The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S5E03

Episode Date: February 22, 2015

It's episode 3 of Season 5. We have six tales this week featuring stories about confounded cops, scared siblings, and gone girls. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first three tales.  Trigger Warnings "I Love My Big Sister" written by Amy S and read by Corinne Sanders, Jessica McEvoy, and David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:03:20) "Ruined Sheets" written by Kristopher Mallory and read by Sammy Raynor, Jessica McEvoy, and David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:12:45) "Pop Go the People" written by Christine Druga and read by Peter Lewis and David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:26:20) "Don't Make Eye Contact With the Mannequins" written by Alex White and read by Brian Crawford and David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:43:55) "Tourist Mine" written by Anton Scheller and read by Mike DelGaudio, Jessica McEvoy, and David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:05:45) "I Found a Dead Girl’s Diary" written by L. Chan and read by Jessica McEvoy, Nikolle Doolin, Nichole Goodnight and David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:25:45) Click here to discover the podcast Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy Click here to discover the audio drama We're Alive Click here to learn more about Kristopher Mallory Click here to learn more about Christine Druga Click here to learn more about Anton Scheller Click here to learn more about L. Chan Click here to learn more about Mike DelGaudio Click here to learn more about Nikolle Doolin Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: Brandon Boone & David Cummings "Don't Make Eye Contact With the Mannequins" illustration courtesy of Lukasz Godlewski This podcast is licensed under a Creative Commons License 2015. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Warning. This is a horror fiction podcast. Beware. It's intended for mature adults, not the faint of heart. Aware. Join us at your own risk. But close your eyes, tales of horror to frighten and disturb, as the sleepless hours take past. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast.

Episode 3. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have Six Tales This Week, featuring stories about confounded cops, scared siblings, and gone girls. I recently had the pleasure of being interviewed for WIRED.com's podcast, Geek's Guide to the Galaxy. The host, David Barr Kurtley, invited me and Casey Whalen on to discuss the state of horror podcasting. For those who don't know, Casey is the writer-director of the great zombie audio drama series We're Alive. If you're not familiar with We're Alive, and you like the kind of shows we do here at No Sleep, and you like zombies, well, what are you waiting for? Do yourself a favor and check out We're Alive. Live, that is, after you listen to this week's show from us, of course.

It was a really good discussion with David and Casey about what makes horror fiction podcasting unique and the ups and downs we go through to produce our shows. That episode of Geeks Guide is out now, and you can listen at geeksguideshow.com. I'll put links to Geeks Guide, and We're Alive in the show notes. Make sure you check out both shows. to learn more about the behind-the-scenes goings-on in the world of horror podcasting. I'd also like to welcome a new narrator to the show this week. Brian Crawford makes his debut with us at the No Sleep Podcast.

So welcome, Brian, and thanks for lending your voice to the show. So, now that you have lots to listen to in terms of horror interviews and podcasts, I think it's time to start the show. In our first tale, we meet a young woman who recalls her rather unique upbringing. With parents who homeschool her and her sister, there were plenty of lessons to learn. But as author Amy S. explains, not all the lessons prepare them in the ways they might expect. Narrators Corinne Sanders and Jessica McAvoy read the tale for us, And we find out what this young girl means when she says,

I love my big sister. My earliest memories of Megan are from when I was about four. She was always kind of eccentric. She had an imaginary friend she called Emily, and she liked to sit by herself and play, until the day our parents took our dolls away. After that, she read books. I have no idea if she could actually read or just,

liked looking at the pictures, but for some reason her favorite was this massive hardcover tome on needlework. She called it Emily's book. Our parents never really looked at books anymore, and I wasn't that interested either. I never thought about it at the time, but looking back, it makes sense that Megan would be more bookish and introverted. I was still young enough to go to preschool, whereas she was homeschooled. Sometimes I got annoyed by her audited, but she was odd behaviors. She kept asking where Emily was, where Emily had gone, as if any of the rest of us could see her. I guess she was trying to engage us in her little game. Other times, she kept pestering me to read her book, no matter how little I wanted to. Books weren't my thing,

especially Emily's book. Something about it creeped me out. Megan got into a bad mood when I said no. She glared at me and she sometimes started to cry But all in all, we loved each other and spent most of our time together Our favorite game was tag My safe zone was the open doors And because she was older, her safe zone was the stuck doors We must have driven our parents crazy, never shutting up In fact, when she got our toys taken away

We only played together more instead of falling out over it It was the dolls that went first. It was one of those nights. I was having my recurring nightmare that someone was whisper shouting my name over and over, along with the sound of heavily creaking floorboards and quick breathing. I was convinced the house was haunted by something with a soft voice and huge stomping feet.

I mentioned my theory to Megan one time. She started to shake. I guess I really upset her because later my mother cornered me and told me never to say such silly things again. Anyway, the dolls went on the Saturday morning. I was still sleeping fitfully and Megan was up early as usual when I heard her throwing the tantrum to end all tantrums. I ran downstairs to see Dad pulling the last of the dolls out of Megan's hands forcibly while Megan screamed like she was possessed. You can have them back if you learn to treat them responsibly. He said calmly.

Megan cried and said sorry over and over. I never asked what she'd done to the dolls, but I always wondered. I always thought it must be something truly horrible. Next up it was our crayons. It always seemed to happen after a terrible night's sleep, waking up to screaming and crying and more toys banned. I guess my sister was what they called problem child, though she was never a problem to me.

One day I got home and Megan wasn't there. I asked my parents where she'd gone, and they told me she'd gone to stay with an aunt. I remember crying into my pillow that night, thinking that Megan had upset them too many times and they didn't want her to live with us anymore. But as much as I hate it, to say it, life was good.

I was better behaved than Megan, so I got all of my toys back. I began to mature. I stopped having nightmares. I became too old for preschool and started classes at home. I'm going to teach you numbers and how to read and write. Our mother said. And then some other things. What other things?

She ruffled my hair and winked. Wait and see. Before long, I was a happy and healthy child. I didn't really get out all that much. We kind of lived out of the way. But the house seemed brighter these days. And one day after learning about division, our mother told me she was going to have another baby.

I had all but forgotten the way our lives had been before. Her bump had really started showing by the time I was reading whole sense. sentences. Okay. She said, writing the words out clearly. What does this say? I squinted at it, sounding it out in my head as she taught me. The baby is...

I'm not sure why it took so long for me to get to kicking, but when I did, I squealed and hugged her belly. Oh, my little Lisa. That's what Dad said that day. You're all grown up now. It's nearly time for you to start learning about the world. I didn't know what this entailed, except maybe funny-smelling grown-up drinks or how to open the stuck doors, but I was excited.

I was excited about everything. The baby, being able to read, and my mysterious new lessons. I was so excited I pulled out some books and got to work. To my frustration, I could read none of them. I was confused. None of the words looked right to me. Some of the letters were recognizable,

but they were all over the place, and there weren't enough of them to decipher the words. It was like the book was in an alien language, but mused but not disliked. heartened. I opened another book. I blinked at it hard. Same again. I was starting to worry something was wrong with me. Then my eyes fell on it. Emily's book. I had never liked that book or the way Megan lugged it around like it was another person. But as scared as I was to look inside it, something drew me towards it. I really don't know what I expected.

Exactly the same thing happened again. I couldn't read. I sheaved through the book, skimming its pages and staring at it blankly, until a flash of pink caught my eye. I flipped back to it. There was something in the back near the glossary. It was a note. It was written in Red Cran,

one of those crayons that had been taken away from Megan and returned to me. It was also written in the book. the script our parents had taught us. To anyone else, it would have been as indecipherable as the plain English text was to me. We would have seemed illiterate by design, but I could read what my sister had written to me, and in one gut-wrenching instant I understood about Megan, about Emily, about our parents. My brain rang out like the peals of a bell, telling me something was wrong, but I was But at my age, I couldn't comprehend or even imagine the gruesome details of what was to come.

Run away. The note said in a childish scrawl. Before they get you two. I love my big sister. She tried so hard to tell me in time. In fact, I love both of them. For some fathers, the lengths they will go to protect their child is extraordinary. but some fathers do things that would horrify the most jaded onlooker.

In this tale from author Christopher Mallory, we learn why a father has been taken into custody for his deeds involving his son. Narrators Sammy Rayner and Jessica McAvoy read this story for us as we come to learn the real reason behind why the boy had ruined, The third time the police arrested me for child abuse, I tried to run from the crime scene bedroom, still clenching my boy's blood-soaked sheets. Officer Wallace slapped on the cuffs, then threw me into the back of his car as the paramedics were loading my catatonic seven-year-old into an ambulance. Strap to the gurney, face awash and gore, eyes wide, my boy looked like a corpse. Suddenly, he snapped out of the trance and reached out with both hands, breaking the paramedics restraints. I slammed my shoulder into the cruiser's door and screamed. It wasn't any

use. Seconds later, the ambulance pulled away in one direction, then the cruiser went another, while I thrashed around in the back, cursing the witness. Wallace stared at me in the rear view more than he watched the foggy road ahead of him. After a while, I calmed down and closed my eyes. I knew what kind of treatment awaited, but there wasn't anything else I could do but play the game. At the station, Wallace and his partner showed me photos of my boy's bedroom. The brand-new white sheets I had just purchased for him were stained bright red.

Pools of crimson spread across the floor where the blood had flowed over the edge of his mattress. The walls seemed as if he had been. they were crying red tears. Stalactites of slaughter hung and congealed masses from the ceiling. Complete carnage. No one should have survived.

And yet, my boy did. I rolled my eyes, then slammed my chain fists on the table. It's not the first time. You aren't showing me anything I haven't seen before. Hatred burned in Wallace's eyes. The kind of reserved for subhuman waste or disease spreading rats.

You heard him in the past? Or are you saying you've heard other children? When I didn't answer, he jumped up from his chair, grabbed my t-shirt, and stood within an inch of my face. The corners of his eyes spasmed as he clenched his jaw before bearing his teeth. Give me a reason, you sick fuck. I knew then what kind of man I was dealing with. and laugh despite myself. A reason? Fine.

How's this? Those pictures are mild in comparison to last time. And the time before that, and the time before... What in God's name did you do to that poor child? Wallace's partner whispered. Without turning away from Wallace,

I said, not another word until you let me see my boy. Wallace threw me back down into the chair. Get this piece of shit out of my sight. I sat up straight, smoothed my blood splattered t-shirt, and did my best to keep a smug grin on my face. Being the monster they wanted wasn't easy, but I knew from experience he would likely hurt me if I tried to play the concerned innocent father card. The whole time I'd been thinking about my boy, swarmed by social workers and doctors. Luckily, he knew better than to talk.

Daddy had taught him well. After a sleepless night on a hard-caught, stinking of piss, Wallace's partner called my name and let me out of the holding cell. The sheet of paper he handed me had been stamped in red with the words, charges dropped. I collected my belongings, made a few quick phone calls, then stood outside, waiting for a taxi in the thick morning fog. It had rained again, and the light mist blowing in the wind cooled my face.

Freedom felt great. I couldn't wait to find my boy. Wallace came running out of the police station. I knew he wanted to rough me up, or worse. For 15 minutes, he stared daggers into the side of my head. Finally, he said, The captain let you go free, and he wouldn't tell me why. I nodded.

Wallace took a step back. I don't know what's. The fuck is going on, but this isn't over. I nodded again, knowing exactly what he thought of me, knowing how confused and angry he would be without answers. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him seething and wondered if the next time he put his hand on his service weapon if he was going to shoot me in the back of the head. The taxi pulled up. I let out a relieved sigh and climbed inside. hospital quick the driver went to pull away no wait i said and the car came to a stop i wound down the window follow me if you want to see something wallace nodded his face giving nothing away i took the blank expression to mean he still wanted to kill me i nodded back smiled then tapped the door signaling the driver driver to go. At the hospital roundabout, my boy waited outside in a wheelchair, smiling. Two women

and scrub stood behind him, pale and visibly frightened. The second I exited the taxi, my boy, looking good as new, ran and jumped into my arms. The two women approached me almost cautiously, while Wallace edged along to the side, mouth hung open. I hugged my boy as if I hadn't seen him in years. What did you tell them? Nothing, Daddy. Are we going to have to move again? I nodded. It isn't your fault.

The old lady next door heard your screams before I could mask them. Wallace shook his head. He was... I saw. One of my boys' doctors said... Once we cleared away all the blood. We couldn't find a mark. Not a single cut,

Scratch or bruise. Far as we can tell, he's a perfectly healthy little boy. The other finished. My boy tugged at my sleeve. Can we go, Daddy? Yeah. I climbed into the taxi, still holding him tight. Wait!

Wallace leaned in the window. Is this some sick joke? I saw what you did to that child. I saw the worst. room. I close my eyes. As you can see, he's perfectly fine. That doesn't make any sense.

I never said it would. You told me you've done worse. Made it clear you've heard other kids. I have that on tape. Listen to your tape again. I said I've seen it happen before. Wallace narrowed his eyes. You think you're smart?

Throwing animal blood over a kid, mentally torturing him. That's enough to put you away. He smiled, leaned closer, and whispered. Even if it isn't, I won't let this go. I'll stop you myself. I hugged my boy tighter, remembered how sour events can turn when some would-be hero has it out for you, based on preconceived notions and tinfoil hat theories about a child's well-being. My boy lost his mother to a vigilante, murdered to protect him from harm that she never inflicted.

Since then, I've learned to adapt. My act at the supposed crime scene, my attitude at the station, the invitation for Wallace to follow, even what I would say to him next, calculated damage control. All of it to protect my boy. You want me dead, but you aren't the first person that's threatened me and my boy. I would tell you to leave it to the caseworkers, but officer, have you taken a look around? Wallace turned toward the doctors. Where are they? Where's that man from social services?

One of the doctors swallowed hard. Gone. Said there was nothing he could do. I bit my thumbnail, wondering how many more times I would need to deal with a situation like this. Tell him what you're going to do. found, please, Doctor. The doctors looked at each other, then at Wallace. We thought it had to be animal blood. It wasn't. The blood is definitely human. It's my boy's blood, and they know it.

Both doctors nodded. Yes, we triple checked. The blood is a match for the child. The other step forward. Sir, we'd like to keep him first. some further tests? I sighed. No tests. Never again.

Thank you both for cleaning my boy up. They nodded, then turned and walked back into the hospital, muttering something about devils and miracles. Wallace seemed to deflate. He knelt and stared at my boy. The rain had picked up again, and it made it look as if he were crying. He opened his mouth, but I put up my hand. This has happened before so many times. He wakes up screaming and covered in his own blood, more than could fit in his little body.

How am I supposed to believe this? I don't expect you to believe anything. I asked you here because I don't want you to be a problem for us. We need to move and change our identities again before the doctors send in their report. How often does it happen? Every few months. Sometimes every day of the week. It varies.

Longest lapse was two years, four through six. When it happens, I clean him up. If we're caught, we leave, fast. There are people who want to lock him up and study this. I can't let that happen. I look down at my boy. Besides, it's just an accident during the night. Nothing to be ashamed of.

Right, buddy? Right, Daddy. I smiled. Wallace clicked his tongue. This is insane. Maybe so, but it's true. I pressed my palms to my boy's ears. I've been dealing with his condition since he was born.

The blood used to terrify me, but it's not what scares me anymore. While waking him from the screaming, he's begun to speak. Wallace scratched his ear, lowered his tone, and said, What does he say? I press a little harder on my voice. boy's ears. The blood debt will be paid. The blood debt will be paid. I took my hands away and nudged my boy playfully in the side. You ready to get home so we can pack? Ready. That's my boy. As the taxi pulled off, I thought about the 9mm backup plan locked in the safe home. So far,

I hadn't needed to take a life to protect my boy. I turned and nodded at Officer Wallace, standing in the middle of the road, hoping that he'd stay away. He faded into the morning fog until there was nothing left except the clean, white sheet of mist. For an experienced homicide cop,

the recent wave of suspicious deaths in his town leave him and everyone else at a loss to explain what's going on. As we learn from author Christine Druga, the victims appear to have exploded, and the race is on to figure out why. Peter Lewis reads the story for us, so hold on tight and try to stay in one piece. I wouldn't want you to join the game of Pop Go the People. Mrs. Wainwright died a gruesome death.

I walked past a rookie who was losing his lunch in the street on my way into the house. Once inside, I didn't blame him for not being able to handle the scene. I would have done the same thing in my first few years on the job. There was blood and bits of old lady covering just about every inch of the living room. You almost couldn't see the flowery pattern. on the couch cushions through the gore. There was even splatter in the ceiling, sprinkled with what looked like brain matter.

The largest remaining piece of Mrs. Wainwright was her right hand still connected to a few inches of wrist and forearm. It looked like she had simply exploded while watching her afternoon soaps. I only briefly glanced at the scene before walking out of the ranch-style house. This was the fourth one like it in less than a month, and the three previous cases remained unsolved. If someone was responsible, they had managed to not leave a single clue in the mess they left behind. Gossip and theories were all over the place. There'd been talk of a brutal serial killer, spontaneous human combustion, aliens and monsters.

The mayor and the chief weren't happy about it, and he had given me the case and told me to get it solved now. Of course, assigning a homicide detective to the case only fueled the serial killer speculation, but that was the least of his worries. people were starting to panic. I approached the officer, who I was told was the first responder. He was standing in the yard, watching the controlled chaos that comes with a fresh crime scene. I thanked my lucky stars that he was a veteran of the force. The newer guys tend to clam up when they discover something this, grizzly. His report was detailed.

and precise, something I couldn't say about the previous three officers that I had interviewed. I received a call from dispatch for a wellness check at this address at 248 p.m. The next door neighbor had heard the victim scream approximately five minutes before the call while outside getting the mail. When the neighbor, Mr. Adams, knocked on the victim's door and received no response, he called 911. He stated that he was concerned that she had fallen and needed help. I arrived at 255 p.m. and was able to enter the back door after knocking at the front door and finding that it was locked. After a brief search of the home, I found the victim, or what was left of her.

I immediately called the appropriate back up and left the house, you know, to preserve the scene. A brief interview of the neighbor corroborated the officer's story. He didn't see anyone leave the house after hearing Mrs. Wainwright scream, but he admitted that someone could have exited through the back without him noticing. Just as I was starting to get really pissed off about the amount of dead ends in this case, I heard someone yell out my name. Detective Harris, we got something. One of the CSU geeks was practically running toward me, holding a clear plastic container between latex gloved hands.

He showed me what looked like half of a blood-covered slug, explaining that it looked like it was possibly on the victim at the time of death. When I asked him, what the fuck does a bug have to do with anything? He said something about maybe getting an idea where the victim or any problem, possible suspects had been before the incident. I wasn't too hopeful, but I let the kid have his moment. When I received the evidence report, the slug was described as an unidentified insect sent for testing. I looked at pictures of it and noticed that once it was cleaned up, it was something I had certainly never seen before. The gelatinous body was emerald green, and the inside.

consisted of what looked like a tiny digestive system covered in a thick mucus. Still not entirely convinced that it had anything to do with my cases, I decided to let the lab rats figure it out and went about my day. It was around 3 p.m. when I was informed that I had another crime scene to attend. This case was different than the rest. The four previous victims had died. quietly in their homes with no witnesses to explain exactly what happened. The most recent casualty, whose name was unknown, was a completely different story.

I parked my car in the parking lot at the edge of the playground and cursed whatever gods I could think of. Not only had this John Doe met his untimely end in a public park, he had done so at a crowded playground. I readied myself for a very long day as I scanned the scene in front of me. The spot where the victim stood when he passed was obvious. All you had to do was look for the most concentrated area of gore, which happened to be surrounding a pair of tennis shoes still worn by the feet of their owner. The rest of him was splattered on the eastern side of the playground equipment, as well as a few unlucky children and their parents.

I found the chief standing at the base of a small slide, staring at it, as it dripped blood and bits of what used to be a man. This is the worst thing that could have possibly happened to this case. As if people weren't panicking enough already, now we have to deal with the fact that ten people are at the hospital, being tested for some unknown disease that turns folks into, fucking ground meat. Tested.

Why? I swatted at my ankle as I spoke, getting rid of whatever bug had decided to crawl up my pad leg and add a bit more irritation to my already fucked up reality. Apparently, our John Doe entered the playground from the woods over there, screaming like a deranged crackhead before exploding like a hot dog in a microwave. Thirty years on the job had seemingly desensitized my superior, and I was glad that there weren't any civilians within earshot as he continued. From the little bit that I've heard, he was alone and didn't have any kind of device on him that could have caused him to burst.

He explained as he wiped sweat from the back of his neck. Look, I still want you to work this case. but depending on the results from the lab, it looks like you'll be doing so while assisting the CDC. I knew that there had been blood samples sent for testing by our own techs and that the results weren't back yet. Something about having almost a dozen innocent bystanders possibly affected puts a rush on those kinds of things, I guessed.

I assured the chief that we would get to the bottom of whatever this was and spent the next several hours interviewing witnesses and first responders. It was almost 11 p.m. by the time I returned to my apartment, and my shower and bed were calling my name. I examined the bite on my ankle as the water heated. Whatever bit me was a big son of a bitch and left a small puncture in the middle of a welts the size of a silver dollar. After washing the day away under a stream of scalding water, I put some ointment on the throbbing wound and covered it with a band-aid.

I put on my pajamas and slipped into bed, falling asleep almost instantly. I awoke in a pool of my own sweat sometime after 3 a.m. I didn't need a thermometer to tell that I had a fever, and my left leg and hip felt like a bit. They were on fire. After turning on the lamp on my bedside table, I pulled up my pant leg and removed the band-aid from my swollen ankle. The cloth part in the middle stuck to my skin, and upon removing it, I discovered that the wound had started oozing, dark, yellow pus that had dried to form a crust around the actual bite. It smelled like a mixture of sulfur and death. I limped to the bathroom to clean the puncture and take some painkillers.

Halfway there, the pain began radiating further up the left side of my body. By the time I dropped onto the toilet, the agony ran from my nipple to the tip of my toes. I spent several minutes taking deep breaths, trying to recover enough to make the trouble. trip back to my bedroom to call 911. My calming technique was interrupted by a sharp pain, followed by a flutter of movement across my abdomen. The quiver that I felt under my skin unnerved me. It felt as if an egg yolk was convulsing its way through my rib cage. Upon lifting my shirt to investigate, I discovered.

a small lump in the center of my midsection. I jumped to my feet in a panic and immediately dropped the floor. The pain was so bad that it almost cancelled out the fact that it felt like my entire body was burning from a rising fever. My survival instinct kicked in and I forced myself to climb the sink to reach the pair of small scissors that I used to trim my nose. hair. Each time I pulled myself closer to my target, I was forced to endure the sensation of knives, thrusting into every inch of my skin and muscles. Once I wrapped a throbbing hand around the handle of the scissors, I dropped the floor with an agonizing thud. They sat against the toilet and took a few deep breaths in an attempt to steady my shaking hands.

Before doing, once I gathered enough nerve, I cut a small, deep slit into the skin on top of the lump in my belly. Blood poured out of the wound, and I swallowed back vomit as I used one hand to keep the thrashing bulge in place, shoving my thumb and index finger of the other hand into the incision. Pain was so intense that my vision blurred. And I was sure that I was about to lose consciousness, but I managed to remove the culprit from my body. I threw the slug-like creature across the room. It slithered across the tile toward me with the speed of a bullet.

Just before it dug its tiny teeth into my leg again, I slammed the point of the scissors into the center of it. The menace screeched. and convulsed for a few long seconds before it finally died, covered in a mixture of my blood and the greenish slime that oozed from the hole made by the scissors. I laughed maniacly before passing out on the cold tile floor. When I came to, I was in a hospital bed,

covered in tubes and wires. The nurse that answered my calls explained that a neighbor, had heard me screaming and thumping around in my apartment and called the police, suspecting that I was fighting an intruder or something of the like. I had lost a lot of blood, and my fever was over 104 degrees. When I asked about the slug that I had stabbed, she looked confused and told me that she had no idea what I was talking about. A phone call to the police chief presented knowing.

answers, and when I explained that I believed the insect was the cause of people being reduced to ground meat, he told me to focus on my recovery. His voice confirmed what I had already feared. He didn't believe me. The doctors believed that I had hallucinated the whole incident. Apparently a fever that high can make you see and feel things that just aren't real. I know what I went through, though. I know it was real. When I was released from the hospital, I arrived home to discover that a well-meaning neighbor had cleaned my bathroom for me. The slug was gone.

The piece of the creature that had been sent out for analysis was deemed unidentifiable. Since that piece was the back part, my theory was still considered bullshit. No one saw the tiny dagger-like teeth and beady eyes of this thing. Nobody witnessed how terrifyingly ugly it's, for lack of a better word, face. was how its mouth puckered until it was ready to strike, or the flaccid feelers that dangled the side of each fiendish red eye. All they saw was the backside of what looked to be a new species of slug. Don't think it's a slug.

Slugs don't tear into people and burrow through their bodies until they explode. Something is killing us one by one. I don't know what it is, and I don't know where it came from. But I know I won't be its last victim. 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 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 next week for the next episode of the No Sleep. podcast.