on the streets after dark. The market town has so many alleys and dark tunnels that make the place foreboding. I try to stick to the high street as much as possible, but tonight the roads are silent,

so they feel just as unsafe. Thankfully, for today at least, the short walk to the subway was pleasant. I entered the station inside. Descending the escalator, a wave of cool air brushed past me on a journey to the tunnels down below, like the ghost of rush hour hoping not to miss the train. The platform was mostly deserted. Just a couple of fellow future passengers waited with me,

all staring dead ahead, secretly praying that they don't have to make small talk with the unknown people that occupied the same space as them. The train arrived on time. Through the grubby windows, I could see the cars were mostly empty. The doors opened as the train let out a hiss from the hydraulic brakes, a horribly warm, sweaty air from within wafted out like evil spirits. I took my seat, facing the doorway, waiting for it to come. close to signal the start of my homeward journey.

People sat in each of the seating units, not wanting to sit next to a stranger, creating a perfect symmetry, an algorithm that everyone took part in but did so unknowingly. As the doors began to shut, a stubby hand gripped the rubber edging, charging onto the train to ruin our seating pattern. The man with the camera sidled through the narrowing gap, letting out a noise from the pressure on his stomach. He puffed, the doors snapped shut behind him, scolding him for being late as the train slowly accelerated. His eyes, magnified by thick glasses, stared at me. I awkwardly smiled, the most I could afford the sweaty man. He smiled back and took this as an invitation to sit

next to me. I did not complain. I just crossed my legs to the other side, turning away from him slightly. The man reeked of disinfectant. I wish he just smelled of body odor. I could handle that. The acrid smell turned my stomach. He took a couple of minutes to catch his breath before he lifted his camera up and turned on the small LCD on the back. He whispered to a little. He whispered to himself, small chuckles peppering the solitary conversation as he began to get more excited. Curious, I looked over his hunched shoulders. He appeared to be reviewing the photos taken on the camera. From the looks of it, he wasn't a very good photographer, photos of a road, the street lights, too bright for the rest of the picture to be exposed well enough to make out any detail.

He changed picture every couple of seconds. The next set were from outside a house. Again, the lighting overpowering the images, but this time the light came from inside, a kitchen. As he advanced, the detail became more apparent with the zoom he had applied to the lens. A woman doing the dishes. Close-ups of her face.

She must have been in her twenties. photo after photo of her face watching TV, the screen coloring her a different way each time. Photos of her asleep in front of a still active television. A photo of a front door, a jar, warm light leaking from within to the darkness outside. A photo of a dimly lit reception hallway, a grandfather clock forever immortalized at 10.30 p.m. A photo of the back of a woman's head, taken from the threshold of a doorway. A photo in front of her as she slept in the armchair. The man rubbed his head front to back, fresh sweat, leaving his scalp, clinging to his hand.

His demeanor changed as the images became more intimate. A photo of the woman, now naked, lying on white. white silken bed sheets, appearing to be still asleep, posed with one hand behind her head and the other on her hip, her legs crossed. Then I went white. As the next photo appeared, I could feel the color drain from me. My whole body numbed. All that started in my neck, traveled in all directions, filling my limbs, a signal to turn off

my unnecessary functions to prepare for survival. My stomach tightened as my blood fled and marched to my muscles ready for battle. The woman's shocked expression, her mouth, a large O, eyes open wide, pupils dilated, trying to come to terms with the knife that had penetrated her breastbone. Her wrists tied the rope disappearing out of frame to be connected to some unknown objects. The camera advanced over the remaining images like a low frame rate movie, the life escaping her eyes frame by frame until her head came to rest on the side. The blood pooled around her body, outlining it as her lifeless form sunk into the bed. That's when I realized the sheets were plastic, collecting the blood, stopping it from bleeding away.

I stared at the subway map up above, counting each station off one at a time. I didn't dare look in his direction. I could feel him looking at me, burning holes in the side of my head. He knows I was watching, I was sure of it. The man got up as we approached my station. I stayed in my seat. As rigid as aboard, I looked ahead. The man left the subway car but stopped in front of the open doorway,

appearing to be fiddling with something. I wondered if he was waiting for me to get off too, but there was no chance of that happening. The doors shot, leaving him locked outside, but I was still tense. I was petrified. The man turned. His eyes looked straight into mine and seemed to touch my soul. He grinned, wide and sinister, and held up his camera, and as the train pulled away, he mouthed.

Did you like? I haven't slept sense. When a family moves out of the city into the bucolic splendor of an old farmhouse, they revel in the quiet beauty of their new home. author Michael Whitehouse shares his tale with us about how their young daughter copes with the change by making an imaginary friend a person who might not be as friendly as she hopes I'll read the tale along with Jessica McAvoy as we find out about how the girl came to know mr. leaves mr. leaves was here those were

the first words out of my daughter's mother's mother's mouth that morning. I dismissed the chatter as normal for a seven-year-old girl. It didn't seem strange to me that she would develop a new imaginary friend, especially under the circumstances. Change can do that to a kid, forcing them to create something to hold on to, making the world seem more secure. We had decided to move away from the city, to find somewhere a little less hectic. somewhere we could call home. As a doctor, I had to wait until an opportunity arose and was delighted when an opening appeared in the sleepy town of Winderm.

It was a quiet place, filled with pristine cottages, sun-baked streets, and lush hedge-rose, not too big, not too small, perfect for the three of us. My wife, Aaron, and I had named, our daughter Karen after an aunt, but we always called her Kip instead. It was an old English word my grandfather used when he was going to sleep. Karen loved to sleep more than most, and so Kip seemed to suit her just fine. Our new home on the outskirts of Windham Town was older than we were used to, a converted farmhouse dating back 150 years or so,

With a little bit of land thrown into the deal for good measure, we fell in love with the place immediately. When we first pulled up outside, Kip rushed up the rickety-white stairs through the wide double doors and disappeared into the embrace of her new home. She was ecstatic, roaming around the confines of the spaces inside. It was an adventure for her. Even at such a fragile age, she understood the importance of the stories old places could tell. She didn't mind the dust, the shaky banisters, or the creaking floorboards. Within ten minutes, each of the three floors had been explored by her little seven-year-old feet.

Of course, there were sure to be nooks and crannies not yet seen in the attic and cellar, but Kip was not interested in those places for now. She was only interested in her new room. I had naively told her she could choose any room in the house, and, of course, she did, the best one in the house. Aaron and I smiled at each other, watching happily as Kip darted around her new room excitedly. She loved the high ceilings because it felt grand and imposing,

like being a princess in a castle. She found the groans and squeaks that the floorboards made under her feet hilarious, pressing up and down on the loudest ones while giggling. Most of all, she loved the window. It was wide and sprawling. The farmland bobbed and weaved over flats and small hills below. An old oak tree towered alongside a vacant barn near by, The summer sky bleached the world in blues, whites, and yellows, and yet it was something much

closer which fascinated my daughter. A thick web of ivy roots had thrust out of the soil decades earlier, climbing a carefully constructed wooden frame attached to the house, which rose as high as the roof. The ivy had clawed and fingered its way across the wooden slats of the farmhouse, almost entirely covering that side of the building. The surrounding land was in full bloom, everything vibrant and green. The fields were swathed in tall crops, which poked out of the soil like a million city dwellers standing still in the sun. Everything was alive and vivid.

Well, that was, except for the climbing ivy. Its vines were spindly, yet clung to the wooden frame of the house with deceptive strength. A vast sea of leaves brown and withered reached up across the wooden wall, encircling Kip's window. There was something troubling about those vines, clashing against, almost strangling the possibilities of summer. Kip didn't mind. In fact, she was enamored by them.

having me open the window so she could caress the golden leaves which touched the sill. The first night in the house was like any spent in a new place, unfamiliar creaks and sounds echoing out through the darkness. I'm often a deep sleeper, but the uncertainty of the old house left me checking every bump and movement I heard throughout the night. I switched the lights on, checked the doors, and then looked in on. on Kip. She slept soundly, but I noticed that the window was still open, letting in the cool night's breeze. I tried to shut it, but it felt jammed or stuck, the old flaking paint and

grime, freezing it into position after years of little use. I told myself I'd fix it in the morning. After all, Kip was two floors up, and we were a decent distance from any other house. I felt she'd be quite safe with the window open. Kip loved to sleep in, and it was Saturday, and our first full day at our new home, so I let her sleep until ten in the morning. When I entered her room with a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice, I noticed how cold that big old room could get, even in the summer. She lay on her bed, still asleep. I gently woke her, and it was then that she spoke those bewildering words. Mr. Leaves was here.

She seemed frightened, so we talked about it. He scares me, Daddy. She offered, but didn't want to say any more. I comforted her, saying that it was probably just a bad dream, and that moving to a new place can be pretty scary by itself, but she still seemed uneasy. It was obvious to me. that she was speaking about an imaginary friend, but the conversation disturbed me enough that

I talked it over with my wife, worried that our daughter might not be adjusting well to the move. It's hard to leave your friends and school behind. That day, more of our things from the old home arrived. Slowly, the house began to feel like ours, and I enjoyed wandering around it, taking in the glorious view of the crop fields. In the late afternoon, I went up to Kip's room with my toolbox, determined to close the window to stop her from catching a summer cold. As I chipped away at the dirt and flaked paint which had jammed the window open, I looked down and could see that Kip was playing away from the house, sitting on an old rope swing which hung from the oak tree by the barn. She looked happy.

Finally, the window budged, and I was able to close it. On the second night, I didn't sleep well at all, and by the morning I felt shattered. Something had changed to me. The house didn't feel as comfortable as it did when we first arrived. The air had become closer and stifled. Again, I let Kip sleep in for a while before bringing her breakfast. She was already awake when I entered, and when I asked her how she had slept, she replied, Not good, Daddy.

When I inquired why, she whispered, Mr. Leaves was watching me from outside. I looked over at the window for a moment, a chill running up my back. Can you tell him to go away? Kip asked. Again, I reassured her and gave her a big hug. Soon she was playing on the swing again by the barn. For most of that day, I tried to get my files in order. I wasn't due at the doctor's office in town for another two weeks,

but I wanted to be as prepared as possible. Aaron took care of some business at the bank, while Kip continued to smile and giggle as she always did, running around the house, playing games. Most kids get bored during the summer holidays, but she always had a way of engaging with the world, which meant she never had a dull moment. I remember it being just after two in the morning.

It was dark, but something had pulled me from a heavy sleep. Uncertain at first as I opened my eyes to the darkness, I finally realized what it was. Kip was talking. I didn't want to disturb Aaron, and I knew it was probably just my daughter talking in her sleep, as she has done before. But as I walked barefoot across the creaking floor towards her room, I kept thinking about those words. Mr. Leaves was watching me. As quietly as possible, I reached the door and could still hear her talking loudly.

Her words muffled slightly. I knocked and entered. The window was once again open, and Kip was leaning out of it, chatting away. On asking her what she was doing, she turned slowly towards me and said, I'm talking to Mr. Leaves. I rushed over to the window and saw nothing but the cool summer night, and the climbing ivy fluttering slightly at the present. presence of a sudden breeze.

He keeps looking at me, Daddy, said Kip, as I put her back into bed. I closed the window and slept in an armchair next to her until morning. The following day, the sun absolutely split the sky. It was perfect weather, and I decided that it would be good to get Kip to help me with some chores, hoping that keeping her active would help her sleep. more soundly at night. In the morning, we cut and raked the front and back lawns. We then dug out some weeds around a flower bed. Kip and Aaron found it hysterical when they soaked me with the hose while watering the plants. Finally, I decided that Kip and I should take a look at the old barn.

It had been included in the sale of the house, but hadn't been used for years. I had only been in it Once, when viewing the property months previous, and that was just a quick peek without going inside. It was the house I was really interested in. Kip had been helping her mom wash the car when I took her hand and said, Fair Maiden, are you ready for an adventure? She replied with delight. Aaron smiled approvingly. Okay, let's go.

I grabbed her hand and led her round to the side of the house where her window looked out high above. Picking her up and putting her on my shoulders, she laughed loudly. Go, Daddy, go. I ran forward towards the old barn, but as we passed the oak tree on the way, she suddenly stopped laughing. At first, she asked quietly, Where are we going? Another few footsteps, and it wasn't long before she burst into tears,

shouting and pleading for us to go back to the house. I stopped immediately, shocked by her response, and gave her a big hug as my wife came running. What's wrong, honey? Asked Darren. Through tears and a shaking voice, Kip replied, Betty was taking me to the barn. And why did that upset you?

Mr. Leaves, Mr. Leaves. At that, she continued to sob and cry. Aaron comforted her as I marched inside. I was going to put a stop to this nonsense. Grabbing my toolbox, I ran up the stairs and into Kipp's room. In a few minutes, the job was done, and the window had been nailed shut. There'd be no more talking to Mr. Leaves.

After making Kip her favorite supper and letting her stay up a little later than usual to watch a film with us, we both tucked her into her bed back upstairs. She didn't seem upset, and when we brought up the idea of her moving rooms, she swore to us that everything was fine. She really did love that room.

Aaron read her a story. We kissed her good night, and then we went to bed, to the sound of screaming. No one can underestimate the power of a child's cry for help on a parent. I leapt out of bed and tore across the hallway in the dark, bursting into Kip's room. She lay in the middle of the floor, sobbing in fear. My eyes had yet to adapt to the darkness,

but as I instinctively stepped forward to pick my daughter up from the floor, I knew that I was not alone. A sharp pain seared across the back of my head as I fell to the floor, dazed. Kip screamed as she clutched onto me for dear life. The sound of feet came once more, and as I rolled over, I saw my wife Aaron running through the doorway. I tried to warn her, but the strike to the back of my head had left me both bloodied and sluggish. As any loving mother would, Aaron ran to her family's aid. A tall, darkened figure then reached out from behind the door, grabbing my wife's throat with grizzled hands and smashing her head straight into a wall.

Her body crumpled to the floor. I staggered to my feet and began swinging my arms as hard as I could at the beast, but in such a day's the warm trickle of blood running down the back of my neck, it was easy to be outfought. Oh, I tried my best, damn it. I tried. Something smashed against my jaw, then my nose, crushing it into my face. I gasped and fell to the floor. Kip held on to me once more, screaming, crying, her world undone.

There was no comfort I could give, no offer of protection. The blood from my shattered nose filled up my mouth as I lay on my back. I tried to rise once more, only to be battered again by an unlawed. unseen force. Kip sobbed, and in that moment I knew, I had failed her. All figures stooped in the darkness, grabbing Kip by her long locks of beautiful brown hair, and yanked her head backwards. She would not let go of me. Again, the figure pulled sharply, this time wrenching my daughter straight out of my arms and lifting her up by her hair. Suddenly the room was bathed in a shower of shattered glass. I looked up and saw the beast which had my daughter by the hair. The creature

which had set out to destroy my family, it was a man, just a man. But the thing which had burst through the window was anything but human. In the darkness I saw them struggle. The man was powerful, no doubt, but his opponent was big and quick. It was the shape of a person, but as it moved, I could hear the loud rustling of its construction. The man let out a cry, a pitiful, begging sound, Pleading for mercy. He dropped Kip to the floor, nothing but the rustling of leaves in the night. No.

One last gasp was heard as our attacker was dragged through the open window. To his death, I don't know how long I was passed out for, but it was Aaron who woke me. The attack had left her unconscious for a time, but she was okay. Help to my feet, we both staggered over to where Kip was standing. She was leaning out of the window, crying. But they weren't tears of fear or physical pain. I knew that sound well.

It was the cry of grief and loss. Looking down below, the still-dead corpse of our attacker lay on the ground, covered by a blanket of leaves which slowly blew away into the distance. We hugged each other and consoled Kip as she stared out into the night. Mr. Leaves, Mr. Leaves. When the police arrived, they quickly identified the intruder as James Greck, a man who was wanted for questioning in connection to a series of child. rape accusations. He had been hiding in the old barn for a while, most probably because the house

had been empty for a number of years. When he saw that a family had moved in with a young daughter, he couldn't resist the opportunity. We quickly moved from the old farmhouse to a new place across town, but even then, we didn't last long. The memory of that night, being so close to where it all took place was too much for Aaron and me. But most of all, we wanted to protect our daughter. Within six months, we had left the town of Wyndham for good. Kip is now 10 years old. She's happy and continues to surprise us day by day. She says she wants to be an explorer. There's all sorts of stuff out there waiting to be found, she says. After that night, I tend to agree with her.

I often think about what happened that night and what it was that we saw. What saved us? The only hint of an explanation was given to me a month before we left Winderm. I was drinking in a local bar and started chatting to an off-duty police officer who had attended the scene that night when we were attacked. It's a shame you left the old farm. That place deserves a nice family, he said, downing his sixth beer. How can a place deserve anything? I asked. I suppose it's silly.

I knew the previous owners, Mr. and Mrs. Demetra. Nice folks. Live there for years, cared for the place. And what does that have to do with a family living there? Well, they loved kids, but never had any of their own. I don't know why. What I do know is that everyone around here loved both of them. They always did nice things for the kids, helping out as such.

I still don't understand. I pressed. They were always doing stuff for the kids of the town. Halloween, Christmas, whenever. And I just think it would have been nice if their old farmhouse went to a family with kids, that's all. It was then that I plucked up the courage, whether it was the alcohol or the timing, I don't know, to ask the question I needed answered most. The question I hadn't dared asked anyone for fear of looking stupid. But by then I was leaving, so it didn't matter. I just had to know. Say, have you ever heard of Mr. Leaves? I asked nervously. The man laughed.

Of course I have. I was shocked. Someone knew about the house. He continued. Oh, when Mrs. Dmitra passed away, the old man was heartbroken about losing his wife. He threw himself into volunteering around the town. You know the Wyndham Park in the middle of town? I nodded. That was Mr. Dmitra that did that. Used to be all overgrown and barren, but he got the community interested in chipping in.

So we all sorted it out together. The old man could move mountains. Anyway, he just worked away at fixing the park and planting trees, as well as keeping his own garden going before he passed away. I started to ask a question before being interrupted. What does this have to... Really into his gardening, was Mr. Dmitra? Or, as the kids called him, old Mr. Leaves. For 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, featuring many more stories, please visit the nosleeppodcast.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.