The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S9E05

Episode Date: June 4, 2017

It's episode 05 of Season 9. On this week's show we have five tales about terrifying travelers, raging revenge, and dreadful descents. "Never Give Directions to Strangers"† written by T. Weaver and performed by Kyle Akers & Davd Cummings. (Story starts around 00:04:20) "I’ve Been On This Train Forever"† written by Rima Chaddha Mycynek and performed by Nikolle Doolin & Dan Zappulla & Atticus Jackson & Nichole Goodnight. (Story starts around 00:22:25) "My Uncle Had Brain Bubbles"‡ written by Felix Blackwell and performed by Peter Lewis & Jeff Clement. (Story starts around 01:04:20) "A Lesson on Applied Narratives"‡ written by Henry Galley and performed by Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 01:24:05) "Claustrophobia"† written by Jon Grilz and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Jesse Cornett. (Story starts around 01:46:00) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about the "Horror d'Oeuvres" book for "Scares That Care"   Click here to learn more about the RABBITS podcast   Click here to learn more about Rima Chaddha Mycynek   Click here to learn more about Felix Blackwell   Click here to learn more about Henry Galley   Click here to learn more about Jon Grilz   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ "My Uncle Had Brain Bubbles" illustration courtesy of Jen Tracy 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 storytelling podcast. Our tales are dark and disturbing, intended to shake you up. Listen at your own risk. We are all around you. And tonight's there will be, brace yourself for 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 five tales about Terra. Terrifying travelers, raging revenge, and dreadful dissents. As many of you know, we have a voice actor on the podcast who was with us for many years before taking a bit of a sabbatical from the show. Rima Chathamysinic took time off for some minor excuse, I believe. What was it again? Oh, yes, to give birth and raise a child. Nothing too time-consuming, really? But while Rima has been away from the mic, she has spent some time.

at the computer and we're thrilled to present one of Rima's stories this week. Once again, a member of the No Sleep team has proven to be multi-talented. So we welcome you back, Rima, even if only in written form. Thanks for sharing yet another of your talents with us. I'd like to bring to your attention an excellent book which has been released called Horror D'Urves. Coordinated by No Sleep author Rafael Marmol, this book is a collection of bite-sized horror stories from some of No Sleep's best writers, many of whom you've heard on the podcast.

And from June 4th through the 11th, the book is on sale for only 99 cents. That's a steal and well worth buying, but here's the best part of the purchase. All proceeds of horror durs will be donated to the charity, Scares That Care, a non-profit charity fighting the real monsters of childhood illness, severe burns, and cancer by helping ease the financial burden on families facing these extraordinary hardships. Please check the show notes on our website for a link to where you can get your own copy of this excellent book and help those in need at the same time. And finally, I've been negligent and taken far too long to recommend an outstanding new

podcast from our friends who created The Black Tapes and Tannis. The new show is a docu-drama series called Rabbits. It's hosted by Carly Parker, and when her best friend Umiko goes missing under very mysterious circumstances, Carly's search for her friend leads her headfirst into an ancient mysterious game known only as rabbits. Soon Carly begins to suspect that rabbits is much more than just a game, and that the key to understanding rabbits might be the key to the survival of our species and the universe as we know it. USA Today calls rabbits twisted and addictive And has been described as

Ready Player 1 meets serial meets the TV show Lost You can subscribe today at rabbitspodcast.com Or wherever you listen to podcasts Rabbits, it's television for your ears And so before you fall down the rabbit hole into that adventure Why not settle in for our stories as we kick off this week's show. In our first tale, we meet a man who is dealing with local weather warnings

by turning to an old-fashioned technology for information, the CB radio. But as we learn from author T. Weaver, it's only when a stranded truck driver receives his signal that the night becomes truly disturbing. I join Kyle Akers in performing this tale, so pay attention to the lesson found in this one. Never give directions to strangers. It's taken me well over a year to gather the courage to talk about this openly.

I can't help but feel responsible and you'll understand why soon. On a late night in October of 2015, the sky collapsed over my town. The clouds that had descended blanketed themselves over my small suburban neighborhood in the nearby highway. The fog was so dense that looking at the window yielded nearly the same results as staring directly at a blank piece of paper. That night I remember hearing the weather sirens sounding off, echoing their unearthly chortle across the empty streets surrounding my home. I ignored them at first, choosing to instead continue my ritual of watching my nighttime sitcoms. That, however, ended soon after the first siren went off.

The flickering imagery on my much too old television broke apart, exposing warnings of low visibility and severe lightning in my sitcom's place. I watched and listened as the television seemed to join the call with the sirens outside. letting loose their bleeps and emergency tones. The signal warned us to stay inside and to avoid driving for our safety and the safety of others. I let out a quick huff and distaste as my nightly routine was interrupted.

I set my eyes on a radio and decided to give it a quick try. Anything would be better than sitting in silence. Unfortunately, that thought was wrong. As I wandered toward my radio and flicked it to life, the only noises that escaped were robotic and emotionless warnings from the National Weather Service. I felt my shoulders shrug and shrugged, defeat. If this had been a tornado or hail storm, I'd have appreciated the heads up. I could prep for

the storm, but there's nothing I could do about a fog. From there I let my eyes wander over to the far too bright mist sweeping across what should be the naturally dark streets. I let out a sigh and broke my gaze before heading over to my kitchen, deciding that maybe some hot chocolate will relax me, enough to doze off and allow my dreams to take me away from this strange but boring evening. But as I was stirring the hot chocolate mix into the steaming milk and idea hit me. I had an old CB radio locked up in my attic. I might not be able to watch my shows or listen to my radio, but maybe if I was lucky enough, some trucker would be stopped on the highway and be willing to have a chat with me. I knew it was a bit of a long shot. CB radios were very rapidly going out of style for truckers, but I knew a few still

had them for emergencies or idle chatter. I left the kitchen with my hot chocolate in hand and crept up to my attic steps. I blew softly on the steam rising from my cup as I made the journey to my chest of goodies from yesteryear. I lurched the old chest open and began to set up my little communications area. I even pulled up an old dusty table I had stored away for parties and placed all my needed equipment on top of it. After a few minutes, I was all ready to go. I took a small sip of my drink and turned the radio on. I listened as the age cracked through the speakers. I had hoped the radio had survived the prolonged stay in storage, and luckily, besides from the faint crackles, it seemed rather functional. I keyed the mic and called out through the fog. Hopefully to

anyone as idle and bored as myself. Calling out to anyone stuck out in that fog, is anyone out there? I listened as the static of the radio faded in and out nearly silently. Then a sputter of white noise came across the net before an old man's voice came in relatively clearly. Oh, thank goodness. Someone's... out there. I'm losing my mind out here. Can I get a radio check? His elderly voice was gruff and hoarse, a type of voice you'd expect from someone who'd spent a lifetime on the road. I let my lips curl up into a smile. I really didn't expect to reply. You're coming in clear. How about me? I made sure he could hear my end of the conversation. A little broken up, but audible.

This shit weather came out of nowhere. He grumbled. I imagined him leaned back in his seat, arms crossed with a radio dug into one hand. I could practically envision his windows completely smothered by the fog, isolated from everything. Yeah, I didn't see anything on the television until after the fog hit. All the stations are playing that emergency frequency. I waited a few seconds for his response. So your hold up inside your home then?

Oh, I thought you might be on the road like me. I heard a slightly disappointed groan from his end. Did you at least get to see the clouds fall? I paused for a moment. I had been watching my shows oblivious to the weather outside until the warnings. I didn't have the privilege to see it roll into the neighborhood. That's a firm. I'm at my place right now, and no, I didn't get to see it hit.

A brief chuckle and wheeze came over the radio. You missed out. craziest thing I've ever seen. It was almost like the clouds hit a cliff midair and fell straight down. They came hard enough that I was actually worried they'd beat my truck up. I managed to park on the side of the road, didn't see anyone else near me. Well, damn, sorry I missed it then. My smile escaped through my voice.

Yeah, well, Maybe some kid got it on tape. Static interrupted him, squealing loudly out of the speakers. I jumped back slightly reaching for my ears. His voice fought through it. What the fuck was that? Everything all right? Yeah, I think so.

I think I just saw a car zip by some sort of weird black light on it. I know damn well they can't see anything in this fog. Hell, I couldn't see anything but their dumb light going off. I leaned in closer to the radio. Thinking of an explanation became up empty-handed. Some people just have a death wish, I guess. Damn stupid, if you ask me, I'd say they only care about themselves.

But if that was true, they'd be parked on the side of the road like me. He gave another weasy, laugh ending in a coughing fit. Getting a little curious, I started asking him some questions. Any chance you can make anything else out there? They say there's been some bad lightning in the area, but I haven't seen or heard anything like that yet.

Nah, not a damn thing. Haven't heard any thunder either. Besides you, it's quiet as the grave out here. The fog doesn't even look like it's moving, and I sure as hell don't hear any wind hitting my

truck. I bit my lip trying to concentrate on any noises outside. Being in my attic, I should be able to hear the wind sweeping its way through the wooden boards of my house. But he was right. There was none. This is the weirdest storm I've ever seen. Well, to be honest, I don't... Wait.

No, no, the lights are back. He interrupted himself. I could hear his voice strain as his focus shifted outside of his truck. They are They don't look right They aren't on the road His voice slowly trailed off What do you mean?

Where are you? I hoped everything was all right That's not right Shit, the only thing on that side of the road Is a tree line No way in hell a car could squeeze through there The lights look too high off the ground too.

They're a little higher than my eye level. And I'm in a goddamn semi. Hey, just keep your eyes on it and let me know if you're all right. You'll be okay. I... I could hear him swallow hard. They're gone. They zipped away again.

Actually, fuck me. They didn't just sip away. They looked like they ran away. I swear they goddamn crouched and sprinted off. Static consumed his transmission again, but nowhere near as badly as before. It's just some lights. Maybe someone's got some flares out there. Could be some hunters trying to find their way back home in this fog.

I tried sounding reasonable. I figured there must be some sort of rational explanation. Yeah, well, that's got to be it. The fog must be screwing with my depth. perception. I can't see anything out here, so I think I'm good. I heard faint noises coming from the radio, just behind his voice. It didn't sound like something trying to make contact with us through the radio. Rather, it sounded like something that happened to be captured while the old trucker was talking. Is there someone there with you? I tried to sound unconcerned, as if it was a normal question to ask.

Negative, just me. He sounded a bit put off like he knew something was wrong. I could tell he was on edge. I just wanted to know if you were alone or not, just to see if you had an extra set of eyes and ears out there. Oh, no, no, it's just me out here. There was a brief pause followed by another explosion of static. He eventually radioed back.

All right, I'm done. Something just slammed into my trailer. I don't even... I heard a loud metallic crash explode for. from my speakers, followed by yelling. That ain't no, Hunter! It's rockin' my damn truck! His voice sounded frightened.

Static kept pulsating through the radio. Do you need me to call the police? I was worried about the safety of my new friend. No, I'm already dialed in and just got put on hold. I'm just going to hold off a bit on making noise and hope it goes away. If this is some sort of bear, then it's a record. I left the radio alone for a little while, waiting for the old man to reply. I was scared for him.

After a few surges of static in several minutes, I finally got a reply. The old trucker seemed hushed and talked under his breath. I hope you're still there. I don't want to be a burden to you, but I'm not feeling all that safe out here. Do you think you could pull up a map or something to get me out of here? I'll have to leave my trailer behind, but my job ain't worth my life. The faint sound of static hauntingly trailed off of his words.

I felt bad for the man. Something out there was really setting him off. Hey, yeah, sure. If you can make it to my front door, I'll let you in. I'm just around the corner from the highway. You're a real lifesaver. Just give me a second. I'll get out my mobile radio.

And you can leave me there. I bit my cheek anxiously. I had no idea if what I was doing was right or even safe for that matter. But he needed help and I didn't want to turn him away. He called in. His voice distorted heavily by static. The fog must have made the transmissions coming broken. I reasoned it myself.

Let me know when you hit a sign. I'll tell you where to go from there. A few seconds passed before he responded again. Willard Street. Take a right down that road. and keep going until you hit an intersection. A few more seconds passed. Johnson and Avery.

I felt confused. You would have to be sprinting to have made it that quickly to the next sign. Are you all right? Do you need me to call someone? The radio echoed my voice back to me, muffled and contorted before I got a response from the man. No, I just want to get out of this fog. The trucker's voice repeated a few times before breaking apart into static.

All right, then take Avery all the way down. I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Something about this wasn't right. I wasn't dumb. My neighbor directly across the street was a police captain. I figured if I sent the old man there, he could get the help he needed, and I could pass it off as a mistake with my mental direction so fast. Tucker Court.

Let's see. Walk three houses down, and my place should be on the left. I closed my eyes tight. My foreheads crunched up in worry. I prayed this would work out for the best. I'm outside. The old trucker chortled, while different pitches of his voice all resonated nearly at the same time,

repeating themselves. I put the mic to my mouth to tell him to knock, but couldn't muster up the courage. I sat the radio down and turned it off. I looked over my shoulder to my attic's window. I took a deep breath and released it, before deciding to take a gander. I wasn't expecting to see much.

I mean, how could I? The fog covered everything. But I looked anyway. I got out of my chair and crept toward the window. I placed my hand on the wooden frame surrounding the glass and took a deep breath, conjuring out my courage. I slowly grabbed the curtains and very gently pushed them to the side, allowing just enough space for my eye to peek through.

I know you want answers as to who or what was out there, but the fog was too strong. nothing but whiteness exposed itself to me visually, but physically, emotionally, I felt it out there. I can only describe it as dread incarnate. It was a visceral, primal feeling that washed over me stronger than anything else I've ever felt. I knew someone or something was out there, and it wasn't natural. It had a goal, an indecipherable, incomprehensible goal, and that goal led nowhere good.

I could feel the sense of death creep into my bones, blocking my joints in place. My body was stiffening for a quick end. As that feeling burned its way into my memories, I forced myself to have the courage to run away from that window. I turned my back towards the fog behind me and ran for my stairs. I ran on instinct. I felt my feet land on my lower floor, and I let myself be guided towards the only place in my home where I couldn't see into the mist. My windowless closet. I jumped inside and slammed

the door behind me. I remember sitting in that closet for hours, staring off into the darkness, praying and hoping I'd imagined the feeling. I stayed up all night until I could see the sun filter in from under my closet door. I exited my safe haven and crawled to a window before I peered outside. I felt my mouth gap open when I saw my neighbor's attic window broken into. No marks on the walls of the home gave any sort of hint as to how whatever it was had climbed inside. I instinctively called the police and they responded with haste. After all, my neighbor was one of them. They took me in and refused to tell me what they found inside. Even afterwards, the newspaper had nearly no information regarding the crime. The most I gathered was that my neighbor's family was not. My neighbor's family

murdered in their home while they slept. Him, his wife, and his two children, all gone. Those lives were extinguished because of me. Though, it wasn't all that happened that night. There was another murder that also happened on the highway.

An old trucker named Gail. Unlike the captain and his family, Gail's death was listed as an animal attack and was separate from the murder investigation. They claimed he parked two clean. close to the woods and a bear must have wandered up to his door. They said they don't know what possessed him to open his door, but that had to have been when the bear got inside. He was mauled to death. That so-called bear ripped his head from his shoulders and took it off into the wood. They never found it, but we know differently, or at least I do. That wasn't a freak accident. Something's out there,

just waiting for direction. For some people, the notion of their daily commitment, commute on public transportation is a horror story in and of itself. But as described by author Rima Chathamysic, when one woman's subway ride turns into a bizarre nightmare, the series of events it sets off will have far-reaching ramifications in her life. Performing this tale are Nicole Doolin, Dan Zepula, Atticus Jackson, and Nicole Goodnight. So if your commute seems long, Just remember this woman who tells us, I've been on this train forever. I've been on this train forever.

I got on it, Davis, I don't know how long ago, and we're stuck in the tunnel between Porter and Harvard Square. Every five minutes, the driver chimes in with the same announcement. Five minutes. My guess? A jumper. They never tell you when someone decides to end it all by splattering himself on the tracks with the evening.

aid of an oncoming train. Instead, it's always a police action or a medical emergency, intentionally vague to keep the riding public calm. Great. There's hardly anyone here. It's mid-afternoon on a Wednesday, and all I want to do is get to this fucking job interview, an interview for which I am surely now so late that I don't even want to look at my phone to check the time. The guy a few seats down from he stares at his newspaper, coughing occasionally. He's wearing a blue coat. The woman midway down the car, bundled in an ugly scarf, she probably made herself as glued to her iPad. There's a teenager at the end of the car looking as annoyed as I feel. Anne stuffed in his jacket pockets and his eyes darting around like he's jonesing for something. And here I am,

twiddling my thumbs, waiting, growing impatient, with no one to complain to. The driver starts talking again in his rehearsed and far too cheery way. God damn it! I swear I've heard this guy say this same exact phrase at least 30 times by now, and my agitation is growing. I feel restless in my seat and get up to walk around, but I sit as soon as the coughing guy with the paper looks up at me. I search my bag for a bottle of water, but as I already know, I don't have one on me.

I'm starting to sweat, so I finally take off my park, even though it's in the middle of January. It's below freezing outside, but it never fails. Once you board the tea, you're doomed to either freezing, sweating, or being exposed to some unidentifiable smell. Sometimes you get the smell and the terrible excuse for climate control. I'm frustrated. If I can get a signal, I really need to call Klein, Erickson, and Smith and tell the receptionist why I'm late. It's just for a gig as a legal assistant and the pay is next to nothing, but I seriously need cash if I'm going to ever enroll in law school.

I look at my phone hoping for at least one merciful bar, and I see it. I dial the law firm and... Nothing. No ringtone, just dead silence. Great, perfect. Maybe Mercury is in retrograde or something because today just sucks. I can get online at least, so I go.

to my email and type out a quick and polite, my sincerest apologies, but I'm stuck on the fucking train email to Mr. Smith, only with less profanity. Once I've scanned the email 10 times for typos, I hit send and of course nothing. The message just hangs out in my outbox. My chances at this job are screwed. I groan. The speaker cracks to life again, and I hold my breath. Hoping that we might actually make it to the next station sometime. Oh, I don't know, today? What the hell? Is this guy on drugs?

I freeze. What is going on? I look around the car, but no one seems to notice what the driver is saying. I speak up, a little embarrassed to be the person on the train talking to a disembodied voice. Yes? I'm on the train. What? I start to feel dizzy.

The driver starts laughing. He sings my name like he's taunting me. Everything around me starts spinning. I'm sweating harder now and I can't see straight. I hear him sing my name again. And I black out. When I come to, the train is moving again. The man near me still has his nose in his paper

and the woman is probably in her 100th round of candy crush by now. The teenager is the only other person seeming feeling anything about this trip. But he clearly needs a fix, and I'm not going to risk getting knifed by starting up a conversation. I must be coming down with the flu or something. The sweat on my clothes is making me shiver now. So I put my parker back on and wait for us to reach the next station. The driver chimes in.

Thank God. I grab my bag and get up to leave the train. My interview is downtown, but I'd rather take my chances with an Uber at this point. As I leave the train, the teenager who was on board with me shoves past me and darts toward the exit. After a few yards, he turns around. He's talking to himself and pacing. I move to hurry past him, but he stops me by grabbing my arm. Whoa, hey, I don't want any trouble.

He speaks nonsense. All I can make out is the odd phrase here or there. I can't do it. I can't! He presses against his forehead with his free palm I know, I know Okay, okay And he looks at me

And he smiles I try harder to pull away but I can't Look man, I don't have any money or any drugs Or he speaks with a new calmness I don't do drugs Okay, sorry, I just need to go, I He spins me around so his arm and around my chest, restraining me in my own arms.

He pulls out a pistol from his jacket. He wraps his other arm around me and points the gun upward toward my chin. There's no one on the platform by now except for me. The train is gone and the other passengers have long since left. The station feels deserted. The teenager is laughing now. The voices say that if I make a sacrifice, they will finally leave me alone. I need to make a sacrifice.

I need to. He kisses me on the temple and whispers into my ear. What's your name? I want to scream, but I can only manage a shaky whisper. It's Rachel. Just then I hear footsteps. It must be passengers coming for the next train. I don't know why they don't notice what's happening,

but I guess with our backs toward them, we might just look like a couple in an embrace. This is how cities are anyway. Most people will look at you, but they won't really see you. You're either an annoyance in the way of their commute or you're inconsequential. And they forget you as quickly as they noticed you, if they noticed you at all. The passengers walk past us. They look familiar.

I think they're the other man and woman from the train. The man even has a newspaper tucked under his arm. What the hell? It's too late now, Rachel. It's too late. Suddenly he fires two shots at the man and the woman, and they drop instantly. He then points the gun toward my chin again, and I beg, I plead, just let me go! And before I can scream out, before I can tear myself away, before I can do anything, I just...

Black out. I've been on this train forever. I got on at Davis, I don't know how long ago, and we're stuck in the tunnel between Porter and Harvard Square. Every five minutes, the driver chimes in with the same announcement. We apologize for the delay due to the police action at Harvard Square. We should be moving momentarily. Every five minutes. My guess? A jumper. They never tell you when someone decides to end it all by splattering himself on the tracks with the aid of an oncoming train. Instead, it's always a police action or a meta. emergency, intentionally vague to keep the riding public calm.

Great! Something feels weirdly familiar about all of this. It's like deja vu, but it's more than just a feeling. I know I've been in this situation before. My sense of time is all messed up because I honestly feel I've been in this situation more than once, maybe more than just a few times. even though I also know I'd just boarded this train earlier this afternoon. I start to sweat. I don't feel well, but I shake my head and try to focus. This nagging feeling that I've done this before won't go away. Suddenly I get a flash of cold metal at my neck and a loud bang.

I rub my palms into my eyes and try to calm down. Next, I get a flash of myself falling hard onto the tracks as a train approaches. I shake my head again. What the hell is going on? Next, for a split second, I sense myself running, but I hear another loud bang and feel a searing pain at my back. The images are so disjointed. They make no sense, but they won't stop coming.

I see dozens of scenarios all ending in violence. It won't stop. In another flash, I feel myself breaking free from restraint, but I hear another bang and see a man fall ahead of me. My ears are ringing. In another flash, I feel myself breaking free from restraint, but I hear another bang and see a man fall ahead of me. I close my eyes tightly and try to focus on something else.

Anything else. I make a challenge out of it, recalling to myself details about everyone in the train car with me just based on another vague memory. The thoughts are hard to hold on. to. It's like noticing something in your peripheral vision, but when you focus on it, it disappears. Still, I concentrate. Okay, so there's hardly anyone on board, but I know there's an older guy and a lady, and they're both busy with, I don't know, something. Wow, Rachel, how descriptive. I take a deep

breath and try harder. The man is older, maybe in his 60s, and he's reading a newspaper. The woman is reading a Kindle or using an iPad or something. I think she's closer to 50. He's got on a navy blue parka. She's wearing a green and beige striped scarf, probably hand-knitted. I start to feel dizzy and I'm sweating harder now. What is this? The flu? This has to be what hallucinating feels like.

What is going on here? I try to compose myself and squeeze my eyes shut again. There's someone else on the car, but I don't want to see him. He's young, and there's something wrong with him. I start to panic, and just as I begin to lose my focus again... Was that the driver? I opened my eyes and see the passengers I've just described all seemingly in their own worlds, waiting for the car to move.

Why is this creepy weirdo singing my name? What is going on? My heart is pounding, and I feel... I'm about to pass out, but I dig my fingernails into my thighs and take another deep, slow breath. I make myself turn my head slowly toward the back of the car. That other person in the train car with us, he's young. There's something weird about him. I can see now that he looks like he's coming down hard from a high,

but there's something else about him that I can't place. I'm afraid of him, but I just don't know why. No one else seems to notice the sounds coming from the speakers. I take off my parka and stand up. It's mid-January, but it's just so hot on this train and my throat feels like it's tightening up. The guy with the newspaper looks at me and I glare back. I'm trying to stay alert, but I'm starting to sway. This dude can fuck right off with this steer because I need to concentrate.

I start pacing around my section of the car. I finally screamed toward the speakers as a little. if the voice can hear me. Everyone is staring at me now, but I don't care. Fuck do you want? I pace more frantically, making eye contact with the newspaper guy again, daring him with my expression to say a single word to me. I'm on a fucking train. I'm feeling nauseated, so I sit down and grab my thighs again, squeezing so hard my knuckles turn white. I get another flash of something. It's quick at first. It's the news. newspaper guy, but he's facing away from me walking. I see him drop. It's almost comical. One second,

he's upright, and then he's just not. And then I see the woman, and she drops too. And I know something is wrong. I see red. I see blood. I start to gasp hard of her ear, and I feel like I'm going to throw up. In my mind's eye, I see a flash of the teenager, and he seems upset. He's arguing with someone on his headset. Wait, I don't think he's wearing a headset. I guess he's arguing with himself? I feel like the train car is starting to spin around me, but I force myself to keep remembering

as the sweat from my forehead trickles into my eyes, making them burn. I can feel him grabbing me. I can't move my arms, he's too strong. I see something metal. I feel it cold. against my chin. It's... It's a gun! Oh my God! No, this can't be real.

These can't be memories. As if reading my thoughts, the driver chimes in again. This time sounding more serious. I can't breathe. I can't think. I look around for something, anything, a clue. I scan advertisements and route maps, graffiti and gum wrappers. Finally, I see it.

An emergency alert button. I use what strengths I have left to stand up so I can push it to contact the T authorities. The train jerks and I nearly fall, but I catch myself just barely. I take another step and the train jerks again. And this time I stumble to my knees. I use a metal grab bar to pull myself up. I'm there now. I can reach it.

I have reached it. The train jerks violently again and I lose. my footing, banging my head hard against the bar. I must have gotten knocked out. When I come to, my head is throbbing, and it takes me a few moments to remember where I am. My thoughts are blurry, but slowly things come into focus. The train is moving again, and I'm on the floor. Newspaper guy and iPad lady are nowhere to be seen.

But a couple of guys, one in a worn leather jacket and faded jeans. and another in a crisp business suit are hovering over me looking concerned. Are you okay? I try to speak, but I can barely utter a sound. He asked the suit if he has any water, and the suit pulls out a bottle from his gym bag. I take a few sips and cough. My head is aching, and I feel weak, but at least the world isn't spinning around me anymore. I managed to whisper the word gun, and I point a shaking finger down toward the end of the car at the teen who is still there, still looking like he's jonesing badly.

There are others in the train car, but I don't recognize any of them except for that kid. The guy in the leather jacket leans down and asks quietly if I'm saying that someone on the train has a weapon. I give a weak nod and utter a few words to describe the fidgety teenager. The man subtly shows me his badge. My name is Sean. I'm a police officer. I'm off duty right now, but I can help. Sean helps me up and into a seat. The driver's voice comes over the speakers.

I make a move to get up. I just want to get the hell out of there. But Sean holds me back. Just hang on. I'm going to talk to the kid. I might need more details from you. The teenager sees Sean pushing toward him and makes a move to leave the car. He runs out the door, shoving past a few passengers waiting to get on.

Hey, stop! Sean isn't far behind him. The train doors stay open, and outside the car, I can hear people yelling. I hear a single loud bang, something I register as a gunshot. And the doors temporarily close, muffling screams of onlookers outside the car. The lights inside the train car shut off. After a few minutes I make myself stand My heart is pounding out of my chest and every muscle in my body aches

But I have to see what's going on I make my way past the other passengers on board to a space where I can see through the window Sean is standing there with two uniformed police officers He's covered in blood and he looks shaken But he seems physically all right The teenager is lying motionless on the platform A pool of blood at the pool of blood at the same the side of his body. His skin looks gray already. The other passengers are totally quiet,

obviously aghast at the scene. The only sound I hear is my heart thudding in my ears, and I'm startled when the driver interrupts the silence. The lights come back on, and emergency workers come to take the teenager's body and clean up the scene. Sean doesn't bother coming back to talk to me. Eventually, the passengers sit down again. and busy themselves with whatever items they brought onto the train with them to occupy their time. To my surprise, we aren't evacuated. I imagine that's what the protocol would be. Instead, as we finally start rolling out of the station,

transit workers let the next batch of passengers through to the platform so that they can wait for the next train like nothing even happened. In the crowd, I think I spot a familiar man and woman from behind. It's only for a moment before my first. part of the car reaches the dark tunnel and I'm still unwell. But I think I see a section of Blue Park, an inch of green and beige scarf. I spend the rest of the ride avoiding eye contact with the other commuters, which isn't hard thanks to their books, papers, and various electronics. I seek out a focal point and find one a few feet away. I stare at the emergency alert button

that I must have managed to press before I blacked out. Underneath it, I noticed some tiny graffiti that I can barely read. I squint. In what looks like Sharpie, someone has scrawled what I finally make out as the phrase, level complete. As I get off the train downtown, I notice my phone has died. Luckily, I see a nearby cafe where I can plug it in. Thankful that there's no line, I order a triple hazel nut latte and burn my lip as I sip it impatiently, waiting for my screen to light up. It's 4.55 p.m. according to the barista, and I am beyond late for this job interview. I consider just going home, but I really need this job, and if I can get a hold of the receptionist, maybe things will be okay. Finally, my phone comes to life, and I dial quickly.

After a few rings, when I'm sure all is lost, I hear a chirpy voice on the other end. Oh, hi. My name is Rachel Myers. I was supposed to come in for an interview today, but there was a serious police action on the tea and... Oh my God, that thing at Harvard? Yeah, I'm pretty shaken up still. I think I might also be sick. I don't know. I'm a mess.

I thank her. We say our goodbyes and hang up. I exhale for what feels like the first time since walking out of the station. I open up the Uber app on my phone and see that there are a... half a dozen cars near me. Thank God. I request a ride and gather my jacket, coffee, and phone to leave.

Hey, Rachel. I bolt around at the sound of my name, splashing some of my latte onto my shoes. I see that I forgot my bag, so I grabbed that too and immediately run out the door. I don't know if that voice was really there or just in my head, but I feel eyes on me and I refuse to turn around. Thankfully, my Uber pulls up almost immediately.

I just want to get in, go home, and put this day behind me. I'm still weak, despite being wired thanks to today's events and the caffeine. And I need to collapse in bed and shut my eyes. We drive in silence, and I stare out the window, distracting myself by looking for all the familiar landmarks as we get out of the city. When we reach my place, I thank the driver and open the car door. I dig into my bag to look for the house keys, and he responds. No problem, Rachel.

I feel an icy chill at the back of my neck. There's something familiar about his voice that I just don't like. As I get out, I hear the driver chuckle. Bye for now, Rachel. I slam the door behind me and stared dead ahead at my building until the car drives off onto another street. It's been three months since that day on the train. Three months, but I still can't shake the nightmares.

Every night I see that poor misguided teenager lying still on the train platform, the color draining from his flesh. Every night I see him frantic, shooting at innocent people before putting the cold steel of his gun to my chin. Every night I feel myself being pushed hard onto the tracks as the train approaches. It's always something different, but it always ends with someone's. brutal and untimely demise, usually mine.

It took a while, but I finally started seeing a therapist. And as far as he's concerned, I've come to terms with the idea that my breakdown on the train was just that, a breakdown and nothing more. Stress, exhaustion, case closed. I haven't told him that my dreams include these vivid alternate endings. He thinks they're just the recurring image of that unhinged kid lying dead in front of me. A repeating nightmare of what everyone else knows to have happened. Just a textbook symptom of what this clown has diagnosed as post-traumatic stress.

You see, I don't like Jerry, my therapist. I'll lay it out for you. I only came to him for drugs. I mean, I just wanted something to get me sleeping through the night. again, but once I started seeing Jerry a couple of weeks ago, I quickly got the sense that if I gave away too much about what really happened to me on the train back in January, the guy might refer me to a psychiatrist for antipsychotics or worse. I'm not crazy. I know that. I just need sleep. Then maybe I can move on with my life. Look, I don't know why things happen the way they did

on the train, I don't know why I kept getting flashes of myself, the old man, and that middle-aged woman with the ugly scarf dying in numerous, disturbing, and creative ways. I have no clue who those two people even were. But what I am telling you, and what I refuse to tell my therapist, is that I know that these things happened. These weren't hallucinations. They were real. But as far as what I've told Jerry? Well, I thought I saw a familiar man and woman as my train finally left Harvard for the next station, but I wasn't in a decent frame of mind at the time. I know that now, Jerry.

I was scared, Jerry. I had a panic attack. I mean, I saw someone running one minute and the next he was dead. Of course I was seeing things, but I'm getting scared. better, Jerry. Just give me the fucking pills so I can sleep, and we can continue this charade. Sadly, I don't have another appointment scheduled until the end of the week, and I don't know if I'll make it until then. So I'm recording this now. Aside from the dreams messing with me, I feel like I've been living someone else's life these past few months. Like my life doesn't belong to me but to some feckless

stranger with no ambition. My drive for law school? Something I've wanted since I was a little kid watching court dramas on snow days. He's totally gone. I guess there's something about nearly having your existence come to an end that makes you reevaluate how much time you're really willing to spend inside of a classroom. I never got that job at Klein, Erickson and Smith either. I never even bothered rescheduling the interview. I've sort of been avoiding commuting into the city since that day. Can you blame me? Instead, I've managed to pick up two gigs in my neighborhood. I work a few days a week slinging coffee at the corner Dunkin' Donuts, and the rest of the time, I spend stocking shelves and attending to customers at Clarkson's, the used bookstore down the street. It's not much,

but it pays the bills and keeps me up to date on the ridiculously high rent on my shitty studio apartment. The nice thing about the Clarkson's gig is that I spend most of my time there alone. People come and browse. Some buy things. But more often than not, it's just me in the store alone, and I like it that way. I'm not exactly up for socializing these days. Today I came in and opened up shop around 10 a.m. as usual. A few window shoppers walked by, but no one came in until past 11 when the UPS guy brought in a shipment of books.

A lot of the time our books come from college kids, hoping to sell paperbacks they picked up for freshman lit classes the previous semester. Stuff like that. But to keep our selection varied, we often order other titles, especially if they seem timely. For example, you can bet we stocked up on Orwell on inauguration. day. People eat that stuff up. Today's shipment included authors who always managed to sell in our area, Vonnegut, Hunter S. Thompson, and the like. This street is swarming with lanky undergrads trying to appear cool and intellectual. I added everything we received to inventory and was about to stock the shelves when I noticed one more book on the floor. I thought it must have fallen when I was

going through the delivery. But there was something different about it. about it. It wasn't your typical mass-published novel. It was just a thin leather-bound notebook. I picked it up. On the first page, the inscription read simply, Spencer Freeman's Journal. Player One has all the fun. Oh, great, I thought. A weird hipster dropped his collection of deep thoughts, personal angst and crappy poetry in our store. Must have fallen out of his skinny jeans. I started flipping through the journal hoping to find some hilariously bad song lyrics. But I noticed something strange as I leafed through the pages. Every single entry was dated the same, January 14th, 2017.

I'll get into what I figured out about this later, but it might make more sense if I transcribe some of the entries for you first. I won't give you everything. It took Spencer a long time to figure out what was up, but here's the gist of it. January 14th, 2017. I got this weird journal in the mail today. It has my name written in it, so I'm guessing it's a late Christmas or birthday gift?

I have no idea who it's from. Probably a buddy. Only one of my friends would write something as stupid as a gaming rhyme instead of happy birthday. January 14th, 2017. I got this weird journal in the mail today. I just had to write that sentence out to confirm something. It's weird. The handwriting is mine for sure, and this is today's date,

but I didn't write this. I just picked this thing up from my front steps literally five minutes ago. January 14, 2017. I don't know what's going on. This has to be a job. It's now 8 p.m. And I haven't let this journal out of my sight since it appeared at noon, and I read the other entries. Since noon, the cute neighbor girl ordered Thai delivery.

The other neighbor's dog got loose and ran out of the building and down the street. The Bruins scored 6'3 against the flyers. I also got three texts. One from Joey at 114 that says, What's up? Another from Priya at 222 that says, Hey, are you working tomorrow? The last one, from Mom, came in at 224.

It's just a cute picture of the new family puppy, Brady. Right after Joey's text, there was a report on CNN about a riot breaking out in London, with dozens injured. I feel stupid for writing all this out, but whatever. Now we wait. January 14th, 2017. Okay, this is... messed up. I got this journal at noon today, and the previous entries make no sense at all.

It's 2.30 p.m. and everything written in the last entry has happened. I laughed when Joey's text came in, thinking this must be a prank he's playing on me. But then the report about London came on, and the neighbor's dog ran off. Why would they fake that? I also just have these strong feelings that I've experienced this before. I've tried looking for clues. I have searched every page for even a mark. I've held journal pages up to the light, but nothing. January 14th, 2017. It's 215, and I've just read all of the previous entries. I've tried pretty much everything to figure out what was next. I tried cutting open the binding. I tried dipping the journal in water. I even tried setting this damn thing on fire before I finally took a closer look at the leather cover, and I noticed

that the fabric panel glued to the inside could be peeled back. Inside the panel was this folded-up note. Dear Spencer, good work. Now the game really begins. You are the first player, so you get to read the rules. Player 1 has all the fun. In your nightstand, you will find a Beretta PX4 Storm subcompact 9mm pistol. Don't let its tiny size fool you. It's a deadly weapon, not a toy. Do not go to the police. The gun was stolen from a family friend of yours up in New Hampshire

and it was used in a deadly robbery in your area for which you have no alibi. In case you were wondering, that's where the diamond bracelet and gold watch on your dresser came from. You probably shouldn't leave those lying around. Your mission is as follows. Find the girl, kill the girl, and don't get caught. If you fail to find her and kill her, or if you get apprehended, you have to start over.

If you succeed, you move on to the next level. But here's the catch. If the girl figures out how to kill you instead, and with no one else getting hurt, she wins, and it's game over for you. You still don't believe me? You'll start hearing me soon enough. It'll be easier for me to talk to you directly. The girl's name is Rachel Myers.

This Wednesday, you'll find her on the 245 inbound redline train at Davis Station in the third car from the back. She has dark brown hair, green eyes, and is wearing a black parka. She'll be hearing me too, Spencer. So if all else fails, just look for the girl who looks crazy. and don't kill the wrong one. Or you start over until one of you gets it right. You might be getting the feeling that you've experienced today's events before. What with all of the entries written in your own handwriting

and the vague memories I've allowed you to retain, you might think that, and you'd be right. But by finding this note, you've passed this level. You have some manning up to do if you're going to pass level two on Wednesday, Spencer, but don't worry. I'll be in your thoughts, guiding you, helping you,

teaching you. By for now, Spencer. The game master. And that's where Spencer's journal ends. The kid must have written 30 entries before even looking at the panel. He can't have been the brightest, but from what I found out about him,

he was just 19 and living away from home for the first time. I admit I feel. I felt kind of guilty after reading all of this. He was so young, and clearly he was in no way ready to have some insane cosmic game or whatever this is thrust upon him. But then again, I thought, hey, I'm young. It happened to me, and I didn't even have the benefit of having the rules written out for me.

Plus, this kid tried to kill me. As far as I'm concerned, Spencer Freeman's death is no real loss to the world. That little shit. So I'm writing it all down. I'm noting every detail in case I have to do this again. You see, I got my own journal in the mail this afternoon. The inscription reads, Rachel Myers Journal.

It's up to you, player two. I've peeled back the lining and have found my own note. I have my own mission elsewhere in the city. Unlike poor pathetic Spencer, I now have experience on my side. You can only die so many times before you don't fear it anymore. You can only witness so many deadly scenarios before you learn how to kill without hesitation and without flinching.

You become numb. The numbness, I think, is the key to survival. It's my turn to hunt. I'm ready for my own level two. And I think I'm starting to enjoy this game. And so, another episode. has drawn to a close and our nightmares dissolve. 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 and our dark tales will envelop you in a nightmarish swirling fog. This audio production is copyright 2017 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.