The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S4E13

Episode Date: October 19, 2014

It's episode 13 of Season 4. We have six tales for you in this episode featuring stories about sneaky serial slayers, errant emails, and ghostly family frights. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first three tales.  "Ghosts of Nagasaki" written by Ryan Marc and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:05:10) "Fresh Luck to Its Owner" written by Anton Scheller and read by Tom Rosenzweig and David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:15:55) "Find Her" written by Brad Blackwell and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:33:50) "An Email I Should Never Have Received" written by Shane Fliger and read by Peter Lewis & David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:48:55) "You're Next" written by V. S. Finlayson and read by David Cummings and Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts at 01:29:45) "He Said His Wife Was Pregnant" written by Annie Nichols and read by Corinne Sanders, Jessica McEvoy, and David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:48:10) Click here to enter the Daylight Dims Contest! Click here to learn more about Daylight Dims Click here to learn more about Anton Scheller Click here to learn more about Brad Blackwell Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: David Cummings & Brandon Boone "Ghosts of Nagasaki" illustration courtesy of Lukasz Godlewski 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, the freight, fright. It's time to give into your fear. There will be no sleep. The no sleep pot. Trust me when I tell you, that was not the worst thing my grandfather saw

while he was at war. The only weird thing is that the person in the mirror does not look like the one photos. My mind would only let me process the image one fraction at a time. Out of the corner of my eyes. I saw a dark maroon sedan slow down as it drove past our house.

What the cops found in that house haunted their dreams. I had seen the files, gotten glimpses of photos of evidence after stepping through doors I shouldn't have. I saw things. It's episode 13 of season four. Welcome to the show. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have six tales for you in this episode, featuring stories. about sneaky serial slayers, errant emails, and ghostly family frights.

With Halloween fast approaching, what would October be without some tantalizingly terrifying treats to shell out to some of our lucky listeners? Well, it's time to have another No Sleep podcast contest. This time, we're giving away five prize packs of the new, anthology series Daylight Dims, Volume 2. Yes, Darkness descends again. Daylight Dims, Volume 2 features 13 stories that cross the genres of surreal dark fantasy and heart-pounding dread. This annual horror anthology is guaranteed to twist your perception of horror. From the common, comfortable tropes to the more taboo.

These hand-picked tales have a literary aspect designed to showcase what true horror can be. Daylight Dimms is bigger and better than ever. New authors and artists have joined the team, and this year's edition includes two bonus stories from the editors, J.W. Zulow and Christopher Mallory. Christopher has contributed his writing to his writing to, the podcast in the past, so it's exciting to be able to bring their latest book to the attention of all of you. Each prize pack will contain digital copies of volumes one and two of daylight dims, along with high-res versions of all the great original artwork which accompanies each story.

This really is a package worth having, reading, and viewing. Ideally, when the lights are low and the house is empty. Well, you hope it's empty. To enter, just go to contests.com and answer the no-sleeppodcast.com and answer the trivia question you'll find on the page. Email your answer to the address provided and you'll be entered to win one of the five prize packs. Check out the show notes for this episode to learn more about daylight dims and the team that brings it to you. The contest runs from October 18th till October 29th. The winners will get their prize pack sent to them just in time for Halloween night.

How's that for a tricky treat? Make sure you check out Daylight Dims, Volume 2. It's time for the witching hour. And before we begin, I want to welcome our newest narrator, Tom Rosenzweig, to the show. He'll be joining us on this week's second story, so we welcome Tom to the podcast. And now, as the daylight dims, let's start this week's show. In our first tale, we hear a story told by a veteran of World War II. It's shared by his grandson, and in it we hear about what this marine experienced in the final days of the conflict.

Author Ryan Mark explains what his grandfather saw as he and his comrades entered a desolate Japanese city, a city devastated in the most horrific way possible. Come with us and witness the horrors of the ghosts of Nagasaki. On August 9, 1945, a plume of smoke and fire engulfed the city of Nagasaki. The hellfire and its subsequent radioactive plume claimed the lives of 39 to 80,000 people over the next two weeks. A large portion of these deaths resulted from the shock and the stupor of having just survived something believed impossible. As many as 5,000 people walked down to the shores of the Yurakami River and waded into the water to alleviate the pain from the radiation burns on

their skin. Many of these people stunned with complete shock promptly drowned. On August 23rd, elements of the 2nd Marine Division entered the destroyed city to restore order from chaos. One of men sent into the city was Lance Corporal Richard Murphy, my grandfather. Now contrary to popular belief, the idea of a nuclear explosion creating an irradiated wasteland is mostly myth. Most of the radiation was gone from Nagasaki by the time my grandfather entered the city. The stuff that remained had not. The stuff that remained had mostly settled to the ground and could be washed off at the end of the day. My grandfather had survived numerous contacts with the enemy. On Tinian, Saipan, Guadalcanal and Okinawa.

On Okinawa, they were told that the local populace may be hostile, and if met with any aggression or even suspicion of... aggression, they were to use deadly force. Once on a patrol they encountered an hysterical woman running towards their elements, holding a box. The Zippo, or Flamethrower, lit her up, and she kept on running while all the while getting slower and slower, until she fell onto her knees and dropped the now disintegrating box onto the ground. What was in the box was a newborn baby. Trust me when I tell you, that was not the worst thing my grandfather saw while he was at war. In Nagasaki, my grandfather's platoon was tasked to patrol along a section of the Yuracami

River. By this point in time, most of the bodies had been moved, but there were a few people still flash frozen in place. Alternatively, most of the bodies in the Yurikami had already been washed downstream and presumably out into the ocean. The third day of patrolling, my grandfather, heard a, hey, Murph! And turned around to see a young Japanese man running towards him. Turns out it was a Japanese national who attended college with my grandfather. Upon graduating, he returned back to his hometown, Nagasaki. The two men shared a smoke, talked about their time at school.

and generally spoke of everything except about the destruction and death that surrounded them. They parted ways with the young man offering to buy my grandfather a few beers, if he could still find a bar standing. They shook hands and went their separate ways. It was the day after this event when reality started to blow. Imagine my grandfather had been fighting an enemy. He had seen the destructive power of both sides in the conflict. He himself having been awarded for bravery under fire, as well as being credited for calling in a naval bombardment in which an estimated 23 enemy soldiers were killed.

Yet here he was in a double bombardment. desolated wasteland in his enemy's own country, and being one of the first and last people who have ever in history experienced what a nuclear weapon could do to a city that just two weeks prior was lively and thriving, filled with men, women and children, happy lives, far away and previously detached from the horrors of the war. This would psychologically affect most, if not all, people. It was a night patrol. My grandfather was out with a small fire team, six men,

patrolling through the deserted and fouled wasteland. They were walking along the shore of the, Yurakami when the man on point exclaimed, I think I see a body. He pointed in the direction of the river about 10 meters from shore, but then decided it was just his imagination. They continued their patrol. Body, I'm sure this time.

There was a hand sticking out of the army. of the surface of the water, just a mere meter from the shore. They attempted to retrieve it, but it was a detached hand. If it was a full body, they would have done something about it. Pulled it up on shore, logged its location. But it was just an arm. They left it on the bank. They walked another five minutes, then took a small break.

lit up some lucky strikes and dicked around for a few minutes. Talked about girls, talked about home. Generally, anything they could talk about to keep their minds off of the devastation surrounding them. Eventually... Damn, another one. Look out, about 20 meters. A hand bobbing along the surface. Then another, and another, they started breaking the water, 3, 10, 20, 50.

Then they started moving towards the shore, the hands with the fingers moving, the wind blowing over the flat land with no buildings obstructing its howl. The men panicked. One let off a few rounds from his grand into the water. They ran. They ran from the Yurakami and did not look back. I was the only person in my family that my grandfather told this story to. Just like I was the only person he told the story about the young girl with the newborn baby. He told me this story after he developed lung cancer. No, it wasn't the radiation, but a life of smoking. He told me this story and wondered out loud what was on the other side.

He was wondering if he was going to be like one of the hands crossing the Yurikami, grasping and groping for some meaning. He wondered if when he reached the other side, if there would be someone there to take his hand and pull him up. He also wondered if he would see those he affected, those he failed to pull up himself. It's not often we think about our identity, who we really are. What if you found yourself alone and complains? completely unaware of who you are or who you were. In this tale from author Anton Scheller,

we meet a man who is bestowed a special gift, a gift that ends up changing him profoundly forever. Narrator Tom Rosenzweig reads the tale for us as we discover the strange inscription found on the gift, an inscription that wishes fresh luck to its owner. I saw it 16 years ago. Still remember every detail of the watch.

I was on a road trip with friends. I don't remember the city name. We stopped because the bars looked inviting. And I think because we saw a group of slightly undressed girls walking into one of them. A round of drinks, dance, around, trying to chat up the girls. It was a good night. One of the guys hit it off with a local girl in a short black dress. The rest of us watched from the safety of the bar.

A horribly smelling guy walked past us. Somebody bought a round of tequila. I licked the salt, poured the hot and cold liquid down my throat, and bit the lime. That's where my memory ends. I woke up at the side of a road. The hard sand below me was as dry as my throat. The clothes from the party were still on my body. Black t-shirt washed out jeans, sneakers.

Apart from the fact that I couldn't see a single house in the distance, only one thing was wrong. There was a watch on my arm. Shining steel with small golden details woven around the sides. Two golden clock hands slowly moving across a silver and white background that reflected the sun. Noon. Dazed and confused, I walked along the street. It seemed like the right thing to do. At 2 p.m. I was still walking.

In the distance, in all directions, was nothing but sand, hills made of sand. My head felt heavy. The dust cloud came back. first, then a white pickup truck appeared in it. I waved frantically, and I would have jumped up and down if my body would have allowed it. The car came closer and slowed. The dust blew in my face and made me cough. I hurried after it. Brakes squeaked. Are you insane? said a rusty male voice. His face looked more broken than his voice sounded. Deep scars dug into his cheek.

Are you trying to kill yourself? What are you doing out here on your own? What's wrong with you? Even my eyes felt dry. I tried to answer. Nothing but coughs came out with my throat. Hop in. The last thing I remember was my face in the reflection of his window. The sand in my blonde hair. and my skin pale with red spots. I must have passed out in his car. Water poured in my mouth and continued into my lungs. I coughed myself awake. His shack was dirty and every corner filled with tools.

The bed felt hard under the thick pillows. He smiled. You okay, son? A croaker. sound left my voice. You'll be fine. What the heck were you thinking? I shook my head.

What's your name, son? I opened my mouth and paused. Then, without a sound, closed it again. Apparently, I had been in a desert, far away from any town that I remembered ever seeing. Beside that, I didn't remember it. any towns or any people or any names, not even my own. His name was Jack. He just called me son. He allowed me to sleep on his rotten couch. With every night, the faces I had seen on the road trip got more blurred. I remembered the short black dress, and I remembered that I had

friends and that we were on a road trip, but not more. My pockets were empty except for a few crumpled bills. The only thing I had was the watch, silver and gold. Even as I was convinced that the watch was not mine, I clicked the wristband open again and again to find any signs of my former life. The only thing I found carved intricately into the back of the watch was a short sentence. Fresh luck to its owner. was kind-hearted. He even fixed his old radio so that I could listen to the news to hopefully

hear any information about myself, or maybe just to make me remember. After four days, Jack brought me to the police station. Surprisingly, it is hard to report yourself as a missing person. They took me in, held me for a day in a cell with bare cement walls, and told me to stay in touch. Jack picked me up again. He had to drive for nearly an hour, but his was the only number I knew. Jack gave me a few of his old clothes. They had holes and the shirt was too short and the pants too wide. Still, I was glad.

I still think of him as a father. In a way, Jack granted me life. His property was uphill and shaded for part of the day by a mountain. I helped him with his farm work and in the small, dry forest near the hut. I switched between the three sets of clothes he gave me. The only thing I had with me at all times was the watch. During my breaks, I took it off over and over again to find any signs of who I was. I didn't want to be, son.

I wanted to have a name. Fresh luck. to its owner. By the day, that sentence seemed more soothing. My past life didn't seem to matter anymore. Fresh luck. New life. It must have been after about three months. Jack cut his arm on a tree stump. He ignored it. The sand and maybe other things were blown into his wound. The infection struck him down within hours. At first he was cheerful. He didn't even seem to feel the cut.

Then he got tired and hot. Then he fainted. I disinfected Jack's womb with part of his rich alcohol supply. Still, the next day, the color had turned to a light green. I drove him back to the city. I didn't know the way.

I just followed the road until science. appeared. I didn't look back. The doctors said there was a chance, but it would be expensive. I told him that we had no money and couldn't even give the name of a friend. I tried to drive back out to Jack's Hut to find money, or at least an ID, but I didn't know where to go. All I could do was to drive straight and to try and remember something. But there was nothing to do. to be remembered, just sand and dry grass and hills that all looked alike. Then the watch came to me. It reflected the setting sun, and within an instant, I knew what to do. I drove back as fast as possible, which was not very fast. By the time I arrived, Jack was attached to machines.

They said they needed to operate and that it would be expensive. They told me the pawn shop was just around the corner. The pawn shop clerk was impressed by the watch. He looked at it and smiled. Not bad. We bargained. He saw my, my desperation. In the end, he offered me just enough to pay for the operation.

We shook hands on it. I clicked on the small metal buttons to open the watch. There was no click. For more than an hour, I tried to get the watch open, or to at least push it over my hand. The only result was ripped skin and an angry pawn shop clerk. He offered me 500 for the car. By the time I arrived back at the hospital, Jack's chest had stopped moving. I sank on the floor and cried.

Nobody recognized him, no dental records. A first name and a property in the hills was not enough to find a record of who he was. For me, I had even less to go on. For three days, I lived on the street. Then I hitched a ride to a bigger town. I hitched north and west to try and get away from the heat. The rides were rare, but free. Still, the 500 were quickly gone and I got stranded in the city.

I should have at least counted the days, but when you beg for food, your mind at some point just turns off. It needs to turn off to handle the endless chain of rejection, to handle the fact that so many have so much and walk past you briskly while you have none. Sitting on that street corner, it was easy. to take the watch off and put it back on. But the moment I thought about selling it, the moment I thought about using the watch's luck, it got stuck on my hand. Once a group of youth beat me up.

They had no special reason to. They just came under the bridge and threw bottles, then some punches. They howled from the pleasure when they saw the watch. They held my arms straight while one of them knelt on my back. They tried to open it, but they too failed.

They tried to pull it off my hand but got stuck on the bone. They laughed when I screamed from the pain. Then, there was the butterfly knife. They waved it in front of my eyes. Then they set it on my skin.

I felt the cold blade. A siren. They ran. One of them was was caught, the rest escaped. They loaded him into the police car. A few minutes later, an officer walked under the bridge. He asked whether I was fine.

I said no. He can still talk. He shouted back to the car. They drove off, lying there, crying from the pain, I cursed the watch. I screamed I would do anything. anything to get rid of it. It made click. I pulled it from my arm.

That's when I knew. Despite the pain, I crawled back to the streets and in the shopping area. I sat and begged. The blood on my face brought me more coins. For two days, I just sat there. I didn't drink. I didn't eat. I didn't sleep.

I just sat and I begged. Then when night came again, I pushed myself back on my feet. I stumbled towards the party street all the time with nothing in my nose except for my own horrid smell. I arrived at 11 p.m. I found a bar without a bouncer. I tried to walk straight. There was a group of drunk youth at the counter. I bought them around, and a second, and a third. Most of them tumbled back towards the dance floor, but one stayed next to me.

He said his name was Yentel, light brown skin and dark hair. He told me about his girlfriend, where he was from. I just nodded. I bought him another two shots. Then I told him what a great guy he was. I told him that I liked him a lot. I told him that I wanted to give him a gift. The watch moved easily off my wrist.

It seemed almost too easy to push it on his. As if the watch itself was eager for a new owner. I woke up with a bad hangover on the floor of a cheap motel. At first I had problems with the language, but it quickly came to me, as if I had known it all my life. Some things still seem odd. like the distant relatives I don't recognize, but I like my degree and I like my girlfriend. I even like my name. Gentel has a nice ring to it.

The only weird thing is that the person in the mirror does not look like the one in the photos. The hair and skin and eyes have darkened, but still the person in the mirror is blonde and pale. The person in the photos is blacked. black hair and light brown skin. Even my wife says she likes the color of my skin. She says it looks and feels like dark sand. I am glad the watch is gone. Fresh luck to its owner.

My wife says that the road trip I took after graduation has changed me. She says that since then I like to help beggars. She doesn't know that they remind me of who I once was. For 16 years I have been helping beggars. For 14 years, I am married. My kids are 12 and 10. I tried hard to forget that time of my life. I tried to pretend that I have always been Yenthal.

Still, today I need to admit my past. There was a new beggar today. I saw him while handing out blankets. He had a young face, but he looked exhausted in the way that only hopelessness can make you feel. He wore a dirty sweater. He smiled when I handed in the blanket. He didn't see that I had also handed him shampoo and a toothbrush. The toothbrush fell.

He bent down to pick it up. That's when his sleeve was pulled back. That's when I saw his... shiny watch. Is there anything more sacred, more secure than one's own home? To have that space violated by a stranger is bad enough. But when the stranger is intent on doing more than just trespassing, the nightmare begins. In this tale from author Brad Blackwell, we meet a man who is sent on a sickening hunt for clues in order to save his girlfriend.

will he be able to save her in time? Will he be able to find her? If you live in Menifee, California, and there is a knock at your door tonight, don't answer it. More importantly, don't leave anyone in the house by themselves. Get your phone, call the police, and stay together. I'm sitting in this police station questioning room right now. as a warning, so that what happened to me last night won't happen to you tonight. I live on my own in suburbia.

Nice little neighborhood. The kind of place where kids will be playing out in the streets with parents doing yard work when you pull into your driveway. That's exactly how last night began. My girlfriend and I pulled in and got out of the car. We waved to the kids and had a friendly chat with Mrs. Rupp next door. This was the kind of life I always imagined. And at 20, I couldn't believe it had already happened to me. We went inside and started our evening.

We made dinner. We love cooking together. There's a symmetry between us that just, well, it works. We ate. watch some TV downstairs, just a normal night. Once it was time, we went upstairs. She started doing her nightly routine girls always do in the bathroom, and I just laid in bed reading a book.

With the fan going and the water running from the bathroom, I almost didn't hear it. I wish now that the fan was set to three instead of two, Because then everything would be different. But no, it was just faint enough for me to hear the sound over everything else. I reached over and clicked the fan off. I waited for a moment, listening. God damn it, I thought.

I put my book down on the nightstand and got up. I grabbed my zip up off the chair and threw it on. As I walked out of the room, I could hear my girlfriend starting to say something, but I wanted to get rid of whoever was at the door first. I slumped down the stairs a little pissy, thinking that if this was another solicitor trying to sell me glass cleaner, I was going to have a fit. I zipped up the jacket as I flicked the light on next to the front door. I looked through the peephole, but it was pit-pull. pitch black. I flicked the outside light on, still pitch black. I figured the light bulb had gone out again, as I've had problems with it before. Reluctantly, I twisted the deadbolt

and opened the door. Nothing. No one was there. I poked my head out to look around. The yard and driveway were empty. Looking back, I made so many horrible mistakes. I stepped out onto the welcome mat. The streets were empty and silent, minus the hum from the streetlights. I scoffed and figured it was the kids just trying to play a prank. I turned and walked back inside. After relocking the door and,

heading back for the stairs, I started to have a feeling. Something just didn't feel right in my stomach, and I knew that only one thing was going to put it at ease. Food. I walked down the hallway into the kitchen and flicked on the light. Opening up the fridge, I started to scan the shelves for something quick and easy to eat. I settled on one of those wafer, peanut butter, and chocolate bars that you get at the dollar stores. I keep them in the fridge so they don't melt in my hand when I'm eating them. I peeled back the plastic wrapper, and as I was taking my first bite, I noticed something odd out of the corner of my eye.

The window above the kitchen sink was open. I'd never open that window for the entire time I'd live there. I thought back, trying to remember when it could have happened, and then I recalled her saying that she was feeling really hot while she was doing the dishes. She must have opened it to try and cool off. I walked over and slid it shut and finally made my way back upstairs. I walked back to the bedroom and the water was still running. I went to the entrance of the bathroom. room. Did you say something earlier? I began to say, but stopped. The bathroom was empty.

Water continued to pour out of the faucet, steam floating up, clinging to the mirror. I stopped the water and turned around to scan the room. She wasn't there. Amanda? I called out. No answer. I went to the walk-in closet. Nothing. I started to leave the room, but again, something caught my eye. I glanced at my nightstand, and on top of my book was a piece of paper. It was folded in half and set up, making it look like a little tent.

I reached out and picked it up. The first thing I obviously saw was the blood. It was a bloody fingerprint on the corner of the paper. My heart started to race. Finally, my brain let my eyes pan over to read what it said. Oh, and even now, I wish it wouldn't have. It read, She's in the house. Find her. I read those six words over and over. I looked around the room again, hoping to see Amanda

just hiding in the corner, snickering, like she'd pulled off an amazing prank. But the room was empty. I walked around the room, looking behind chairs, inside the shower, inside the closet. I looked at the bed and felt like a six-year-old again, as I slowly, knelt down to look underneath. My hands had apparently been getting sweaty because they kept slipping slightly against the hardwood floor. I bent down and lifted the bed skirt up. Nothing. Just a couple of dust bunnies and an old pair of shoes that I keep meaning to throw out.

I stood back up and started to become agitated. My mind didn't know whether this was a joke or if I needed to be terrified. Amanda, this isn't funny anymore. Now just come out. Silence. Look, I'm really freaked out, so stop this. I walked out into the upstairs hallway and quickly went through all the rooms. The spare bedroom, empty.

The exercise room, empty. the other upstairs bathroom, empty. I ran downstairs and looked everywhere there, too. It was as if she just vanished, and all that was left was this note. I figured that the only thing left to do was to call the police. I ran back upstairs and into the bedroom. The bathroom faucet must have had a leak,

because as I entered, I started hearing faint drips. of water. I went to the dresser to grab my phone, but it wasn't there. Neither were my keys or wallet. I spun and looked at my nightstand. They weren't there. I grabbed my jeans I wore that day and checked the pockets. Empty! I threw the jeans on the floor in anger. I stood there for a moment without a clue of what I should do. I stormed into the bathroom and twisted the knob. I hit the faucet getting pissed, but then I froze. There was no water in the sink.

And the drip sounded further away. I slowly walked back out into the bedroom. I moved around trying to determine where it was coming from. As I moved closer to the bed, it got louder. Once again, I slowly dropped to my knees and bent over next to the bed. My hand slowly reached for the bed skirt and lifted it up. For every drip, my heart pounded 50 times. I sank my head down and looked under the bed.

And then I saw it. A small pool of red about a foot in front of me, with more dripping down from above. I jumped to my feet and pulled the sheets off the bed. I slid my hands in between the mattress and the box spring, and after a moment of hesitation, I flung the mattress up with everything I had. my throat closed instantly. I couldn't comprehend what was in front of me. My mind would only let me process the image one fraction at a time.

At first, I just saw my box spring sitting inside my bed frame. Then I saw that there was a huge tear down the middle of the box spring. And then I saw it. Amanda, inside the box spring, her beautiful face poking out from the tear. Then there was her neck which was nothing but red. The final thing that my mind let me see appeared. It was right in the center laying on her stomach. Another note.

I couldn't move. Tears were streaming down my face uncontrollably, but I didn't make a sound. My hands began to violently shake and my knees collapsed onto the edge of the box spring. I reached out and pulled Amanda's body up. My girl, my life, my everything. I wrapped my arms around her and started to scream.

The note slid off her, hitting the box spring. My hand slowly moved down towards the note, now barely even able to bend my fingers. I somehow managed to grasp the note and bring it up to my eyes. My vision was completely blurred from the tears. I wiped them against my jacket sleeve and looked at the notes. Again, there was a bloody fingerprint, but at this point it could have just been mine. Everything was hazy from those moments.

But the words, the words are forever burned into my memory. They are the reason I am sitting here now. The reason I ran out of my house screaming for help. The no trend. But where am I? 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,

featuring 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.