The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S4E18

Episode Date: November 30, 2014

It's episode 18 of Season 4. We have six tales for you this week, featuring stories about chilling children, sinister shapes, and hunted hunters. Trigger Warnings The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first three tales.  "Tug" written by M. Grayson and read by David Ault. (Story starts at 00:02:55) "To A Child, Memories Are Everything" written by Maggie Louise and read by Corinne Sanders. (Story starts at 00:15:50) "The Aquarium" written by T. Ryoko and read by L. Bentley. (Story starts at 00:27:40) "A.I." written by Anton Scheller and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:39:10) "Parallelograms" written by N.K. Taite and read by Jessica McEvoy & David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:09:40) "The Deer Gods" written by Andrew Harmon and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:29:10) Click here to learn more about Anton Scheller Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: David Cummings & Brandon Boone "The Aquarium" 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. To give it to your fear, there will be no sleep. The no sleep pot. Dirty feeling I described washed over me a hundredfold stronger than any time I've touched a person. I remember the way he crawled into my window

like some desperate beast of a human. A little past a half hour, I heard it. The tail-tail drip of water cascading off a wet body and onto the floor. He wanted not just to be able to reward toxic, but he also wanted to be able to be able to be able to be in. able to punish him she began to hand me paper after paper filled with her nonsensical diagrams and numbers the red light of my headlamp revealed that a pool of blood had saddled into the bowl of the

sea it's episode 18 of season four welcome to the show i'm your host david cummings we have six tales for you this week featuring stories about chilling children sinister shapes and And hunted hunters. With December almost upon us, we're entering into the holiday season. I hope all of our American listeners enjoyed a fun and festive Thanksgiving. With your tummies full of turkey and stuffing, we'll try to go easy on you this week. Just a reminder that we'll have our yearly Christmas episode coming up in a few weeks, So even in the midst of all the candy canes and elves and reindeer,

remember that the holiday season can still have room for some scary stories each week. And, well, that's all I have to say this week. So pass the cranberries and let's start the show. In our first tale, we meet a man who has a unique way of experiencing his body. As we learn from author M. Grayson, This man imagines odd tendrils which grow from his back. Fanciful, to be sure, but he soon realizes that they might not reside solely in his mind. Narrator David Alt reads the tale for us, and we find out what happens when the man feels a tug.

I'm not really sure how to explain it to you. It's like trying to explain the color blue to a person blind from birth. so I hope you'll be able to follow along and understand as best you can. You see, I have two garlands. That's what I call them. They extend like long trailing ribbons, one from each of my shoulder blades. And they're invisible, and normally several yards long, but without a fixed length, really. You hear about amputees in their phantom limb syndrome,

where they can feel the missing limb and it feels wholly real to them. It's like that. only I don't think my garlands were ever missing. My garlands don't interact with the world around me, so I couldn't pick up something with them or even feel textures or pressures like your fingers would, but I can move them. They seem to react strongly to large metal structures.

My office has a walkway in a room with a very high ceiling with bare metal archways, and every time I pass under, I can feel my garlands arc mechanically from archway to archway. It feels like the way electrical currents look when they arc, if that makes any sense, hence my verb choice. Other than that, they are completely under my conscious control,

just like my legs or fingers. When I was little, I didn't understand that no one else had them. They're so real, I feel them and move them at all times, ever lingering on the edge of my perception in the way that you simultaneously are and are not, always conscious of your own fingers. When I was very young and would scribble cray and doodles of my family, I would draw everyone with garlands.

I vaguely remember my parents finding it cute that I thought everyone had four arms, and in utter innocence I was wholly confused as to why my parents didn't think they had garlands. After many such corrections, I started to realize that maybe some other people didn't have garlands in the same way that some people were in wheelchairs and some people had red hair and some people were dark-skinned and girls didn't have pee-wees. I continued to draw myself with garlands. I called them Wibbons. I had a difficult time pronouncing letter R. It was just a fact of life, a menial feature. My parents grew concerned the more I questioned them about my wibbons, to the point of taking me to the doctors for x-rays of my back and

other tests which revealed nothing abnormal. Can you imagine the frustration? To this day, my parents will sometimes tease me about my childhood imaginary friend taking the form of extra body parts. As I grew older, I steadily learned that I was alone in my possession of Wibbons. I secretly began thinking of them as garlands, as they feel like they'd look like the shiny Christmas tree garlands you'd wrap around your tree, if they were visible, of course. I kept quiet. about them, not wanting to worry my parents or become an object of ridicule amongst my classmates. I learn things about the garlands, too. When I'm at rest and not actively moving them, they will sort of lie flat, exactly like real ribbons would under gravity. When I get excited or

restless, the garlands respond and undulate with greater frequency. The two garlands never get entangled with each other. Obviously, they don't get tangled with any other object. but I feel like they could wrap around my body, so I make sure that they are not under the covers with me in bed. I have always slept on my stomach so that I can make them swirl around in loops as I fall asleep. This is a very comforting thing to do. I also don't like touching people with them.

People can't touch my garlands, but I can touch people with them. It feels dirty to do this, like I'm committing some sort of personal violation, like touching a random woman's breast or spying on someone urinating. It's not erotic in any way, just something strongly inappropriate, like standing in an elevator facing away from the door, a minor taboo. Sometimes I'll touch someone by accident and I'll instinctually blush and apologize to the person's slight bewilderment.

All in all, I've never put much thought into it. I've always had my gardens. They're just a part of me. me. I've wondered if it isn't some psychological or neurochemical malfunction like the Phantom Hand syndrome, but they've never caused me pain or even inconvenience besides needing some personal space and sleeping in unusual positions. That is, until last week. I'm 25 years old, and my garlands have never been anything in all those years more than a passing quirk or an afterthought, some sort of mildly unique trivia. I've lived with them.

and they're a part of me just like my eye colour or the mole on my calf. Last Sunday though, something happened. As I wrote earlier, I fall asleep lying on my stomach, tracing swirls and designs in the air with my garlands. It's calming, relaxing and purely habitual routine. I went to bed around 2 a.m. that night, and as I lay with my blankets tucked around me just under my shoulder blades, I began my normal routine of drawing spirals with both. garlands. I was just on the edge of falling asleep when my right shoulder blades garland began to arc like I was walking near metal. It was wild and frenetic.

I stopped swirling the left garland and tried to pull the rapidly erratically arcing right one back down but it wouldn't obey. Then I felt the most horrifying sensation I've ever experienced. Someone grabbed my right garland and tugged. It wasn't a violent or painful tug, but the sensation that it was deliberate was inescapable. That dirty feeling I described washed over me a hundredfold stronger than any time I'd touched a person. The pit of my stomach lurched. I felt violated, as if someone horrible had touched me so intimately and so privately in the most sacred part of me without my permission. The word rape flashed in my mind.

It was just a small tug, and then whatever had grabbed my ribbon released. But the gross, dirty feeling lingered. I stumbled to the bathroom crying as I vomited. I wiped myself up as best as I could and put on all the lights. My roommate had been asleep in her room downstairs. No one and no thing was in the house besides her and me. I showered. I can't begin to contain the feeling of repulsion and violation in words.

I didn't sleep that night, and all the lights in the apartment were left on. For the first time in memory, I laid in bed with my covers tucked my chin, and garlands rigidly puddled underneath of my back. Nothing further happened that night, and I dragged myself to work exhausted the next morning. I kept my garlands firmly close to me all day. not letting them stream or fidgeting with them as I normally do. I even took the long way around, coming and going, so that I wouldn't pass under the metal arches.

I took off early and able to concentrate on work. The next four days passed uneventfully. I slept nervously on my back and fully under the covers, and slowly began to dismiss the entirety of those events as a bad dream or some sort of hypnagogic reaction. Still, I refused to flex and play with it. my garlands. Last night, I had gone out and had some beers with friends. Feeling better and more secure, I let my ribbons swirl about in the bar and traced patterns on the taxi roof on the way

home. A little tipsy from the alcohol, I didn't dwell much on the prior events as I prepared for bed. I snuggled into my normal prone sleeping position and absent-mindedly began twirling my streamers into shapes and waves as I drifted off. Then the right garland began to vibrate. seizing and arcing. I barely had time to register and react before I felt it. Tug. Just a little tug, purposeful and deliberate, like someone testing a fishing line. The nausea swept in and then another tug.

A tug, a tug, another yank. I screamed. I was being pulled and pulled apart. The disgusting feeling was overwhelmed by pain and tears. terror as I began pushing myself off the bed in the direction I was being pulled in a vain attempt to relieve the sickening, taut feeling. The yanks were becoming forceful, as if the puller was frustrated at finding resistance. One violent final yank, and then I felt a tear. It was like stretched flesh being ripped apart, wet and thick and resistant. It felt like my insides were

being siphoned out. My shoulder instantly cramped as I collapsed to the floor, the terrible pulling tensions ceasing the moment of the rip. I vomited onto the floor over and over until I could only dry heave as the room closed in around me. My roommate flung my door open, dropping the meat cleaver she had grabbed for protection after hearing the screen. I just looked at her and cried. My shoulder blade ached. My right garland was gone. She helped me into the bathroom after ensuring there was no danger. I couldn't answer her questions beyond pathetic wimpers.

It was gone, amputated, severed. A part of me, an irreplaceable part of me, removed. I lay in the tub softly sobbing until this morning when the sunlight poured in through the window. I keep trying to move my right garland. to flex it and swirl it, but there's nothing. No feeling. It's gone. Just a void.

I'm so scared, and I feel crippled, broken. I feel dirty and violated and desecrated. Is this what someone who loses a limb in an accident feels like? My shoulder aches. And a half bottle of ibuprofen and half a tablet of my roommate's percassette have not eased it even slightly. I feel naked. I feel reduced. Oh God, it's really gone.

I left garland twitches uneasily every so often. I know that something's waiting for it, waiting to take it from me, waiting to tear it away from me. Every time my remaining garland trembles, I gasp, knowing that soon I'll feel that sharp, little tug. We all know young children, have active imaginations and we understand that their experiences aren't always to be taken as truthful.

But as we hear from author Maggie Louise, when one girl recalls a friend she made in her neighborhood, her memories may have been somewhat exaggerated. Narrator Corinne Sanders reads the tale for us as we come to learn that to a child, memories are everything. When I was growing up, my parents introduced me to a word that I didn't understand the meaning of until I was of older age, known as confabulation. Apparently, on a psychological level, it means that an individual may or may not be telling the truth about a memory that they believe they had.

With that, I leave you to conclude what I have, that children try to recall a memory and sometimes the details get bunched up somewhere within the timeline, simply because they were too young to understand at the time. Experiences I had ranged anywhere from normal to completely bizarre, but the fact still stood. My parents rarely believed me. When I was in my teen years, a conversation about camp came up, and I paused as I recalled.

Remember when I fell in the pond that one time and dad had to jump in after me? My parents, too, paused, and then went back to eating their supper as if I had said the most outlandish thing in the world. With further prodding, my father eventually said, Enough is enough. That never happened, Julie. For God's sake, you must have been dreaming. There was another time that I received a bad grade on a test when I was 10 years old, and I shrugged and said stupidly as a 10-year-old. Well, maybe my teacher messed up. the grade and gave me another student's grade like Mrs. Brock did a few years ago. Remember that?

My mother suspiciously raised her eye and said, I don't remember you ever having a teacher by that name. I think you're just confabulating. I'm what? You're fabricating. As I grew up, I learned what these words meant by name. My parents must have had sincerely awful memories, because I could remember it all as clear as day. There was no way that my brain was misconstruing the information. Just no way.

Out of all the memories in my patient, little, uninteresting life, there weren't many that I can say I was particularly more than fond of. However, a few nights I'd lain awake staring at the ceiling in my older years, recalling the memory of a friend that I had met when I was only a young girl, a memory that made me smile and brought me straight back into the happiness I had felt when I was living the moment. You see, growing up with parents

who were deeply intrigued by their work and studies, no siblings, in an area starved of other children my age, I became quite the young adventurer and spent a lot of my time alone discovering new things to get into. I suppose this backs the statement that my parents used so often

that I could have had a wildly active imagination caused by some of these neighborhood adventures. But I assured that I have a vivid recollection center that can see my day by days perfectly in front of my eyes. My memories danced along the ceiling before I drifted off to sleep. Now 26. Remembering Jeffrey. That summer, I was getting ready for the second grade.

We lived in the middle of nowhere in the home where my parents reside to this very day. The neighborhood was placed. along the border of a woodsy area where I wasn't allowed to play at my young age without supervision. However, since the neighborhood was so desolate and the people that were there knew one another, I was able to get some exploring in. That summer, the explorations consisted of walking down the straight road from our house to a playground that was entirely abandoned. There was no upkeep, but the equipment was fun to climb on and there was a tree house,

something I didn't have in my own backyard. My parents were slightly reluctant to allow me to go alone in a normal state, standing there and asking, Can I please go down the street and I promise I'll be careful? But my mother was baking that day and our bay window looked out to the playground. Though it was far off in the distance, she would be able to see that I was there in telling the truth and surely be able to hear me screaming if somebody were to try and pick me up.

I remember running to the park the first day, and on that very first day it was when I met Jeffrey, the boy in the tree house. He was sitting in the corner of the giant square-shaped abode, a slide passing through that strung out in two different directions and a ladder to get inside. You can imagine my surprise as I climbed the stairs ready to play and pretend that I was an explorer, only to stop dead in my tracks when I saw a boy sitting in there already, as equally stunned to see me. me. I remember his face went from a shocked O to a solid smile as it curved upwards, and I couldn't help but to do the same. We introduced ourselves and talked about our families, both relating to the fact that we had no siblings and nothing else to do in these summer months. As much as I like Jeffrey, his aversion to never wanting to go out and play was the only thing that got me. From day one, he was there every day on the weekends when I would go to the park,

reading his little comic books in the corner. I remember the pages of the comics being littered with beautiful-looking women much older than myself, pursing their lips like they were about to give a kiss, but whenever I would try to look over his shoulder, he would shyly pull them away and say that they were secret. Jeffrey liked nothing other than sitting up there and talking about himself and me, his new best friend.

A couple of times that summer I told him that we should go out and look around the tree line since we were bordering the woods, but he shook his head and said he didn't like being outside. I asked him multiple times if he wanted to come and play at my house, that my parents would like that I met a friend. But again, he continued to tell me that he felt uncomfortable with that idea and would want me to sit closer to him as we did things like drawing and playing board games in that nearly dilapidated tree house. a treehouse that no longer stands in our neighborhood to this day. One day by the middle of summer, I went to the treehouse and Jeffrey was reading his comics again, smiling when he greeted me. Can I come sleep over tonight? The question struck me as a surprise.

Now, from what you may have gathered, my parents were quite strict. At this point, I hadn't said anything about Jeffrey to them. That's fine and dandy. As I said, me communicating with another kid in the neighborhood was something that they would have loved, because it was me branching out and meeting people rather than being locked up or creating trouble. But, one, I had never asked anyone over for a sleepover in my life, and two, my nearly eight-year-old brain became instantly nervous at the fact that a boy would be sleeping over at my house. I wondered what my parents would think.

Even at this age, the thought of sleeping in the same room with a boy seemed like, something they would outright reject, something that seemed a little off. I told him about my concerns in the best way I could, and I remember him looking at me sneakily and saying, Just leave your bedroom window open tonight, and then I'll sneak in if you want me to come. And although I don't remember much about that entire day, I do remember the chills I had at the thought of doing something so huge behind my parents' backs, but thinking it was the coolest thing ever that I was going to have a sleepover. And so I told Jeffrey that, yes, I would do that tonight.

I told him to look for the open window on the far left side of the house and that he could even sleep in my bed, that we could quietly watch movies all night and eat snacks. He was so excited about the idea. Suddenly my memories of Jeffrey cut short. I vaguely pieced together the rest as I lie in bed, remembering my parents screaming at each other, at me, and cutting me off from the adventurous lifestyle that I had.

I remember growing up and being put on a leash, only to cut myself free when I turned 17. I remember my first real boyfriend and not bringing him home to my overprotective parents. I remember finding bloody bed sheets in the woods out behind my house, trying to conjure a memory in my mind, but coming up short. I remember not allowing my boyfriend to put his hands on me, the fight we had, the way he told me that it must have been because I was already used. The breakup, coming back home and my parents telling me that I was safe there. I remember.

I remember Jeffrey, the 40-year-old squatter that lived at the local park when I was a little girl. I remember how he would sit up in the tree house. pornography in hand, that oddly intrigued smile on his face the first time he saw me. I remember how I would have been friends with anybody at the time, and how he stuck to me like blue when he realized that I was going to be an easy friend to him, an easy victim. I remember how scared I was to tell my parents about him, afraid that I would never see him again,

never share another conversation with my new friend. I remember the way he crawled into my window like some desperate beast of a human, and the way he gave me my first kiss, and the way he bloodied my bed sheets that night as I tried to stay quiet, not about to lose my friend to my parents. To this day, they say nothing about the experience, because a piece of me suspects that they think I've forgotten, that by telling me my memories must be lies,

then I'd have imagined it. Confabulation. The act of lying. Something that they've done my entire life. For some people, the thought of getting a job at one of those large marine mammal parks might be an amazing experience. But as we learn from author T. Ryoko, when your job is only meager janitorial duties,

the attraction is more drudgery than excitement. narrator L. Bentley reads the tale for us as we find out how one woman discovered that there are more than sharks to fear at her work. There are other things to worry about in the aquarium. About a month or two ago, I picked up a job at the local seaside aquarium. It's nothing special, just a minimum wage job mopping the floors and cleaning the glass so that everything will be clean when the morning comes. work starts at 2pm There's a lot of ground to cover But the task is mundane enough

That getting over-stressed isn't an issue No, it's not the work that frees my nerves It's what's in the tanks Two people work the night shift Jared, a kid straight out of high school and me We usually start at the entrance And then split up from there He takes garbage duty with all the outside pens

and I take the inside complex solo till he finishes up enough to help me. He's a nice enough guy, shy around girls. I could barely get a word out of him when we first met, but his work skills make up for his muteness. Together, we are the night crew, and between us I thought everything would be all right. Things changed a month in.

That's when I started noticing the puddles that kept appearing in rooms I'd yet to mop, places I'd yet to step. They would make trails around the floor tiles, like something was flopping around like a fish out of water. I'd check the tanks, and with no leaks and cracks, they'd all be in order. After a few days of this, Jared and I would ask our boss about it, see if maybe one of the pipes busted and was leaking through the floor,

but she assured us that that couldn't be the case. She assured us that all the pipes and systems, including the water tank, were well-maintained, since that certain incident happened a few years back. We had to trust her because we both knew what she was talking about. As much as the aquarium tries to deny it, us locals will never forget how ten years ago one of the workers shoved his screaming daughter into one of the maintenance tanks,

jammed her in there until she was a contorted mess to let the saltwater choke her out and rot her bones. Strangely, no body was actually found, and just floating pieces of her flesh in a waterlogged dress. We take better precautions now, my boss simply told me, then ushered us on our way. Despite all her assurances, it didn't stop the water from building up in the most random places.

And in the days to follow, my annoyance slowly turned into a rising dread as I began to notice that the puddles were beginning to follow me, like wet footprints shadowing my own. Those thoughts were beginning to get to me, especially as the puddles began getting closer and closer to me as each night went by. It got to the point where I would have Jared with me all the time, because they seemed to keep their distance whenever he was around. Needless to say, I felt a bit embarrassed about asking to be escorted, but I could see it in his eyes that he was beginning to think I was a little paranoid, and paranoid was something I didn't want to be.

So as an attempt to calm my nerves, I would bring my iPod with me, plug it into my ears, and let the music be my company as I mock dark hallways full of half-lit tanks and the flickering shadows of the creatures that inhabited them. The turning point happened that night when we were walking through the tube, made entirely out of glass and going straight through a massive shark tank. It was one of the main attractions. There aren't any lights in the tube, so we had to bring our own. I remember how I would wave my flashlight away whenever I saw a shark, as if that was the scariest thing I would see that.

at night. My headphones were on, an old 60s ballad serenading my ears when I noticed it, a second set of words singing underneath the lyrics, something I never heard before. It was enough to make me stop and listen to the eerie echoing second chorus. It wasn't until Jared slipped off my headphones did I realize the voice wasn't coming from my iPod. I can't remember what I was thinking right then. Maybe I was too scared to think at all. I knew something was right behind me, something making my mind scream at me to keep walking. Keep walking till I was out of there and safe at home.

But I turned around anyway. A wall of black made up the entrance to the tube. My flashlight too far away to pierce it. The high-pitched animalistic wail slowly choked out. Then nothing. Jared and I looked at each other, and I could tell he was almost as pale as I was. We were both drowning in the silence. Someone had to make a decision and do it fast before we both lost our minds.

A minute passed. Then... Don't worry. I'll go check it out. Jared said more words to me than he had ever uttered throughout our entire janitorial career together. How about we just keep moving? That side's clean, no need to go back there, I replied, sounding more frightened than I wanted to. I know how much you hate the dark, so you can stay put. It'll be all right.

Was all he said before he vanished into the shadows, leaving me with nothing but a flashlight and two mop buckets. So I stood there in the tube, enduring the longest 30 minutes of my life. The sharks lazily swam around me, sometimes brushing up against the glass and causing me to jump. It was like they were watching me, waiting for something to happen. A little past a half hour, I heard it,

the tell-tale drip of water cascading off a wet body and onto the floor. Something was at the end of the hallway, standing right at the edge of the shadows. I couldn't see it. But I knew it was there. Just standing there as a puddle formed beneath it, looking at me. My brain did the first thing it could think of. I raised the flashlight like a weapon.

Hello? It moved fast. All I saw was a pale blur before pain erupted in my chest. I screamed as I fell backwards, the flashlight clattering away from me. My head cracked into the nut buckets. spilling dirty suds across the glass. Whether it was water or blood on my face, I didn't care because darkness was suddenly upon me

and I was very, very alone. I needed to get the flashlight. I needed to get the flashlight. My priorities were simple as I wrapped my fingers around it and turned it back on. Find Jared. Find Jared. I found something else instead.

It was banging its head against one of the fish tanks. beating out a dull rhythm till black blood began to trickle down the cracked glass. Nothing but sickly folds of skin with no bone definition. It just sat there, bent, and stretched arms tucked into its side like fins, cysts leaking pus over boils and odd cuts. Slowly, it turned to me, whatever left of its spine freaking in protest as it bent in a no human should. I swear my heart stopped at that moment as I stared through the ragged, salt-bleached hair and stared into the contorted and bloated face of a little girl. Its jaw

hung half dislocated from its face, the tatters of a familiar dark blue sweatshirt hanging from its slimy moor as it gaited at me stupidly. I dropped the flashlight. The thing pounced, knocking me against the ground with a sickening thud. The last thing I saw before my eyes closed was the rippling form of the creature. Girl, whatever it was, bicked the cover off a vent and disappear into it with a wet slope. A few mildly concerned paramedics and an incredibly annoyed boss were hovering over me when I finally awoke. Apparently, I was at fault for delaying the opening of the aquarium, but for some reason I didn't quite seem to care.

They found Jared, half shoved into one of the water treatment tanks. Miraculously, he was alive. I barely remember how hard I gripped his arm as we were rolled into the ambulance together. I was babbling, trying to explain what happened, but my words were always met with sympathetic faces and questions. of how hard I hit my head. My boss merely shushed me, whispering the words I've been hearing since the day I was hired. Don't worry, we take better precautions now.

Those precautions were to fire Jared and me and stick us with the bill for fixing the cracked tank. Now I'm spending my summer moving inland where dirt and trees replace sand and salt water. Jared and I are keeping in touch, though he hasn't uttered a word since that night. I think he likes hanging around, so I might ask him along. But I don't sleep anymore. I lie awake at night listening to the sink drip as I imagine the water running through the pipes and the walls.

I have nightmares of drowned little girls, shoved to the bottom of my water tank and rippling monstrosities dripping down my stairs. And sometimes, sometimes, I wake up to a puddle of water, water at the end of my bed. 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 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.