The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S7E03

Episode Date: April 24, 2016

It's episode 2 of Season 7. On this week's show we have five tales about the creepy things which get into your mind and body."She's Waiting in the Reflection" written by Micah Edwards and performed by Kyle Akers & Atticus Jackson & Corinne Sanders & Rebecca Peason. (Story starts at 00:02:50)"Tampon Recall" written by E.Z. Morgan and performed by Erika Sanderson & David Ault. (Story starts at 00:21:10)"Moniathan's Nest" written by Jimmy Juliano and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Kyle Akers & Nikolle Doolin & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 00:34:00)"The Super Bowl Party"** written by M.J. Pack and performed by Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 01:04:50)"The Bonfire Girls"* written by Marcus Damanda and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Jeff Clement & Dan Zappulla & Corinne Sanders & Nichole Goodnight & Tisha Boone & Erika Sanderson. (Wearing Black (prequel) starts at 01:20:30 - The Bonfire Girls starts at 02:02:00)Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast Click here to learn more about Phil Michalski Click here to learn more about Jen Tracy Click here to learn more about Micah Edwards Click here to learn more about E.Z. Morgan Click here to learn more about Jimmy Juliano Click here to learn more about M.J. Pack Click here to learn more about Marcus Damanda Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon BooneAudio adaptations produced by: David Cummings & Jeff Clement* & Phil Michalski**"She’s Waiting in the Reflection" illustration courtesy of Jen TracyAudio program ©2016 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc.. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Be forewarned, this is a horror fiction podcast. By listening to our stories you are choosing to be frightened and disturbed for your entertainment, you do so at your own risk. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Season 7, episode 3. She is waiting in the reflection. Tamp on your recall. Moniathan's Nest.

The Super Bowl party, the bonfire girls. It's the No Sleep podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On this week's show, we have five tales about the creepy things which get into your mind and body. The No Sleep family is growing by leaps and bounds these days. I am thrilled to introduce two new, very talented people who will be helping us sound and look even better. First up is new producer Phil Mikulski. Phil was born in Warsaw, Poland, and graduated from

the Academy of Sound and TV in 2007. He has extensive experience as a producer, sound engineer, composer, and sound designer. He's worked with many filmmakers, podcasters, and agencies in the U.S., the UK, Australia, Sweden, and Brazil. Phil produced this episode's fourth story. for us and we're excited to hear many more productions from him in the future. So welcome, Phil. We're glad to have you on the team. Also joining our team of extremely talented illustrators is artist Jen Tracy. Jen is a traditional fine artist and illustrator. She works primarily with watercolor and ink on paper. Her paintings are smaller than most works, inviting the viewer to lean closer in order to experience

their full intentions. You can see a sample of Jen's captivating art on this episode's illustration. A big thanks to one of our other illustrators, Yarn Hydruth, for introducing Jen to us. And, of course, to Jen herself for sharing her talent with us. Welcome, Jen. So it sure seems to me that we're in good hands these days. Let's put all this talent to work and start this week's show.

In our first tale, we meet a group of friends who have embarked on a simple little game involving an online file and a lot of trust. As explained by author Micah Edwards, the game depends on how many times the friends check a spreadsheet kept online. But when they start seeing strange things during the game, the fun is replaced by confusion and fear. Performing this tale are Kyle Acres. Atticus Jackson, Corinne Sanders, and Rebecca Peezen. So if you're going to play, make sure not to look. Otherwise, you'll discover she's waiting in the reflection.

I wasn't always alone. I used to have friends. Four or five at least. Good friends. I mean actual friends. The kind who mattered to your life. Pretty sure I had, I don't think there were five. I'm going to tell this story.

is it probably happened. Otherwise, I'll be full of I-Thinks and I-Guesses, and it must have been. So just know that this is true as far as I can put the pieces together. There's a lot of guesswork and probably a bit of wishful thinking, but I've done my best. The five of us were hanging out one night a couple months ago. Me, Mark, Bethany, Zoe, and Andrew. It was game night, so we sat around with beers and snacks

and casually insulted each other all night, all in good fun. It was a comfortable fun time with friends who go way back. We'd already weathered the storms that eroded the rest of the group, moving, kids, whatever. Bethany had dated Mark for a while and dated me after that. In addition to Bethany, Mark had dated Andrew, too. And Zoe for like a week. I was the only one of us Mark hadn't slept with,

and it was a constant joke that he wanted to collect the whole set. We'd had plenty of hurt feelings in the past, as my point. but we'd come through it. We were all on easy, good terms with each other. We loved each other. Andrew's the one who suggested the game. It was midnight or so, and no one was going home yet, but the card games had died down,

and we were all just lounging around. Curiosity killed the cat, he called. He made a spreadsheet and put it up online, and we got all our phones out to edit it. We each put our name in, followed by the number 10. Andrew hadn't told us why yet, but with the name of the game, no one really wanted to be the first to ask. Andrew just stared at us all expectantly, though, grinning, and finally Zoe broke down and asked him what the deal was. It's simple. Last one on the sheet gets 20 bucks from everyone else, $80 all told.

Every time you look at the sheet to see the rankings, though, you've got to decrease your number by one. When it gets to zero, you're out. Mark laughed. I just won't look then. Andrew smiled. Two catches. No one ever has to tell you if you've won. So if you never look, we might all owe you 20 bucks that you'll never know about.

And also, everyone's allowed to lie. I could tell you that you've won, or that I have for that matter. If you want to find out for sure, you'll have to go look. What's to stop me from just looking and not decreasing my number? Andrew looked to hurt. Basic honesty? A sense of self-worth? Not ripping off your friends.

Mark threw his hands up and surrender. All right, all right. No cheating. Got it. Last rule. Everyone puts a link to their sheet on the front page of their phone. That way, we'll all have to think about it. Curiosity begins now.

Remember, all you have to do to win is just don't look. Oh man, I just won. I don't know how you all looked so many times already, but you guys all owe me 20 bucks. We pelted him with popcorn. The first few days were easy. No one could possibly have been out so soon, so the urge to look was low. I would have forgotten about it entirely, except that every time I opened my phone, the little spreadsheet icon, labeled Curiosity, was sitting right there, waiting for me to click on it. After a week, I cracked for the first time.

I had to know how my friends were doing with the temptation. And 10 was such a high number, it was hardly going to matter if I dropped one anyway. If I wanted to, I could check it every week for two months and still be in the game. So I opened it. Bethany and I were the only ones still at 10. And of course, I promptly changed my number to 9, joining Andrew and Zoe. Mark was down to 8 already, which fit. He was never the patient sort.

I closed the window and sent a group message to my friends. Mark, how'd you get down to four so soon? My phone buzzed a minute later with the response. Left my phone open. Cat walked on the keyboard, changed my number. Thanks for letting me know. Everyone else better log in and check their numbers too. I laughed. It would have been marginally more believable if Mark had owned a cat. This started the lying in earnest, though. Not a day went by without one of us trying something to get the others to look. Sometimes it was by group message, but more often it was a direct communication.

They ranged from the blatant, like Zoe's, you must have a will of steel, your score is double mine, to Andrew's subtle. Well, Mark's out, want to help me trick Zoe into lowering her score next? That one actually got me. I legitimately wasn't sure if Andrew was telling the truth or not, and we were almost to the end of the second week anyway, so I clicked curiosity to find out, dropping my score to eight. If I'd had to bet before I signed in, I would have said Andrew was telling the truth. But Mark was still in there at six,

and Andrew was the only one of us left at nine. I resolved to up my game. Bethany and Mark made the next move a few days later, early into the third week. Bethany sent a group message. Nice work with the creepy interface, Andrew. Mark responded a minute later. Yeah, saw that over the week.

Ken, didn't know you could do that with spreadsheets. It was a setup, an obvious setup. But what if it wasn't? What if there really was something cool to see and I was missing it? I wouldn't put it past Andrew to add something as a lure. I resisted it for a full day, then broke down and opened the spreadsheet. We were into the third week anyway, so I was still basically on track. As I suspected, there was nothing but our names and numbers, and I grudgingly dropped mine

As I was looking over the other numbers, Andrew's still at nine, Mark all the way down to three, Bethany and Zoe both at six. I spotted something, though. It was subtle, hidden in the background, and I had to angle my phone around to catch the light just right before I got a good look at it. Somehow Andrew had set it up, so it looked like there was a creepy, black-eyed woman standing over my shoulder and my reflection in the phone. When I tilted the phone, she moved with the image, just like she was actually in the room. It was so convincing I even looked behind me to make sure, but there was obviously nothing there. I exited the spreadsheet and looked at my reflection in the phone.

Nothing. I clicked curiosity again, reloading the sheet, and as I did, she reappeared. I examined her more carefully this time, impressed with the detail and the reality of the picture. She occupied a specific place in the room, and I could walk all around her. She never moved, but when I got close, I could see the faint rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Her eyes were solid black from corner to corner, and when I peered closely at her slight smile, through parted lips I could see that behind her teeth was more blackness, as if she were hollow inside. I waved my arm through the space she should have occupied if she were really in the room,

but of course hit nothing. In the reflection, though, I saw the slightest flicker, as if she ducked aside and returned impossibly fast. Her unwavering stare was starting to creep me out, so I reduced my number to six and closed the spreadsheet again, watching her vanish. I texted the group. Okay, that was seriously cool.

Don't know how you did that, Andrew, but it was entirely worth the two points I just spent. Zoe responded. Uh, fine. I'll bite. Followed only a minute later by... Creepy as fuck, Jesus, Andrew! Uh-huh, very funny.

Dude, just take a bow. That's nice work. Yeah, got to know how you did that. You guys serious? Drop the game for a second and tell me. No game drop. But you're welcome to spend a point to go find out. Things were quiet for almost an hour. after that, before Andrew's next message.

If you're seeing what I'm seeing, creepy reflection lady, I didn't do that. And as far as I know, that can't be done. Not on any current tech. Definitely not in a cloud spreadsheet showing on random phones. I got a private message from Zoe. You think he's serious? I wrote back. Can't be.

I frowned as I wrote it. I really couldn't figure out any way that he could have created an image like that. And more to the point, I couldn't think of why he'd deny it if he did. It wasn't helping him win curiosity, and freaking us all out wasn't Andrew's style. Mark's, sure, but there was zero chance that Mark had done this. We'd had to show him how to add the icon to his phone when he started the game. Programming was not his forte. You're down to eight, sucker.

Zoe sent to the group, so at least he'd have to the group. So at least I'd convinced her, if not myself. I was weirded out enough to avoid the spreadsheet for a while. I didn't take the icon off my phone, but instead of tempting me, as it had before, I just felt a vague dread when I saw it. I clearly wasn't the only one, but partway through the next week, Zoe texted us. You guys want to just drop the game? Not when there's 80 bucks on the line.

But you can drop out. Just go look at the sheet a few more times. Bethany replied with a non sequitur. Guys, whose idea was this game? I started to reply and then stopped. It had to be one of the four of us. I remembered when we set up the spreadsheet and we were all in the same room. But somehow I couldn't remember which one of us had come up with the idea.

Who knows? We were all drunk. No, we're missing someone. It's just the four of us. Has been for years. Then why is there $80 up for grabs? It's hard to judge pauses and texts, but I could picture Mark making the same face I had moments earlier when I tried to remember who had suggested the game. I must have been including myself. No, there was someone else. Someone's been lost.

Lost. Lost how? If there had been five of us, there would be another name on the spreadsheet. Reluctantly, I clicked the curiosity icon to see. I held the phone off to the side and at an angle, trying to make sure only the ceiling's reflection showed. There were four names, just like there should have been. Bethany at six, me and Zoe at five, and Mark at two. As I watched, though, my number changed to four, and Mark's dropped to one. I closed the sheet quickly and texted Mark.

Are you editing the sheet? In reply, he sent me a blurry selfie taken in a bathroom mirror. It showed him standing alone in the empty bathroom, a look of abject horror on his face. I can see you. He's in the mirror right now. Not in the phone. The real mirror.

I'm afraid to look away. Stay there. I'll come get you. I ran for the door, grabbing my keys on the way. I was in my garage starting my car before I realized that I had no idea why I was in such a panic. My rent was paid. I didn't have any plans for the night, so why was I in such a hurry? Puzzled, I put the car in reverse, planning to figure it out in a minute. When I checked the mirror, though, I stomped the brakes and terror.

The black-eyed woman from the curiosity she was in the backseat of my car, smiling, and staring directly into my eyes. She wasn't alone either, but I tore my eyes away before I could see anything more, grabbed for the door handle, and spilled myself out onto the garage floor, scrambling for the stairs. I slammed and locked the door behind me, panting for breath. I messaged Bethany and Zoe, fighting autocorrect with my trembling hands to warn them, trying not to look directly at my phone. Curiosity, lady, and reflections, don't look.

Oh, Jesus, you're in my phone. Bethany, don't look. Typing this looking at the floor, you guys can have the 80 bucks if I can just quit playing. Bethany replied. Why $80? So we figured it out at that point. We figured out that Mark and Andrew had been lost.

I don't know if those were their real names, of course. I have to call them something and I like those names. I think Mark was strong, a big guy, maybe kind of a lunk but a really good-hearted one. Andrew was always kind of nerdy but not too awkward. Probably he had glasses. Maybe that's why he went out so fast. If she was reflecting in his glasses, he'd be screwed.

As to how we set this off, I still have no idea. We talked about it for a while, I think. But that just made it worse for Zoe. And Bethany and I let the topic drop once we realized it was just the two of us. It was a bad day for both of us when we understood that we must have once had a group chat that we couldn't remember. It was getting hard to measure bad days anyway. Neither of us had left the house for some time. I blindfolded myself and spray painted the bathroom mirror and all of the chrome faucets

so I could shower again without having to worry about seeing her reflection. But I forgot about the towel rack and saw her there when I was drying off. She wasn't alone anymore. Like I'd noticed in the car. There were three of the... Hard to make out in the thin strip of reflection, but they were all just as still as she was. But while she was smiling widely,

they were all silently screaming. I spray painted the towel rack after that, of course. But I was so jittery from the scare, the one I picked up my phone to text Bethany and let her know what I'd seen. I dropped it. It landed face up on the floor. My horrified expression, a perfect counterpoint,

to the leering grin of the black-eyed woman leaning over my shoulder, practically touching me. Bethany and I switched to voice conversations after that to avoid seeing the phones. At least I assume we did. I don't know what Bethany did, but I must have been careful enough because I'm sitting at the computer at my house right now, a glare protector on the screen so that it can't reflect. Right next to my keyboard is $80. I think this means I won. I think it's over. But even if it's just me now, I remember the rules. Everyone can...

I've counted though, and I think I'm still at two. I should be able to check the sheet to see if I'm the only name on it, and to see if the black-eyed woman has four screaming figures with her now. Then I'll know if it's over. But what if I miscounted? If you're a woman, it's safe to say that you share something with almost every other adult woman on the planet. It's an understanding of the basic hygiene and care of your body

during your monthly cycle. But, as author E. Z. Morgan describes, when a common sanitary product fails miserably to protect the women using it, the outcome is utterly horrifying. Performing this tale are Erica Sanderson and David Alt. So keep in mind that stories like this are why we have that disclaimer at the start of the show. Why we warn you to brace yourself. because regardless of your gender, you have to be aware of a tampon recall. I've been tracking this whole tampon recall business very closely. I've saved every article, even though they are extremely limited.

I've collected any testimony I can find online. It's an important issue to me for many reasons. The first being I'm a woman and I happen to menstruate every month. The second being I was one of the six. 60% of women affected by this recall. I've decided to document my exact experience, in case something even worse starts to happen. I bet a lot of you listening to this have had a similar experience with the recall. You are not alone.

I live in the UK so I can only speak to my own experience, although I know similar events occurred in the US, Canada and other countries. I was offered large sums of money to keep my story quiet. We all were. But I'm not taking their money. Women died because of this. I saw a woman waste away in front of me and they want me to shut up? Never.

I don't care what happens now. It was last November when I started experiencing symptoms. Now, take into account, I've been using tampons since I was 15. I know all about toxic shock syndrome and basic hygiene. I'm no menstruation newbie. But that month, I started experiencing something odd. I got my period near the first like I typically do. About a day into my period, I started feeling an intense itching sensation.

It wasn't a normal itch. It felt like someone was dragging a rake down the inside of my vagina. I wasn't worried it was an STD since I hadn't had sex in almost a year. I spent the whole day at work uncomfortable, squirming around in my chair. I couldn't wait to get home. When I finally did, I drew a bath. I took off my clothes, took out my tampon and lowered myself into the water. The warm water made everything much better.

I breathed a sigh of relief. It must have just been a weird reaction to something. I got out, put in a new tampon and went to sleep. I woke up in the middle of the night in extreme pain. The itching was back now, but it was more like razors. I pulled away my covers to see that my lower half was covered in blood. I screamed and tried to get to the bathroom. but my legs were too wobbly from the pain.

I ended up crawling there, sobbing. It seriously felt like someone was cutting me up from the inside. I managed to kneel by my bathtub and fill it with water. I reached down tentatively, afraid that taking out the tampon would cause me even more pain. I slid it out and stared. The tampon looked as if it had been ripped apart while it was inside of me. I got into the bathtub, but the pain didn't stop.

If anything, it got worse. I remember getting lightheaded. I realised that the blood filling up the tub wasn't just my period. I must have wounds inside my vagina that were bleeding heavily. I was losing too much blood. The water was drawing it all out of me and my mind was getting fuzzy. I blacked out. Thank God my neighbour heard me screaming and called 999.

I woke up in the hospital. My legs were in stirrups. The pain had dulled, although I could still feel an ache from between my legs. I moaned in agony. My sounds must have alerted the doctor who shuffled over to me. I looked up at him. What happened to me? He frowned and checked one of the machines I was hooked up to.

You lost a lot of blood. You can't get into bath if you've got to cut that deep. That's how people kill themselves. You're the 13th woman to be admitted here with these kinds of wounds. Can you tell me what happened? Nothing happened. It just started suddenly. Let me guess.

Are you menstruating? I squinted at him. Yeah? Did you use a tampon? Yeah. And that's when he told me about the recall. Apparently, it hadn't gone public yet. But companies had alerted the Surgeon General

that they were about to announce a worldwide recall of all tampons. The Surgeon General had alerted hospitals that they made. see an influx of patients with extreme wounds inside their vaginas. Bastards, right? I was too injured to go home, so I stayed in the hospital. My wounds were not getting any better. A doctor would stitch me up, thank God for morphine. But within a few hours, the stitches would be broken.

They ruled out a rash and knew I wasn't doing it to myself. A nurse told me that by my second day, there were 40 other women in the same condition. I learned later that two women had already died. I was terrified. I had no idea what was wrong with me and the pain was horrible. If it weren't for the drugs they gave me, I might not have made it. It was ten days later that the press conference was held. I watched it from my bed.

I was now always hooked up with pints of new blood since I kept losing so much. By this time, I wasn't menstruating anymore. It was all blood lost from the cuts that kept ripping up my vagina. The woman who gave the press conference wore a neat pink skirt suit. She reped tampacks, but all the brands were giving the same speech. She said that something had contaminated the entire stock of tampons. She called it an unfortunate event. She recommended that anyone who had used a tampon in the past month report immediately to a hospital.

She said that although there were extreme medical concerns associated with the tampon use, there was a cure. It was called Ophia Cordyceps unilateralis. I figured out it was the technical medical term for some drug. She apologised once. Only once! And then the press conference was over. After the broadcast, the hospital was filled with women.

They didn't have enough rooms for everyone. Eventually, there were two cots brought into my room, and I had two new roommates. The names were Mary and Justine. I was honestly grateful for the company. Mary was in terrible shape. She'd used the tampons for her entire period, almost seven days, and ignored her pain and bleeding.

She felt so embarrassed about neglecting her problem that she waited too long to go to the hospital. Justine told me that the infection had spread to her uterus and was most likely loose in her body. Mary's skin was grey and she was always crying. The doctor gave her as much pain meds as possible, but it didn't help. Justine and I would talk lightly while Mary sobbed in her bed. They gave us the cure as soon as it arrived to the hospital. It was contained in a pill that we were supposed to put inside our vaginas. The pill would disintegrate

and the medicine would be absorbed. Of course, the insertion was incredibly painful, but I just wanted this horror story to be over. No one told us, no one said, what would happen. No one told us exactly what was going on. That's why they offered us all a settlement when it was all over. If we stay quiet, they can rebuild. But what I saw that night will live with me forever. Once the suppository was in place, the doctor left our room and closed the door. It was a bit weird that he closed the door, but I didn't notice it at the time. I just made some stupid joke about this being the most action I'd got in months. Justine laughed, I think. Mary was whimpering.

A few hours passed. We watched stupid TV and chatted aimlessly. Right around 11pm, Justine said she felt something weird. I looked over at her and she was twitching. I asked her if I should call the nurse, but my mouth went dry. I could see them coming out from under her gown. There must have been thousands. Thousands of tiny ants started crawling out of her.

She began to scream. They moved with robotic symmetry, all of them following each other out from between her legs. They crawled up her body and onto her face. She tried to swap them off, but there were too many. They crawled to the top of her head and sat there. They were covered in blood. They tracked blood on her skin as they crawled.

I pushed the nurse button again and again, but no one came. Yells were echoing from the other rooms as well. Then Mary started to scream. I was afraid to look, but I couldn't take my eyes again. Ants started crawling out of her as well, but they also seemed to come from other places. Then it dawned on me. They were eating through her skin to get to the surface.

The infection had spread to so much of her body that the ants were everywhere, digging their way up to the top of her head. I watched in horror as one ant burrowed out of her eye. She stopped screaming and started girt. I'm ashamed to say I looked away. She was going to die from this. It happened to me too, but I don't want to go into detail.

Just know it was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. I can't sleep because I still see them crawling over my skin, leaving marks of red all over me. I can't go an hour without feeling like they're still crawling on me. No amount of money will raise those memories. It turns out, Ophia Cordercepts, unilateralis. is a fungus. It eats ants from the inside and takes a hold of their brains. It makes them go to the highest point they can before killing the ant. Surgeon General must have been forced to use this

because the ants were burrowed so deep into our bodies that typical methods couldn't reach them. The doctors knew the entire time that we had ants inside of us but said nothing. The tampon rep said nothing. They allowed us to suffer by ourselves in the unknown. Like most of the women affected, I have lasting damage. My vagina is scarred and sex is nearly impossible. Even worse, I will never be able to carry children. For weeks afterwards, a lone ant would climb out of me, finally submitting to the fungus.

I used to worry that I would never get rid of them. We have no idea what effect the fungus itself will have on us. I heard a rumor in my support group that an affected woman climbed to the top of a telegraph pole before dying just like the ants did. Needless to say, I don't use tampons anymore. It's common for young people to be given a religious upbringing and taught the faith of their parents.

But as one man recalls the events of his youth, an encounter with a religious family made him fearful of their bizarre ceremonies. As author Jimmy Giuliano explains, it's centered around a sculpture and its effects on the congregation. Performing the tale are Mike Delgadoio, Kyle Acres, Nicole Doolin, and Erica Sanderson. So when examining art, look closely at it, especially if it's entitled Moniathan's Nest.

I was no sculptor. Heck, I was no artist. As a child, I couldn't sketch, paint, color, or create anything of artistic worth. And now that I'm in my mid-30s, I still can't. Everyone knows that about me. I remember being 13 years old and watching with a jealous gaze as Miles Baker worked with his carving tool. What began as a gray rectangular piece of clay had transformed into a layered and spherical shape that resembled at Hornet's Nest. Miles' eyes pinched as he carved with precision and intensity.

He worked like a child possessed. Every student in the class only paid half attention to their own projects. Every few seconds they'd look up and their eyes glistened with this sort of awe. No one looked at me with those eyes. I was a bit aloof, a bit of a troublemaker. Not quite withdrawn, but not quite the class clown either. I regularly took ADHD pills and my sleep behavior was irregular. There was no predicting how I'd act on a day-to-day basis.

And when I was motivated, it wasn't necessarily to do the right thing. One inspired day, I invented a series of baseball, you know, third-based coach-like hand signals to communicate silently with other students in class. Tap your left ear, swipe your forehead, reach across your chest and touch your left shoulder with your right fist. There were at least ten signals. The teacher went nuts, and I found myself in the principal's office yet again. It was a familiar place. I just wanted to be like Miles. He had such talent, so many gifts.

His finished sculpture, it was a work of art. He called it Maniathan's Nest, and it quickly found its way into the display case by the front office in our school. The piece was about 14 inches high and had dozens of faces that were carved into the nest with expert precision. Each face was unique, and they were frozen in expressions of surprise and terror. It was almost hypnotizing to look at. I thought about that name often. Maniathan. I wondered what it meant, but I was too sheepish to ask Miles. For some reason, I thought he'd be offended. I caught myself stopping to look at the Manitin's nest sculpture far too often.

I wished I could create something like that, to be as revered as Miles. But I wasn't that type of kid. I didn't have the talent. I was mocked even by those who should have been above that sort of thing. One day I lingered too long in the hallway to study Miles' sculpture, rooted in place past the ringing of the school bell. The principal turned the corner and he reached across his chest and touched his left shoulder, one of the many baseball signs that had landed me in hot water merely a week before. His eyes lasered in on me. Get to class. I slinked away, filled with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. Even my own principal is mocking me. I remember thinking.

And that was the moment I decided to turn it around. I studied more, tried harder, not just in school, but in all areas. I even stepped up my game in catechism classes. Miles was also in my class at church. His mere presence pushed me to be a better person. I went from the kid who constantly peppered the teacher with half-grinned queries like, Do dogs go to heaven? To memorizing and delivering the Nicene Creed in front of the entire.

congregation. Even Miles had an impressed smile on his face that day. The invitation came shortly thereafter. Miles asked me if I wanted to sleep over at his house the following Saturday night. He was inviting a few kids from our church and he'd have pizza and movies. I quickly accepted. My father, though, expressed his displeasure. I don't want you spending time with the bakers. That entire family is bad news. My father, not a religious man, launched into a laundry list of the hypocritical actions of the Baker clan. His eyes burned and his voice cut with an extra edge as he railed against the Baker patriarch. The man preaches the word of God and judges every person he lays eyes on, yet he's been abusing the bottle for 30 years.

Everyone knows it. But that piece of work will cast public shame upon anyone else that even sniffs booze in public. He even has an illegitimate daughter in Texas. I bet you didn't know that. And the eldest son, the one up in Madison? He's an adulterer and has his own out of wedlocked child. But they're certainly quick to cover up those minor indiscretions. Lord knows how many other secrets they've buried and hidden away. I won't let my son be poisoned by these people. No way. But my father got sent off on a business trip that weekend, and my mother, well, she didn't raise any objections.

She was the one who strongly insisted I go to church and eventually get confirmed in the first place. She practically dragged me out of bed every Sunday morning, and I think she saw how much this invitation mattered to me. I didn't get invited to get-togethers often. I was improving academically and socially, and this was important. She warmly smiled and insisted I go. Don't tell you, father. I certainly wasn't planning on it. I didn't know what to expect as I rang the doorbell to the baker home.

Backpack slung over my shoulder and sleeping bag under my arm. Miles lived on the edge of town in a private neighborhood. His house sat on what must have been five acres of land, his backyard directly backing up to the forest. I shouldn't have been nervous, but I was. This was my chance to fit in and get more insight on how to be more like Miles. Miles, creative, intelligent, artistic Miles. The door opened and the first thing I noticed was a large portrait of Jesus, his head

covered in a white hood. He was gently feeding sheep and holding a shepherd's crook. Miles stood in the doorway. I looked back, waved, and my mom backed out of the driveway and drove off. The Baker home had a distinct smell, a churchy sort of smell, old and stale. religious artifacts littered the main floor, tabletop wooden crosses, ancient candles and paintings of old men in white beards. Buried in between a set of medieval chalices inside of massive armor, I spotted another sculpture of Maniathen's nest, a near identical version of what Miles had created

in class. The faces seemed to cry out to me. I studied it for a moment, marveling at its intricacies. I made that one, too. It's weird. When I sculpt, I don't feel like I'm creating something out of that block of clay. It feels like the object is already inside it, fully formed. I'm just destroying the shell and allowing it to be free. It was remarkably personal, and no one had ever talked to me like that before. It felt like Miles had shared some intimate knowledge with me, and I may have even blushed. I finally worked up the courage, and I asked Miles what Maniathan meant.

It doesn't mean anything. I made it up. I just thought it sounded cool and mysterious. Minutes ticked by, that an hour. Miles and I watched TV in the basement and talked about church, school, even girls. He told me about his creative process and how he hoped to study art in Europe. No one else had arrived. It was just me and Miles.

Mrs. Baker called down to us for dinner and the aroma of hot cheese and and tomato sauce wafted downstairs. It was a welcome respite. Even the basement smelled like a sanctuary. The table was set for four, the Baker parents, Miles, and me. No one else was coming, Mrs. Baker told us. They'd all called to cancel. I didn't remember hearing a phone ring. Mrs. Baker was dressed plainly in a blue dress, and Mr. Baker wore pleaded khakis and a slightly ill-fitting red flannel shirt. I moved towards one end of the table, but Mrs. Baker smiled and pulled out a different chair for me.

Our special guest gets the best seat in the house. Every chair looked pretty much the same, but who was I to argue? Mrs. Baker, Miles, and I each had clear glasses of lemonade by our plates. Mr. Baker had a black coffee mug. The cup was not steaming. My thoughts immediately shifted to my father, and I heard his voice in my head, telling me that there sure wasn't coffee or tea in that mug.

Mr. Baker lifted the mug and took a satisfying gulp, smacking his lips together when he was finished. He noticed me watching him, and my eyes darted away. I grabbed my glass of lemonade, took a long drink, and I noticed my hand shaking. The table conversation began innocently enough, but the topic soon shifted to religion and faith. Mrs. Baker beamed as I told her how much I'd been studying and the gains I'd made, and she even had me recite her favorite part of the Nicene Creed. When you stood up in front of the whole congregation, that was one of my favorite days. Mr. Baker continued drinking from his black mug and left to refill it from the kitchen two,

three, four times. He wobbled just a little more noticeably each time. He kept silent. cutting his pizza with a knife and fork and chewing each piece meticulously. And every so often, he leered at me, studied me. He constantly narrowed his eyes and grimaced, like he doubted every word I was saying. I fidgeted in my seat each time. Finally, Mr. Baker spoke.

But he wasn't really talking to the table. He was more talking at the table. He just wanted an audience. He went on a little. about a few people, his mailman's gay son, the Henderson girl's alleged abortion, and his co-worker's drinking problem. All godless people, soulless, no direction and no purpose. His head snapped at me. And what do you think? I tipped my glass back and nervously finished my lemonade, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Baker grin ever so slightly. Mrs. Baker looked over at

him, her eyes silently asking Mr. Baker for approval or agreement in something. He stared back at her, and they shared something unspoken. Miles shifted uncomfortably in his seat and looked away. Something didn't feel right. No, nothing felt right. I suddenly regretted being there, hated being there. I despised the smell and the crosses everywhere, and the eyes of all the religious figures in the paintings casting judgment upon me. My head was spinning, slowly at first, and then faster and faster. I looked over at Moniathan's nest, and I swore it was vibrating, like a thousand insects were about to break free and engulf me in a tornado of Hornet Fury.

I got it together. I regained my senses a bit, and I opened my eyes. Maniathan's nest sat unmoving. Mr. Baker's chair squeaked and he looked at me. He'd been backing away from the table, but he stopped cold. What are you drinking, Mr. Baker? I grinned slyly. My words dripping with intent. I'm not sure why I was so brazen. It just came out of me.

I heard my father's voice in my head imploring me to stand up to Mr. Baker. My father's warnings and trepidations about the bakers had finally bubbled to the surface. My father was right. These people were bad news. Mr. Baker didn't answer. His gaze shifted between me and Mrs. Baker. I didn't let him respond. Instead, I excused myself, and I stumbled downstairs, collapsing on my sleeping bag.

I wanted to gather my things and call home, but I couldn't will myself to do it. My head spun with greater intensity, and I thought about the safety of my own house, my own bed. but I was almost glued to my sleeping bag. I wondered if I'd been drugged, but my mind couldn't make the proper connections. My body begged to pass out, but something was fighting it. Was it my ADHD? I was practically an insomniac because of my meds. Maybe the medicine was counteracting the drugs,

or maybe my pills were wearing off and my mind was returning to its hyper-alert state. Or perhaps the drugs just didn't work on me. Who knows? I just lay motionless, unable to fall asleep and unable to do pretty much anything else. Hours passed. At some point the door of the basement creaked open, and I saw a sliver of light creep through. The hushed voices of the baker spilled into the basement, and I could only make out two fragments. He is not of pure faith.

His blood will not satisfy. The door shut. and I willed myself to get up. My body fought whatever happened to me, and I lurched to my feet. I thought about grabbing my stuff and high-tailing at home, but I was curious. I wanted to know what was going on. Footsteps echoed above me on the first floor. I heard the front door open and shut.

I figured I was alone in the house, but I didn't take any chances. I unlocked a basement window, slid it open, and I climbed down. out into the window well. Shaking off my dizziness, I pulled myself up and outside. My breath fogged, the slightly chilly air, and the dampness of the ground soaked through my socks. I wasn't wearing shoes. I turned towards home. It would be about a 40-minute jog, but something else caught my attention. The Baker family was taking a midnight hike into the woods. I thought about safety in my mother's embrace, but again, I thought of my father. Follow them. Discover what secrets they have buried away. Against my better judgment, I listened to the voice in my head. I entered the forest and trailed the

bakers at a safe distance, mindful of each and every stride. One crack of a twig or one errant step would give me away. I often stopped and peered around large trees, reconsidering my course of action. But adrenaline won the moment and I'd push forward. I relied on the noises of the bakers trampling through the dark woods. The moon was full and rays of light peeked through the foliage above. I gained my confidence with each and every step, the effects of whatever happened to me earlier, wearing off by the minute. I heard rumblings ahead.

I ascended a small hill and I found myself looking down on a congregation of about 100 people in a small clearing. The crowd stood, arm in arm, maybe ten rows deep. They were all chanting softly, all facing a large tree. I was looking directly at the backs of the chanters, and I considered moving to get a better vantage point. Just who was down there? I turned to make my way silently across the hill,

but my eyes caught something else. I stopped dead in my tracks. Everyone in the crowd was looking at the same thing, and I finally spotted it up in the tree, and it was a familiar sight. Maniathan's nest, but it was the real thing. It was about 30 feet off the ground hanging off a branch near the center of the tree. The nest was much larger than Miles' sculpture. It looked to be about five feet long and two feet wide.

It was difficult to tell in the darkness, but I swore I could see faces etched into the nest. those screaming, horrified faces that Miles had recreated ever so delicately in art class. Body swayed and the sea of chanters parted in the center. Three people approached the tree from the back row, each carrying what looked like a passed-out child in his arms. They slowly advanced towards the nest. The children held out like offerings to an altar.

The nest pulsated, slowly at first, then with increased vigor. as the three people near the tree. The chanting intensified and the arms of the congregation raised in unison. The nest shook violently and started to break apart. Something was forcing its way out.

The chanting became louder and deeper. For a moment, I forgot where I was. I was entranced and it felt like I was back in front of the school's display case, staring, spellbound at Miles' sculpture. My foot slipped in the mud, and a small rock tumbled down the hill. A head turned towards me from the outermost row, then another. I wasn't sure if they'd see me, but it was the wake-up call I needed.

I stumbled backward and fell to the ground. I popped up and high-tailed it down the hill towards the baker house, just as a hideous and high-pitched screech echoed through the night. My legs chugged and churned. My lungs were aflame, and my eyes burned. burned with tears. I tore through the woods, running only on instinct, hoping I was heading in the right direction, but not sure if I was only heading deeper into the abyss of the forest. Somehow I made it back into the baker's backyard. I collapsed onto the ground, and I sobbed,

just a 13-year-old kid bawling his eyes out, not quite sure of the magnitude of the horrific scene he'd just witnessed. I eventually staggered to my feet, covered in mud, and I ambled to the window well, climbed back inside through the window, and collapsed into my sleeping bag. I couldn't leave. They would know that I'd seen. They'd know that I bore witness to the ceremony and heard the terrible wail of whatever emerged from that nest. I had to pretend that I'd been sleeping the whole time. I made some fast decisions. I stripped off my muddy clothes and I pulled on some clean shorts and a t-shirt. I cleaned up the debris I'd tracked into the basement. made sure the window well looked as undisturbed as possible, and I washed my muddy clothes in the

basement sink. My heart sank when I realized I was missing a sock. I had gone through the whole ordeal without shoes, and my sock must have come off in the woods. I cursed my carelessness and said a quick prayer that no one would stumble across it amongst the trees. I slipped into my sleeping bag, and I waited. It was 3 a.m. I considered the possibilities of how I be caught, and I remembered one crucial element, footprints. Were my tracks plainly visible in the grass? My stomach dropped. Almost at that very instant, raindrops began peppering the house, and it quickly turned into a downpour. I took it as a sign. I was getting through this. Against all odds, I fell asleep. I awoke to the smells and sounds of crackling bacon from upstairs.

I rolled up my sleeping bag, grabbed my stuff, and I climbed the basement steps. I was greeted merrily by Mrs. Baker, who handed me a plate of breakfast. I took my seat at the kitchen table next to Miles, whose plate of food was half eaten. He nibbled on some sausage links and mumbled and cheerful, Good morning, through bites of food. Mr. Baker strode into the kitchen, kissed Mrs. Baker on the cheek, and took a seat at the table with a newspaper. It was all very normal, very all-American.

You'd have never thought some nefarious nest worshipping and human sacrifice had gone on the night before. I almost doubted the whole thing happened. My mother arrived to pick me up 30 minutes later. Miles stopped me right before I headed out the doorway. He handed me a muddy sock. My sock. I found this. Terror filled me.

but it dissipated quickly. Miles's eyes were soft. He didn't have his father's rage. I nodded and headed outside. To say that my life changed after that is an understatement. I was wary of every single person around me. How many people in my life had linked up arm in arm to worship the nest in the tree? I resolved to never tell a soul, not even my own mother. After all, she had it courage me to sleep over at the baker home. As awful as the thought was, she could have been in on it. If anyone suspected that I knew about the whale in the woods

or the children that were carried to the nest, or if Miles decided to tell somebody about what he found, it was simply too dangerous. I was a threat. I decided to carry the secret with me for as long as I lived, but I had to make some changes. I acted out more in class. Gone was the new studious me.

Back was the slacker devil-may-care attitude. It was a return to form, and in my mind it relieved suspicion. I dropped out of my church classes, which seemed to relieve my father, but he never directly gave me a pat on the back. My mother wouldn't allow that. It was just something about what I'd heard the baker say in that hallway. He is not of pure faith. his blood will not satisfy.

I reasoned being as ungodly as possible was the safest bet for my survival. I drifted away from Miles and within a few months we weren't speaking at all. As I slacked off in my studies, Miles had only improved. At my last day of church class, he had wowed the other students with a dramatic retelling of the creation story. He soon was accepted to an art program overseas and he was gone. At least that's what everyone said. But mainly, I tried to forget.

I tried to fool myself into thinking the ceremony never happened. I grew up, middle school, high school, college. I tried to forget it all, and in a way I almost did. The more years passed, the more the incident receded into the deepest recesses of my memory. By the time I was married with an eight-year-old son of my own, the ceremony and Maniathen's nest seemed like something out of a dream. In a way, I began to doubt that the experience had occurred. It was a legend, the stuff of the imagination of a 13-year-old kid long since grown up.

But, as is often the case, incidents we think are buried have this remarkable way of crawling to the surface. I was 36 years old when I had just accepted a job across the country in the Pacific Northwest. I moved out to Oregon with my wife and son and we were exploring the local churches in town. I had no interest in attending church. I wasn't a religious man, but I tagged along with my wife and son. We sat in the office of the pastor, and my eyes scanned the religious artifacts in a display on the far wall. Buried amongst the collection was a sculpture of Moniathan's nest. I choked up, unable to breathe.

The memories came flooding back, each more vivid than the last. As the pastor talked to us about the congregation, services, and volunteering opportunities, my gaze constantly shifted to the nest. The meeting was a blur. When it ended, the pastor walked us to the door. My family exited first, but before I could slip out the door, the pastor touched my arm. I turned, and he nodded at the artifact collection. He knew that I knew.

Panic filled me. The pastor only smiled, and he made a familiar motion. He reached across his chest and touched his left shoulder with his right fist. The sign. It suddenly became clear. All those years ago, the principal wasn't mocking me. He thought I was one of them, one of the worshippers. And for the first time in years, I opened my eyes.

I started seeing people again. Instead of trying to forget that the incident occurred, I embraced it. and I started seeing it everywhere. At a party at my new neighbor's house, a small painting of Monithin's nest sat on a bookshelf. Two neighbors discreetly gave themselves the sign. I spotted a small figurine at a barber shop, a drawing at a coffee shop,

watercolors, sketches, and doodles on refrigerators, and all around me the whispers. I was finally attuned. I met a guy today. His blood will be extra right. She's believed in God all her life. Can we bring her to the nest? Your of faith.

She believes. It only takes true believers. We are the sculptors, my brothers. Molding the world. Sculptors. I fully realized the world in which I lived, in which we all lived. And I only had one thought.

I must protect my son. He must never be given to the creature that emerged from the nest that night. There may have been thousands of these creatures, these maniacans, I'd moved 2,000 miles away and Maniathan's nest had followed me. I didn't know how many there were. I'm not sure I wanted to know.

All that mattered was my boy's safety. And so, my mission continues. Not long ago, my wife opened a box in our basement, and she discovered an interesting item. Miles' sculpture of Maniathan's nest from decades ago. I'd forgotten I'd had it. Not long after the incident in the woods, I sneaked into school late at night. I smashed the display case by the front office, carefully lifted out Moniaton's nest, and placed it into a box. I proceeded to destroy every piece of art in the case, save the nest, and left them all in thousands of pieces on the hallway floor.

It was total carnage to whoever cleaned it up. Every single student art piece was shattered beyond recognition. I needed my own moniathan's nest. I remember thinking, this may come in handy one day. I might need to prove myself to the others, so they don't offer me or eliminate me. I looked upon the nest for the first time in over 20 years, the one that started me on my journey. I studied it, that familiar hypnotizing effect taking me once more. such precision, such detail, dozens of faces all screaming and surprise or terror.

And I noticed one I didn't remember before. Maybe I'd never looked closely enough. It was Miles' face, frozen and a horrified scream. I placed the nest on a bookshelf in our family room. It's best everyone sees it so they don't suspect anything. I even gave the sign when I noticed a neighbor gazing upon. it. Anything to keep my boy safe. But I'm not one of them. No way. My wife asked me if I was the one who carved the nest. But she should know better than anyone. I don't have an artistic bone in my

body. Hand me a block of clay and I'm useless. I could never destroy the shell and allow something to be free. I'm no sculptor. to drift off into your own nightmares. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 1999. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us again next week.

We'll have more stories for you and whatever that is standing right behind you. This audio production is copyright 2016 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. Thank you.