The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S8E14

Episode Date: January 29, 2017

It's episode 14 of Season 8. On this week's show we have six tales about aviation, mutilation, and fornication. "The Whispered Fears of Wayward Boys"† written by C.K. Walker and performed by Addison Peacock & Matthew Bradford & Nikolle Doolin & Dan Zappulla & Eden. (Story starts around 00:02:40) "Sergeant Darwin"‡ written by Jacob Healey and performed by Kyle Akers & David Cummings. (Story starts around 00:14:30) "Flight 43"† written by K. Dempsey and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Jeff Clement & Nikolle Doolin & Atticus Jackson & Jesse Cornett. (Story starts around 00:38:00) "In My Line of Work"† written by Henry Galley and performed by Nichole Goodnight & Alexis Bristowe & Elie Hirschman. (Story starts around 01:00:25) "Auntie Bells"‡ written by S.H. Cooper and performed by Dan Zappulla & Erika Sanderson & Addison Peacock & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts around 01:20:20) "Midnight Storms"† written by Spencer Sabinske and performed by Peter Lewis & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 01:37:00) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast  Click here to learn more about the Sleepless Live 2017 Tour  Click here to learn more about C.K. Walker  Click here to learn more about Jacob Healey  Click here to learn more about K. Dempsey  Click here to learn more about Henry Galley  Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper  Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ "Flight 43" illustration courtesy of Jörn Heidrath Audio program ©2017 - 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

This is a horror fiction podcast. We're here to frighten you and mess with your head because that's what you want. So give in to your fear because tonight there will be no sleep. It's the no sleep podcast. It's the no sleep podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On this week's show, we have six tales about aviation, mutilation, and fornication. On the day this episode is released, we'll be only three weeks away from the first show of our sleepless live tour.

We'll be in Houston on February 18th and kicking off 16 shows over 23 nights around the U.S. I'm happy to announce that all the government paperwork has gone through, and David Alton and I can now officially enter America to perform with the team. I guess at this point we can say, Houston, we have no problem. For those of you in or around the 16 cities we'll be visiting, I hope you're planning on coming to see us. We're rehearsing the great scripts by Michael Whitehouse, shining our shoes, and combing our hair, all just for you. Tickets are still available at all our venues, so just go to the nosleeppodcast.com

slash tour to find out when and where we'll be and to get your tickets. Ah, three weeks. Scary stuff. And speaking of scary stuff, we have some of that ready for you right now, so let's kick off this week's show. In our first tale, we are given the graphic details of a disturbing event from the suburbs of Phoenix. As explained to us by author C.K. Walker, a 911 call reveals what two brothers and their single mom endured, and how what actually occurred that day is still unexplained. Performing this tale are Addison Peacock, Matthew Bradford, Nicole Doolin, Dan Zapula, and Eden.

So listen closely when you experience the whispered fear of Wayward Boys. What's your last name, Tyler? Marmon. And you said your brother is missing from your house? I think so. And what's your brother's name? Mike. Okay.

And how long has Mike been missing? I don't know. Okay. Okay, Tyler, and how old are you? Fifteen. And are your parents at home? No, it's just my mom. And she's not home.

And where's your dad, hon? I don't know. He doesn't live with us. Okay. I have an officer dispatched to you. Is there a gate code or anything else he needs to get into your house? No. Okay.

Have you searched every room in the house for Mike? Even the closets? Yes. Okay, and have you called his friends to see if he's with them? I, he doesn't really have any friends. Just neighborhood kids. All right. How about Mike's school?

Mike didn't go to school today. Okay. Was he sick? Was that, hon? Yes. He was sick? He was sick. Where's your mom right now, Tyler?

She's downstairs. Okay. Can you tell me her name? Jenna. Marmon. All right. And you asked her if she knew where your brother was, correct? She doesn't know.

Okay. And Mike? Spike's bike is in the garage? You don't think he pretended to be sick to play outside, maybe? No, he didn't do that. Okay, and you're sure of that? Yes. Okay, Tyler, is there any broken glass anywhere? Windows or other broken objects in the house? Yes. Does it look like someone broke into your house? No, Mike broke it. Okay, and what did he break, hon? He kicked the coffee table and broke the glass. Okay, and when did that happen, Tyler?

Last night when I was helping him. Okay, was there an altercation last night? Yes. He was sick, and I was helping him, but he didn't want me to. Okay, what were you doing to help your brother, Tyler? I was trying to get an evil spirit out of him. An evil spirit? Sort of like a demon.

It's been possessing him for almost a month, but it's sitting and it got a hold of him. He was saying bad things. about me and my mom? You think Mike is possessed by an evil spirit? Yeah, he and my mom both were. Why did you think your mom was possessed, Tyler? Because she would do sins to me, do sinful things to me. Can you tell me what kinds of things? Just bad things, but it wasn't her fault. It was the demon inside her. That's how Mike knew about it. And what happened last night? I decided to save them. and Mike broke the table when I was trying to get it out. And how did you do that?

I cut the demons out. You did what, hon? I cut the demons out. Tyler, are there any guns in the house? No. Okay. I want you to go look out the window. Do you see any police cars or hear any sirens?

No. Can you ask them to hurry? I'm scared. They're coming as fast as they can, hon, I promise. I just need you to stay calm. Okay. So how did you cut the demons out, Tyler? Through their heads.

Through their heads? Yeah. It's the only way to save them. Okay, and you cut them on their heads? Yeah, but now my brother is gone. And where is your mom, Tyler? She's still downstairs. Okay.

And upstairs. Can you clarify what you mean? She down there's upstairs Can you repeat that Tyler? Hold the phone to your mouth, hun. Yeah, her body is downstairs in the basement but her head is upstairs in the kitchen. You cut your mom's head off?

Yeah, to save her. There was a demon in her and that's the only way to get it out. Okay, do you have any weapons on your person, Tyler? No. When the police get there, I will need you to raise your arms over your arms over your head when you come outside.

Okay. Did you cut your brother, too? Yes. And he survived? No, he's dead too. Okay. But his body is missing? Yes.

Is it possible he survived and ran away? No, he died, but he must have come back again. Okay, Tyler. I have his head, too. You have his head? Yeah, I kept their heads for burial. at the St. Augustine Episcopalian. They're in the kitchen. I'm in my room right now. So, Tyler.

But his body isn't in the basement anymore. It's missing. It was there when I went to sleep, but now it's gone. But my mom's is still down there, though. Okay, help is on the way, Tyler. Okay, hurry. I don't know where he went. The officers will find your brother, Tyler. Someone's knocking on my door. Okay, remember to keep your... hands raised when the officers enter so...

No, they're knocking on my bedroom door. There's someone in the house with you? Just my brother. You think your brother is knocking on your bedroom door? Yeah. I think he's mad at what I did. I'm not gonna open it. Okay, don't open the door.

The officers will be there any minute. He's putting his fingers under my door. Okay, Tyler, hang on. His fingers are gray. Can you make them come faster? They're coming as fast as they can, honey, I promise. Help is coming for you. Just remember to do everything the officer's saying.

I don't have a lock on my door. He's gonna come in. Are they here yet? I don't hear any sirens. I'm scared. I'm scared to hold the nub. But it's my case. I don't want to go over there.

Okay, hon. Just listen to my voice. Can you tell me if you take any medication? No, they go away. Okay, Ty. No. Tyler? Oh my God, help me. Tyler?

Oh, my God. Tyler. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. No. Tyler. Mike, please. No.

Oh, my God. Tyler. Mike, stop. Stop, Mike, stop. Mike, stop. Tyler. No, Mike, please don't. Mike.

Tyler. Phoenix, Arizona, January 9th, 2015. Residents of a Paradise Valley suburb awoke on the morning of January 9th, 2015, to yellow crime scene tape wrapped around an armada of flashing red and blue lights. Law enforcement's attention was held by a small, unassuming house on the corner of Raymond and 24th Place, a house owned by Jennifer Marmon,

where she lived with her two children, 15-year-old Tyler Marman and 8-year-old Michael Marman. Inside the house, police officers discovered the bodies of all three family members. Jennifer Marman and 8-year-old Michael Marman had been beheaded with a steak knife also found in the house. Fifteen-year-old Tyler Marman was also beheaded, although police have said that they do not believe the same murder weapon was used. Rumors continue to circulate that Tyler Marman's head was physically ripped from his body,

along with his arms and legs. But law enforcement has not confirmed. Next-door neighbor, Ricardo Chavez. They were a nice family, quiet, kept to themselves. I didn't see the two boys much, but the mother, Jenna, was very very good. Very pleasant. Yeah, very pleasant. But not so, according to neighbor Alex Howe, who believes white walls shielded the dark secrets of the Marmon family.

The boys were both very odd. The oldest talked to himself a lot and liked to walk up and down the street, talking to nothing except the occasional passing car. But the youngest, Michael, well, he's the one who worried me. He saw everything, watched, everything. There was something not right about that one. Look, I'm sorry for what happened to that family, but I just, I don't know. They weren't normal.

For now, police have not shared any leads they may have on a suspect, and the house remains surrounded by yellow crime scene tape. Cadabard dogs and forensics teams continue to search the property and surrounding neighborhoods, leading some to speculate that not all body parts have been recovered. A source close to the Marman family told Fox 10 News that while the head of 8-year-old Michael Marman was found inside the house, the rest of his body has not been recovered. A 911 operator has also been quoted as stating that she received an odd emergency call

originating from the house on the night of the murders that she believes came from Tyler Marmon in the early hours of January 9th. For now, all we have is speculation about what he has. happened in this quiet Paradise Valley home and hoped that the perpetrator of this triple homicide is caught. Eric Reese, the father of Michael and Tyler Marman, has set up a go-fund me page in their name to help with the funeral costs of his two deceased sons. A neighborhood playmate of Michael Marmans, a seven-year-old named Cassie, told me this. He's the nicest boy ever. He loves to play with me.

When asked for clarification on what she meant, Cassie could only smile. The innocence of youth, it seems, has no reference for time or tragedy. Sarah Newberry, Fox 10 News. Few fictional tales can match the real-life horrors of war. But as we learn from author Jacob Healy, a man discovers his grandfather's journal from the Korean War, and in it he realizes that the horror of the unexplained can exist even in the dark nights of combat. Performing this tale with me is Kyle Acres, so prepare to learn the account of a bizarre soldier known as Sergeant Darwin. How will you be remembered?

I'm not asking what worthwhile things you'll do in your life, nor do I care by whom you'll be admired, respected or even loved. I'm asking how you'll be remembered, how your descendants will learn about you. Far too many of us, though we may even live lives worth remembering, won't be remembered at all. We keep no journals, no records. And once we and those who knew us pass, our only lingering mark on this world will be a small rock, on a small plot of land, in our local cemetery. My grandfather, Thomas Alexander Burns, passed away two weeks ago. Though his body now rests in the frozen earth, he will be remembered.

Since his death, our family has poured over his journals, in which he wrote faithfully every night for over 60 years. In these writings, we have found evidence of things we already knew, that Grandpa Tom was truly a loving husband, devoted father, brave soldier, hard worker, and a great man. But we've also found a story unmatched in its horror, one which never made its way into conversations at Sunday dinner, a story which was unfamiliar to all who knew my grandfather. Perhaps it's a story that should have died with him. Despite being a lifelong pacifist, my grandfather was drafted to fight for the United States

in the Korean War. He was overseas for a period of 14 months and remained in the army on inactive duty for many years following. During his service, he developed a deep sense of patriot. and found several lifelong friends among his fellow soldiers, the ones who survived anyway. His 412th battalion saw close combat on a regular basis, and despite not being a religious man, his entry on April 16, 1956, maintains that he, quote, only survived through the grace of God Almighty. His opinions of divine intervention, though, fluctuated over time. In December of that same year,

he wrote, this season, more than any other, sees Thanksgiving to a God who, if, If he exists at all, allowed my brothers to bleed to death in the forests of Korea. I find in my heart no desire to praise or give thanks to a being prone to such fickle interventions. Much of my grandfather's writing contains similar cynicism born of harsh experiences, and though many of his comrades were lost on many different occasions, it was the last week in February in 1952 that haunted him most of all. This, you see, was the week that Sergeant Darwin arrived in his camp. February 25th, 1952.

Today we made our preparations to enter a forest outside Seoul, and a four-day march will put us in prime position to aid troops currently engaged. A hopeless endeavor is the whisper among the company. I do hope the fighting clears up in that time. March begins at dawn. We camp presently at the edge of an enormous wooded area that seems to have no end. I'm hopeful that navigation equipment all works properly. God, the thought of losing one's life wandering through the forest helplessly like an ass. It does feel a bit dismal in camp,

though it often does on the eve of what many are calling foolishness. It's cold, at nights bitterly so. And once deep in the forest, will not be able to rely on fire for fear. For example, of signaling our position to the enemy, or, better yet, burning the whole damn place to the ground, though such a blunder would surely not make the press back home. And yes, it's on nights like these when the wind howls outside the tent, sending a chill through the canvas, and I huddle in my cot barely able to grip my pencil that I miss back home the most. It's half a world away, and still the distance seems to me even greater. How can it be in the same planet that my fireplace and my wife and all the comforts of home?

It does actually seem that such a lovely scene could only take place on some other world. Alas, I am here, and the company remains largely the same, though transfer has come and passed. Sergeant Mayhew has been transferred to Med Leave and a new man. Darwin comes in his place. He seems to be an all right fellow. Well, that's all for tonight. As always, I try to remain hopeful. One of my grandpa Tom's buddies from the 412th, Daniel McKinley, had died, and this was the day of his funeral.

You'll read more about McKinley in the following entries. The following are excerpts from my grandfather's writings on that day. April 2nd, 1984. And if only we had put an end to that Darwin business before it began, perhaps Judd would have borne the casket with me. But of course, how could we have known? If memory serves, it was McKinley who found our way from the forests during that week. If you recall, I myself try not.

Not to. February 26, 1952. As I said, the march was scheduled to begin today, and for better or worse, all went off without a hitch. The terrain was light, and it felt as though we had made remarkably good time as we walked. But I spent much time in conversation with the new sergeant, and he is a strange man, to say the least. He rarely speaks in the same voice for more than a sentence at a time. It's as though there are a million different people inside him all trying to have their say. One moment his tone is gruff and manly, and the next he sounds very quiet and timid. And often he'll stop speaking in the middle of a thought altogether.

And then I tried to press him. What were you saying? And he looked at me. This happened half a dozen times at least. least, as though he'd never seen me before. This was all very peculiar, but I've heard of people who suffer from diseases of the mind, or possibly he's very stressed from being in such close proximity to combat. After all, we are only a three-day march from the forest's edge,

and I must say every step clenches my gut a bit more. God, how I hope the fighting is over when we get there. Judd, on the other hand, seems eager, but then he holds more prejudice towards the natives. I do worry, though, what he'll be like when he gets home. I've heard of men who are never the same and even violent after they see extended combat. The loneliness was not so bad today as we all marched together and talked together. However, I don't much care for this forest at nighttime. The sounds outside chill me to the bone.

I feel as though this canvas is the only thing separating me from something much worse than combat. Crickets chirp, but sometimes they stop for an extended period of time, and it's then that every snap of a twig sets my teeth on edge. The leaves rustle and the wind howls relentlessly. I don't believe in ghosts, of course, but the sound is almost enough to make you. you. Anyway, it seems that Xavier's gone to bed and the rest are on their way, so I'll bid farewell for now. Good night, Tom. February 26, 1952. Death visited our camp, and now I am terribly frightened to sleep, even though we're keeping watch vigorously.

I myself am of the opinion that this madness has come from within our own. own camp. Otherwise, why are we all not dead? I awoke earlier than usual this morning to a great commotion from another tent. We all rushed outside to see what was the matter, and many were huddled around the tent with grave or panicked expressions on their face. As Judd and I approached closer, we saw that some of the men were weeping. It had just begun to get light out, and the sun was not yet visible. Finally, we forced our way through the crowd to look into the tent. Three of the five cots held dead men,

throats cut deeply, and blood pooled on the bottom of the tent. Both of the living soldiers were being dragged away by the MPs to be taken under questioning, no doubt, although I wouldn't expect this of either of them. McKinley and Hales, I believe the other's name is. No murder weapon was found, and nobody heard anything suspicious or even out of the ordinary. It's a strange mystery as to who the culprit is, but as I say, I don't think this was a sneak attack from an enemy. Several men in the camp have shifty eyes today, and I feel that the culprit is perhaps one of them.

Of course, it also could have been McKinley or Hales, but I doubt it, having known McKinley-Wan. and holding a high opinion of him, and the latter being rather too small to carry out such a task. It's a difficult thing to be met with death so unexpectedly. Though we are soldiers, the camp is very grave tonight. One may think we would be used to loss, but this was not like a combat death, which we may be desensitized toward.

No, this was far more close to home, as they say. That the dead were our friends and that this crime must have been premeditated and heartless, that they were taken in their sleep. Such a vulnerable time. Oh my God. And I shall never forget the looks on their faces, the dead men, one appearing as though he died slightly bewildered and the other two seemingly in great pain. It was difficult to say the least. I couldn't keep my eyes on them for more than a few seconds. Still, one does wonder how they didn't wake their bunkmates in whatever struggle must have ensued. The men had been dead for hours, I'm told, before they were discovered.

Perhaps that does give credence to the suspicions that McKinley or Hales were behind it, or perhaps both of them. They're still in the MP's custody, so that's clearly an indication that they are. the prime suspects. Again, though, my gut tells me that it was not them. Meanwhile, I must now attempt to fall asleep. Not much marching done today, as one can imagine, under the circumstances. I fear will have to make up the time tomorrow. Good night. February 27, 1952. Not much to report today. still no word on the crimes of yesterday utterly exhausted 17 hours of marching with barely even a rest good night February 28th 1952 there's no journal entry for February 28th 1952 as best as my family can tell this is the only day Grandpa Tom ever missed before I transcribe Grandpa Tom's journal from the Leap Day of

I feel the need to add a bit of a disclaimer. The official military record of this incident attributes the deaths of 54 soldiers, not counting three whose throats were cut in the previous entry, to a, quote, explosive malfunction. The report seems almost intentionally vague. Still, given this, I might have been inclined to doubt my father's version of events, until I spoke to other surviving members of his battalion at his funeral. Their stories corroborated with his, some even voluntary.

volunteering details from his journal that I hadn't mentioned to them. This, combined with my grandfather's lifelong displays of honesty and sanity, lead me to believe that the official record is for some reason incorrect. I'm almost certain that the following events happened in exactly the way, my grandpa Tom said. February 29, 1952. We are no longer on our march. In fact, tomorrow morning I will be headed back to the States, or so they tell me.

Right now I'm writing from a military hospital bed somewhere in Korea. I don't know where exactly. I have been injured, but not too badly, an account of which follows. Yesterday, things happened that I feel ill-prepared to explain, much less put into writing. But I shall try, because what is the point of journaling if the extraordinary is not logged while the ordinary is? I hope to not revisit this memory much in the future, but feel it is important to give a full treatment on these pages tonight. Yesterday night at half past nine, darkness had fallen and the only sound came from a few muttered voices throughout the camp, until all of a sudden an anguished scream rang out.

Cries of help smattered with agonized sobs which sounded to be coming for more than one person. It all began so fast. I had my journal in my hand and was preparing to write my entry for the day, but at this sound, Judd, Vinick and I fled from our tent and were met by a horrifying sight. One of the tents at the far end of our camp was ablaze, and the screams were coming from inside. The light from the flames illuminated the silhouettes through the tent's canvas, four men writhing in agony. Two of the men had fallen to the tent floor, and the other two were still struggling to escape. Someone near the tent shouted,

It's padlocked, apparently in reference to the zipper that would have given my trapped comrades an escape. Instead, one of them cut open the canvas of the tent with a knife, but as the two remaining men spilled out of the tent screaming and sobbing, it became apparent to all watching that they would not survive. Though they were utterly engulfed in flames and their human forms were barely even distinguishable,

their screams could be easily heard over the roar of the fire. My stomach sank unimaginably when one of the men shouted that his eyes were melting. All the while, Sergeant Darwin, whom I mentioned a few days ago, was standing near the tent wearing an expression of utter glee, as though it were Christmas morning and he were a young child, full of excitement. It didn't take long before someone's flashlight beam caught him. By this point, the burning soldiers were crisp and twitching almost half-heartedly in the dirt. And besides that

awful smile, it was discovered that he was holding a nearly empty can of the gasoline supply. One soldier, I think it was Wilcox, made to apprehend him when Sergeant Darwin pulled from his pocket a large buck knife. Darwin grabbed his throat, I think it was Wilcox, with one hand and with the other, sliced a mortal wound through his belly. A few of his guts poked out, probably his intestines, and then he began to gurgle out blood as he fell to the ground. It was then that a shot rang out from my left side. Judd had fired at Darwin, striking him in the nose directly. He staggered backward, brains and blood slopping out what was left of his face, and he too fell to the ground. Despite the horrors of what had happened so far, it was then that reality appeared to fail.

Just seconds after firing the shot that killed the sergeant, Judd gasped a sharp intake of air from next to me. I turned and looked down in horror to see a tent pole stuck through his midsection. One end of it shining red in the moonlight and the other end of it being held, as utterly insane as I know this sounds, by Sergeant Darwin, though I had just seen him die with my own eyes. I backed away, frightened from the murder of my dear friend, but not before Darwin swung his buck knife at me, cutting the inside of my left arm, which I held up to protect myself,

and damaging an artery, the injury for which I'm currently hospitalized. But then, Darwin was again felled by several rounds to the back from Hales, who had previously been a suspect in the killings. And as he fell, he smiled at me with a look of pure joy, perhaps the most lingering image of the whole ordeal. I cannot chase it from my mind. I couldn't yet turn my attention to Judd who lay dying on the ground, however, because yet another Sergeant Darwin appeared behind Hales

and hacked into his neck with a hatchet. The axe cut about halfway through Hale's throat, and he clutched it, and while he clutched, he began to cough uncontrollably and blood sprayed from beneath his hands and also his mouth and nose. Darwin then swung the hatchet at the chest of another soldier, and I could clearly hear his ribs breaking as it made impact. By this point, I'm not sure how long before. The entire camp was in a frenzy.

Many of us lay dead on the ground. I'm still not sure exactly how many, but screams were echoing from everywhere. I paused to wrap my shirt around my profusely bleeding arm. A decision which likely saved my life, the doctor said. Yet, all the while looking around me, I could see at least five different Sergeant Darwin's hacking away at my comrades or otherwise mutilating them.

Two of them had tied down our commanding officer, Captain Frick, and were in the process of soaking him in gasoline. I saw him moments later on his hands and knees. Has he burned alive? I don't remember much of what happened from this point until our escape, as I had lost a fair amount of blood, but I am told eventually my surviving comrades managed to kill the remaining sergeants. I have heard it estimated, and this seems correct to me,

that nearly a dozen Sergeant Darwin's met our camp that day, though we could only find the body of one when all was said and done. I cannot begin to fathom what kind of sorcery or magic or devilry our camp fell victim to last night. It was McKinley, at one point the prime suspect of the first deaths, that saved the day and in his heroism led our survivors wounded and all to a place, where he could radio for a rescue team. My grandfather's entry of February 29, 1952, continues for several more pages,

detailing the rescue efforts and then some rambling thoughts on the events of that night. I'm not sure how lucid he was by the end of the entry. He simply signed it with an ex. But I find little, if any, reason to doubt his version of the events, as the multiple Sergeant Darwin's were corroborated by several of his fellow soldiers independently.

Like Grandpa Tom, I cannot begin to fathom how such a thing could happen. Though I'm beyond grateful for the rest of his journal entries, this is truly a story I wish I'd never heard. Since reading it, I've often found my dreams haunted, by burning soldiers and agonized screams, and by the depraved grin on the culprit's face as he fell, dead at my grandfather's feet.

But perhaps the most insidious effect has been in how I remember my grandfather now. For although the memories of bouncing on his knee and the terrible health-food smell of his house still linger, They're tainted by the terrible tale of Sergeant Darwin. How will you be remembered? That's for you to decide, of course. But if you have any stories like my grandfathers, perhaps you should keep them to yourself.

When it comes to real life and the fears therein, for many, the thought of air travel is deeply frightening. But in this tale from author K. Dempsey, we hear not from a nervous flyer, but from an experienced airline pilot about a disturbing flight he flew and how the horrors of that flight may never fully be revealed. Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, Jeff Clement, Nicole Doolin, Atticus Jackson, and Jesse Cornett. So remind yourself that flying is one of the safest ways to travel.

Just try to forget what you're about to learn about Flight 43. Engine screaming, the plane shot down the runway. B-1, rotate. I pulled back on the control column and the nose began to rise. The terminals and hangars of Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport blurred together into a fuzzy aura of light as the plane sped down the tarmac. Its speed increasing with every passing second. And then, a smooth and subtle grace, the rear tires left the ground and we were in the air.

The roar of the engines and the whoosh of rushing wind filled me with an almost playful joy, just like they had on the thousands of flights before this. This particular night, I was the acting first officer on a red-eye flight from Phoenix to San Francisco. The captain I was flying with was only 29 years old, but somehow he had managed to get more hours than me. I was happy to let the younger man take command. Victor had a passion for flying and a spotless record. I still remember the grin on his face that night. He lived in San Francisco, just like me, and he'd be heading home to see his girlfriend when we landed.

Gear up. I retracted the landing gear. Suburbs slid by beneath us, lit up by needle rays of little street lights. 3.0. I punched the heading into the flight computer. American 43, entering Heading 330. The plane began making a soft bang to the right. We request clearance to flight level 360. And with that, the flight was underway. We ascended away from Phoenix and out over the wide open desert. The scattered vehicles on Interstate 10 and U.S. 60 were the only light. to pierce the darkness. The faint outlines of the mountains came and went. Their stony peaks

swallowed by the empty blackness of the desert as we passed over them. Town twinkled in the distance and vanished. The Phoenix controller gave us a curt goodbye and we handed over to the Los Angeles Center. The flight attendants passed out drinks to the few passengers who were awake. The plane had 84 passengers nowhere near full capacity, so it was a quiet night for them. One of the flight attendance knocked on the cockpit door and I let her in. Would you like anything? Yeah. Anything with caffeine?

They'd call on red eyes for a reason. All right. I'll have something for you in just a moment. The cockpit door clicked shut and she was gone. We were somewhere over California at that point. If I had to guess, I would say we were approaching the southern end of Death Valley National Park. What I know for sure is that we were still over the desert with nothing for miles around. And that was when I saw the lights.

They were little pinpoints at first, scattered across the windshield and the nose of the plane like tiny sparks. They quickly grew in size and intensity until the whole front of the plane was covered in a sheet of swirling blue flame. It was an eerily beautiful sight, and Victor and I sat transfixed. What is it? I had to think about that for a moment. Could be St. Elmo's Fire. St. Elmo's fire is a phenomenon sometimes seen when flying through thunder clouds, caused by highly charged particles coming in contact with the surface of the plane.

Infamously, St. Elmo's fire carpet at a 747 in the minutes before the so-called Speedbird 9 incident in 1982. You see, British Airways Flight 9 had been flying from Kuala Lumpur to Sydney when San Amos Fire lit up the plane somewhere over the ocean. Its presence was followed by a near simultaneous failure of all four of the three of the the plane's engines, which set the plane into a powerless glide. The pilots struggled to get the engines working again, and when they finally did, they immediately turned around and headed for Jakarta, only to encounter St. Elmo's fire again, followed by more engine failures. They descended until the fire vanished, and the engines started again. When the plane landed safely in Jakarta,

all of the paint was missing. It turned out that the plane had flown through a cloud of ash from an erupting volcano, which clogged the engines and caused them to fail. When the plane descended out of the ash cloud, the molten ash inside them re-solidified and broke away, allowing the engines to restart. The pilots had no idea the ash cloud was there, so they thought they were seeing St. Elmo's fire and clear skies, something that was physically impossible. And that was how we learned that ash doesn't show up on the cockpit weather radar. I glanced at our weather radar. I knew that thunderstorms capable of producing St. Elmo's fire were very unlikely over the Mojave Desert. And I felt goosebumps rise on my arms when I saw that the radar showed nothing at all.

Victor had clearly seen the same thing that I had. There's nothing up here. Clear skies. Ash, maybe. Well, this felt like Speedbird 9 all over again, except there was a problem. Flight 9 had been flying near Indonesia, which had dozens of active volcanoes, and we were in Southern California, which doesn't. In fact, the nearest active volcano was hundreds of miles away. Well, I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand-up. Something was terribly wrong here. It can't be ash. There aren't any volcanoes near here. If there was an eruption that blew ash all the way down here, we'd know about it and they would have diverted us. Hmm, true. Victor contorted his lips into a frown. Radar malfunction?

With light still cascading over the windshield, I radioed Los Angeles area control. Los Angeles, this is American 4-3. Do you have any weather visible on your radar? We are experiencing what appears to be St. Elmo's fire. American 4-3. Skies are clear throughout Southern California. Do you wish to alter your course? This was beginning to disturb me.

There didn't seem to be any rational explanation for it. I knew that was exactly how the pilots of British Airways Flight 9 felt, but that knowledge provided little comfort. Even if this was explained later by the NTSP, it was still unexplained at the moment, and it disconcerted me greatly. I needed to decide whether to push forward or cut the flight short. So far, there didn't seem to be any problems with the plane, diverting inconveniences the passengers, and incurs a huge cost to the airline, making it a major blemish on my record as well. Los Angeles Control. This is American 4-3. We will maintain our scheduled course at this time. I heard a flight attendant knock on the door again. Somehow I didn't think she was coming back with a Coke.

I reached back and opened the door for her. Do you know what's going on? The passengers are very concerned. It's a St. Elmo's fire. It's an electrical phenomenon. It'll go away soon. Don't fret over it. Is there anything I should tell the passengers? Tell them what I told you. And you can cancel my drink order. Okay. She disappeared back into the cabin. Just then, I heard an enormous bam, and the plane rocked violently.

I heard screams from the cabin, but I had to remain calm. I yelled to Victor over the sudden grinding noise that filled the cockpit. What was that? I don't know! Warning lights started flashing. Engine number two was backfiring. We only had two engines, and although we could fly on one, this was a game changer. Following the training that had been drilled into us, we immediately shut down the engine to prevent it from suffering irreparable damage.

Try to restart the engine. I'll declare an emergency. I flipped on the radio. Mayday, Mayday, this is American 4-3. We have lost an engine and request immediate clearance to land at the nearest available airport. Affirmative, we are declaring an emergency. Can you give us a vector to the nearest airport? I turned back to Victor, who was speeding through the engine restart checklist. He reached the last step and there was no. response from the engine, so he started again. I remembered that on Speedbird 9, the pilots tried dozens of times before they got their engines to start again, so I wasn't surprised. Suddenly, there was another bang, just as loud and as violent as the first. I had a horrified, sinking feeling in my gut when I saw the warning lights. Engine number one was backfiring as well. Victor

immediately reached out to shut off the engine, and I got back online with Los Angeles Area Control. American 4-3, both engines have now failed. I repeat, both engines have failed. The only sound now was the wind rushing over the fuselage. Never a good thing to hear in an airplane. Double-engine failure wasn't supposed to happen. The chances were infinitesimally small. Affirmative. Can you still reach Fox? I had no idea if a 737 could glide for 70 miles. That seemed like a long shot. Is there anything closer? Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Victor fail yet again to restart the engines.

Air and SpacePie. With no working engines, it was looking more necessary by the minute. What's the nearest runway of any kind? China Lake Naval Air Weapons Station is 23 miles northwest. I knew about China Lake. Victor and I would almost certainly be arrested if we landed there. It wasn't exactly Area 51. It still wasn't a good place to show up without permission.

Is there anything else? Edwards Air Force Base is 50 miles to your southwest. It is also... If we weren't arrested for landing at EAFB, there would certainly be a lot of paperwork. Before I could even begin to answer, the plane went into a sudden dive. With a yell, I tried to yank the control column

back up to level the plane, but it was slow to respond. My ears popped, and for a few minutes, I could hear nothing at all. Victor began to pull back on his control column as well, and ever so slowly, began to level off. Warnings blared in the cockpit, the monotonous robot voice calling out over speed, over speed, over and over again. Beads of sweat dripped off my forehead and my heart rate

was through the roof, even as the plane swooped back out of the dive. I looked at our altimeter, and to my horror, we had lost several thousand feet in less than a minute. There was no way we would make Edwards Air Force Base. There was only one option left. We just went into an uncontrolled dive and lost a lot of altitude. We cannot reach any other airfield other than China Lake. Give me the heading. The Lake does not have ILS guidance. That didn't matter.

Without power, the plane couldn't pick up the ILS signal anyway. What's the frequency for China Lake? Cursed aloud. We would be coming in without being able to tell them of our situation. Unless, of course, they contacted us first. As we set course for China Lake Naval Air Weapons Station, we finally had an opportunity to properly assess the situation. The failure of both engines had killed all but the most essential instruments,

along with most of the hydraulics. A few instruments and some basic hydraulic control were powered by an emergency wind turbine that dropped from the bottom of the fuselage when both engines failed. But otherwise, we were flying what might as well have been a giant paper airplane. I could hear screams wafting faintly through the cabin. The passengers were terrified, and rightly so. Had Victor and I been unable to pull out of the dive, we would have pancaked into the desert hard enough to propel the debris underground.

There was a knock on the cockpit door, accompanied by more screams. The knocking increased in its urgency, and it stopped. Victor, who had by now given up on trying to restart the engines, which were clearly destroyed beyond repair, got out of his seat and made for the door. He opened it, and then I heard it click closed again. It was against regulation to have only one crew member in the country. cockpit, especially during an emergency. Vickter was aware of this rule, so I was flummoxed by his departure, but I couldn't go and ask because I needed to fly the airplane. Just when the glide seemed stable,

another terrifying warning screeched out into the cockpit. A quick glance told me that there was now a fire in the rear cargo hold. This was the last thing I needed. I activated the fire suppression system in the rear cargo hold and crossed my fingers. Then, with the alarm still blaring, a receipt received a radio transmission. China Lake, this is American 4-3. I hear you. That was when I noticed the cabin had fallen silent. I guess the initial panic caused by the sudden dive must have worn off.

There was still no sign of Victor. I looked out my side window, and to my surprise, a fighter jet could be seen flanking the plane. A quick look out, the captain's side window confirmed there was another one to the left of the plane as well. Everything was swirling around in my head. a chaotic mess of fear and confusion, the jets, the fire, the engine failure, the lights, and most of all, Victor's disappearance. That was what truly terrified me. I didn't dare look over my shoulder, even though I knew the cockpit door was locked and secure.

More warnings blared as I continued the descent into China Lake. The fire suppression system hadn't worked. The fire was spreading. I barely had time to worry about that before the plane made a sharp bank to the right. I yanked the control column in the opposite direction and the aircraft leveled off again. Disconcertingly, the pastures remained eerily silent. That was odd, considering that the cabin smoke detector was warning me there was now smoke in the cabin. There was no way the smoke could have incapacitated everyone that quickly.

Was there? I knew that this would be the hardest landing of my career. I was only a couple of minutes away from the airfield, but I was flying alone. My plane was on fire, and I had no engines. At any moment, the fire could burn through the hydraulic cable, sending the plane careening uncontrollably into the desert. At least the St. Elmo's fire had gone, so I could actually see out the windows.

There, straight ahead with the lights of China Lake. I have visual on the runway. There was no response from China Lake. I scrambled to complete the landing checklist, much of which was useless anyway since it involved the engines. Because we had no power, slowing down for landing wasn't a pressing issue. What was more worrisome was that when I dropped the landing gear, it might not lock. And even if gravity managed to get all of it in place, the drag could slow us enough to stall.

It needed more speed, so I lowered the nose ever so slightly. I couldn't do that for long, however, because putting the nose down meant losing altitude. I didn't want to miss the runway. Suddenly remembering the dangerous smoke in the cabin, I put on my oxygen mask, in case it started seeping into the cockpit. I made a slight course adjustment to line up perfectly with the runway, and I prepared myself for a difficult visual landing. The controls were heavy and lethargic,

but I still tried to make rapid fire adjustments to bring the plane down as smoothly as possible. At the last moment, I remembered to lower the landing gear. I had no way of knowing if it locked or not, and there was no time for the jets to give me visual confirmation. I suppose that was the natural consequence for, deviating from the landing checklist. It occurred to me that there could be a checklist for landing with no engines, but it was much too late for that. I saw Desert whizzing by just a few yards

beneath me, and then it changed to tarmac. This was it. I was landing. The fighter jets pulled up and away as my landing gear touched down on the runway. To my immense relief, it didn't collapse. Neither did the nose gear. Everything had locked in place properly. Since the engines were Instead, I couldn't use reverse thrust to slow down, so I hammered on the wheel brakes as hard as I could and jammed the spoilers to their full extended position. The plane skidded to a stop just short of the end of the runway, smoke pouring from the shredded tires. There was no congratulatory message from China Lake. Instead, they started giving me orders. I heard a fire truck rush up behind me and start spraying the plane with foam. I sat perfectly still in my seat, my heart pounding.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a stair truck approaching the left side of the plane, an SUV pulled up behind it, and a man dressed in all black stepped out and made his way up the stairs. He opened the forward exit, stomped through the entryway, and opened the cockpit door. The door was locked and required a passcode that only the pilots knew, but only later did I realize that he had waltzed right in anyway. He was a tall man, clean-shaven, wearing a black tuxedo and dark glasses. They didn't seem to be sunglasses, which would have been a liability at night. He extended a hand to me.

Let's go. He hoisted me out of my seat. I removed my oxygen mask and we walked through the cockpit door into the cabin. What I saw there gives me nightmares to this day. The passengers and crew, including Victor, looked like they had been fed through a wood chipper. There was nothing recognizable remaining, just lumps of flesh and... Shards of bones strewn about the cabin like some sort of horrifying confetti. Intestines hung from half-open overhead bins, and there were bloody handprints on the windows.

The floor was covered in a half inch of blood, and I could hear more oozing down off the redden seats. There was blood on the walls, blood on the ceiling, blood dripping out of the air conditioning vents. I felt sick. How could this have happened without so much? as a sound. Somehow, 88 people were torn limb from limb and strewn about the cabin without making a noise loud enough for me to hear it in the cockpit. The man in black quickly led me out the door and onto the stairs. I immediately threw up over the railing, and he patiently waited while I spewed my dinner all over the tarmac. When I finished, he led me down the stairs and towards

the black SUV. On the way over, I caught a glimpse of another man, dressed identically to the first, walking away from the tail section with both flight recorders. Something told me that he wasn't with the NTSB. My mind was completely numb, and I suspect I was in shock. I expected to be arrested, but they didn't even take me in for questioning. The man drove me through China Lake Naval Air Weapon Station and handed me over to a cop waiting just outside the gate. Before I got out of the SUV, he handed me a bag,

which contained my phone and a few other personal effects. I had left on the plane. I never saw him gather them, but like so many other things, I only realized that later. The cop beckoned for me to sit in the passenger seat, so I knew I wasn't being arrested. In stony silence, he drove me away from China Lake and out into the desert. Before long, he stopped in the town of Ridgecrest and dropped me off in front of a seedy motel. And just like that, I was alone. I looked inside my bag, and in addition to my personal belongings, I found $5,000 in cash. A note was attached, which said, to get home. I pulled out my phone and saw that I had a single text message from a number I didn't recognize. In the following months, when it became

clear to me that the media wouldn't report on what happened and that the NTSB wasn't investigating, the message gained more meaning, but at the moment, it chilled me to the bone. It just contained four words. Flight 43 is missing. Time in our netherworld has come to an end. We release you back into your own reality. 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 pass 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 when our unseen hands will drag you down into our dark storyland. This audio production is copyright 2016-2017 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. The name The No Sleep podcast is a trade. mark of Creative Reason Media, Inc. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.