The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast Seventh Anniversary

Episode Date: June 13, 2018

NoSleep Podcast - 7th Birthday! This bonus episode celebrates seven years of The NoSleep Podcast. "Baby Turns Seven"† by Marcus Damanda "I Save Children From Accidents"† by Henry Galley "I Don’t Know Where the Cat Was Going But It Sure As Shit Wasn’t Narnia"† by Lindsay Moore "A Birthday Cake for Brian"† by Gemma Amor "Containment" by Jesse Clark "Budget Cuts"† by T.W. Grim "An Honest Man" by Manen Lyset "Sweet Sixteen" by S.H. Cooper "The Cannibal Clock"† by Elias Witherow "My Daughter is Sensitive"† by V.R. Gregg "It’s My Party"† by Rona Vaselaar "Horror Stories from the Future"† by Matt Dymerski "Gray House" by Jackson Laughlin "Stock Photos" by Jared Roberts "Cricket Hills" by Jimmy Juliano "Happy Birthday, Sleepless"† by Olivia White Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here the 7th Birthday messages   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & David Cummings "7th Birthday" illustration courtesy of Charlie Cody Audio program ©2018 - 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

For the dark hours when you dare not close your eyes. No sleep. It's the No Sleep Podcast. No sleep. Join us as the screen. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast, seventh anniversary bonus episode. I'm David Cummings, the guy to blame for all this.

I mean the guy who got the show started seven years. ago. To celebrate seven years, we asked a number of our regular and long-time contributors to craft some short flash fiction stories for you. We have 16 tales for our special birthday. And so, let's kick things off with... Oh, wait, I've just been handed this breaking news. It seems Olivia White, one of our hard-working content editors, has an announcement to make. She sent her words to Erica Sanderson to read in her lovely posh voice, so pay heed to her words. Hi David, Olivia here. So as a birthday present for you and the No Sleep podcast, I've had a number of people write letters to you, sharing what the podcast means to them and how it's impacted their lives over the last few years. Fans, cast, crew, authors, all manner of people have contributed. However, now I'm putting them together.

I realise that people love the podcast so much that between us we've written basically in episodes worth of content just in thanks. So instead, all of these letters will be available on the No Sleep podcast website for all to read at their leisure. Anyway, to summarise, thank you from the bottom of all of our hearts

for what you've done with this incredible show over the last seven years. It's a powerhouse of the horror genre and it's transformed the horror audio landscape and it's all down to you being at the helm. genuinely, so many of us wouldn't be where we are in our careers right now if it wasn't for you and the No Sleep podcast. And the gratitude cannot be expressed in mere words, although many of us are authors and so of course we damn well tried. I hope you and all our listeners enjoy the birthday episode we've put together.

Here's to many more years of the No Sleep podcast under the watchful eyes of David Cummings, one of the nicest, most supportive and most awesome guys in horror. Thank you, David. with much love from Olivia and everyone else who's ever had their lives touched by this fantastic podcast. Beautiful and heartfelt words. Whomever they're referring to is a lucky man. And so to everyone who has made this podcast what it is today,

including you, most of all, our wonderful listeners. Here's to seven years and many more to come. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for this dark, sleepless journey. Now, there's nothing left to do, but brace yourself. Baby turned seven by Marcus Amanda. When Gracie was born seven years ago, Leonard left me. He didn't want me to have her. He wanted her aborted from the first sonogram. He said I was crazy going on with the pregnancy. He said Gracie would never have a life worth living. Leonard's a piece of shit. Gracie and I are better But mother felt the same way.

She reminded me I was only 18 with my whole life still in front of me. The baby wouldn't be normal, as the sonogram showed. I was too young for such a burden. Too young for that kind of responsibility. It hurts because I know that mother loves me, but she will never love Gracie. None of my family does. They call her a badge of my stubbornness,

like she's not a person unto herself. at all. They're all so backwards, like they're lost in the 19th century. I know that the wider world has room for my Gracie. People have come a long way when it comes to children who are born different these days. I carried Gracie to term. She wasn't a premium. She wasn't a problem. She's never been a problem. I was alone when my water broke, alone in the hospital. Only the doctors and the nurses and the hospital staff were there to keep me company when I first held my little girl. And even they didn't hang around for much of that. They wanted to take her from me. They said they'd take care of her, but they couldn't make me give her up. No one can. And no one can keep me from giving

Gracie the life and experiences that all children should have. When she was one, I took her to the zoo. When she was five, I took her to the amusement park. I'd talk. at home. I kept up with my courses so I could do so with no one bothering us. Crazy talks all the time. I think she's smarter than normal kids. And boy, does she ever love learning. Still, there's no denying we spend a lot of time locked in the apartment with the blinds drawn. The media has almost stopped trying to get at us. I'm very careful to avoid them. And also the doctors who still want to operate, still want to cutaway part of my Gracie. They call it dead flesh, and it's behavior of phenomenon. No one understands it, not even me. Thankfully, it only

happens once or twice a week, usually at night. Surgery might kill her. And being on the news would be terrible for Gracie. A baby turned seven today, and the world is waiting for her. her. I can't keep her to myself forever. She's a real person. Same as any of those other kids. She says she's ready for public school. I just hope her second head doesn't scream during class. I save children from accidents by Henry Galley. Early on in my life, I realized that if I focused on a specific date for long enough, with enough mental wherewithal, I could travel there. Close my eyes and when I open them, I'm somewhere else, some time else. You heard me correctly.

For some reason, I have an innate ability to travel back in time and then return back to the present time at will. Pretty neat, right? Some of humanity's greatest questions I could easily find the answers to. Some of the most valuable treasures in history, I have the ability to waltz back in history. I have the ability to waltz back into the past and ploying. Conflicts, solved. Mysteries, solved, barriers, eliminated. The problem is, the greater issue of butterfly effect fuckery

really scuppers some of the potential for success this ability has. I'll give you a couple of examples. I go back in time and take a couple of volumes from the Library of Alexandria, and when I get back, Donald Trump is president. I want to take a trimming from the hanging gardens of Babylon. That's all well and good, but when I get back, AIDS exists. But that's not all, you see. Winning the genetic lottery is really the same as winning any other kind of lottery.

Namely, if it goes public, suddenly every desperate bastard is climbing out of the woodwork and asking for a handout. Eighth, cousins, desperate orphans, kids dying of diseases I've never even heard of, all just leaching off of me. So I needed to find a way to use this gift that involved neither drastically affecting the course of history nor exposing myself to eight billion mootias. With that in mind, what is there left to do? I save children from accidents. Morbid species that we are, human beings have always kept pretty fastidious death records in developed society. You can find out in some cases, the exact date and time a little boy in 1606 was trampled by a wild horse. When some little Victorian girl got mashed up by the

machine she was working with at age nine, when some poor little frontier kid fell down the wrong crag on a hike and became buzzard food before anyone found him. And I can make myself be there right there in the nick of time to yank them right out of death's jaws and take them back with me. They still disappear from their timeline just as they should, so beetles don't become the dominant species or some shit, and reappear in ours. No perceptible net change like tricking God. I bathe them, feed them, nurse them back to health, and teach them all kinds of tricks. It's a small price to pay, considering the game. Do you have any idea how much some people will pay for a healthy, untraceable white child who doesn't know any better than to follow orders?

There's a lot of uses for a child like that. I save children from accidents, but... But hey, they probably wish I hadn't. The cat was going, but it sure as shit wasn't Narnia by Lindsay Moore. Graham! Come see where Tibalt is! I reluctantly got up off the couch and followed the sound of my boyfriend's voice. Evan and I had just moved in together, and he brought along his cat, Tibalt. Despite his massive size, Tibalt proved adept at climbing into small spaces.

It was a little spooky to come home late at night and see a pair of glowing yellow eyes tracking me from the top of the fridge. Evan was standing in front of the open wardrobe, pointing. Tibalt was sitting on top of one of my good sweaters. I groaned inwardly as I picked him up to survey the damage. Evan, I've asked you not to leave the wardrobe open. I sat Tibalt down on the floor. I don't want Tibalt getting in there. Evan closed the wardrobe.

I didn't leave it open. Then how did Tibalt get inside? I don't know. Maybe he went to Narnia. Evan turned and spoke directly to Tibald. Tibbs, did you go to Narnia? Hmm? Tibald rubbed against Evan's life. legs. Evan leaned down and scooped him up. Tibble? Did you get kicked out of Narnia?

Hmm? Did you do that? Hmm? Yes, you did. Why on earth would he get kicked out of Narnia? Hmm. Hmm. General naughtiness? I think he got kicked out for biting Mr. Tumness, isn't that right, Tibble? Hmm? Did you bite Mr. Tumness? And he went crying to Asnan? Oh, who's it? After that, I started finding Tibald in the wardrobe on a regular basis. Evan and I always shut the door, but we'd inevitably find Tibald, or one of his mangled feather toys inside. Our joke about Tibald getting kicked out of Narnia grew more elaborate, and now involved him leading an army of angry cats to attack Mr. Tumnus.

But the joke stopped being funny. last week. When I opened the wardrobe and found what I initially thought was one of Tibble's toys, I grabbed the pile of red feathers, stunned by how warm and wet it felt in my hand. The thing I was holding was not a feather toy. I don't know what it was. It looked like the mangled carcass of a bird, but it didn't seem to have a beak or eyes. It left my hands smeared with something warm and sticky that smelled an awful lot like blood. As I stared at the mangled thing in my hands, Tibald emerged from the back of the wardrobe, parting a sea of trousers and dress shirts.

Tibalt's head was held high, his yellow eyes blazing with triumph. He left behind a trail of bloody paw prints as he hopped lazily down out of the world. wardrobe. A wriggling, shrieking mass of feathers and flesh was clenched in his teeth. I have no idea where Tibald goes or how he gets there. All I know is, well, it sure as shit isn't Narnia. A birthday cake for Brian by Gemma Amour. It was supposed to be a nice surprise. A cake. A cake. for Brian's 17th birthday.

My baby boy, now 17. I watched his face as the enormous cake was wheeled in on a large palate. I looked for signs of pleasure or surprise or excitement in my son, as much as a 17-year-old boy could muster up at any rate. His face remained blank, expressionless.

I sighed. We had to open the patio doors to get it in the house. The cake, a multi-letylough, layered-tiered pyramid of sponge and icing stood four feet high and three feet wide. It was festooned in candles, which fizzed and hissed as a breeze came in through the open doors behind. The words died on the air. Brian was silent for a long moment, regarding the monstrous cake. He shot me an incredulous look as if to say, what the fuck is this? It's okay, I thought to myself. He'll change his mind when he sees the surprise inside.

I was about to use the queue, the one I'd agreed beforehand with the cake company, when I noticed that Brian had a knife in his hand. Panic rose up in me. How had he found it? I'd hidden it so well. He took a purposeful step forward. He can't cut the cake yet, I thought frantically. Not before the surprise.

No, Brian! But it was too late. The long glittering blade slid smoothly into the creamy white icing. I felt time slowed down. The knife sliced steadily through the enormous layered sponge and then stopped, hitting something solid. A muffled noise came from the cake. A female voice, disgruntled and shocked. The cake wobbled for a moment on its pedestal, as if something or someone were inside.

I mean, it was a birthday cake. after all. It was supposed to be a nice surprise. Brian frowned and then looked at me, realization dawning upon him. His green eyes lit up with a sudden fire, gleaming with the life that I hadn't seen in him since he was a little boy, a little boy with a toy hammer, a toy hammer that could still crush and flatten a small bird if the boy wielding it was committed enough to the act. I'd seen that expression before. As I came upon, him at the bottom of our garden, smiling in joy, covered in blood and feathers. His eyes sparkling with something I couldn't identify, like an alien's eyes. Oh, mother. It was as if I was looking

at the seven-year-old version of him all over again. Mother, you shouldn't have. Then he raised his arm, the arm holding the knife, the knife that gleamed and glimmered like it was alive in its own right, high above his head. No! I took a step towards him. Brian, stop! He smiled, turned back to the cake, and plunged the knife in with all his strength.

There was a muffled scream. The cake began to jerk around, wobbling dramatically. I stood, frozen in horror. Brian withdrew, and I saw blood on the blade. But not for long because his arm came down again, and again, and again, and again. The icing, once pure white like driven snow, was now a muddy red. The screaming stopped.

Blood trickled out of the cake and onto the floor. Panting, Brian dove in with both hands, scraping away layers of confectionery to find the surprise in the cake. A young girl, a friend from school. A friend who was supposed to spring out of the cake on cue and sing Brian. his favorite song. A single slender arm flopped out of the cake like a ludicrous signpost, pointing at me in accusation. My son picked up a plate from the table behind him and dumped a handful of bloody, sticky sponge onto it. He licked his fingers when he'd finished and let out a pleased sigh. Happy birthday to me. And that's when I started screaming.

Containment by Jesse Clark. Tell us what's going on in there. After you cooperate, the faster we can get you out. We can't open those doors until we can identify the threat. Oh, for fuck. It's all black, straight up black. Inside the anomaly? Everything, villainy in there.

The lights are off and the computers are off. Broken? Where's the rest of your team? And we didn't see anything until we did. And it saw it started. started like being here anymore. Hang on, hang on. Did you get that?

Sarah, did you... Yeah, no. He said the anomaly is kind of an interdimensional portal. Yeah, I don't know. That's just what he said. I don't know. Maybe? Hey, uh, Robert, Robert,

do you have any idea where the portal leads? What? What? You think I went in there with a flashlight and a passport? The fuck is the matter with you. Calm down. Please. What is it? Whisper to us, Robert. What's it doing?

Losing around. What is it? I'm on back, buddy. It's fine. It's fine. It's fine. I gotta show you something. Sound like that. Like what, buddy? Come on back. It's fine in here. Is one of the technicians alive beside you? Come on back inside. We're... Budget cuts by T.W. Grimm.

The Vice President of Marketing was droning on and... on in front of a pie chart on the projection screen, and Kevin couldn't possibly care less. The boardroom was too hot, and there was an unpleasant odour floating around in the stale, heavy air. Something smelled bad. Something smelled downright fucking rotten. Sales were down by 9% in the first quarter, the VP was saying, and that dropped to 12% by the end of June. We need an infusion of new life, people. We need... Kevin tuned him out and looked around the table at the others, trying to determine if anyone else was silently choking on the rancid smell. He saw a circle of stiff collars and glazed, unfocused eyes. No one was paying attention

to the V. They were all staring off into space with the same neutral, slack expression on their faces, patiently waiting for further instruction. Hot blood, the VP mumbled, and Kevin rubbed his temples. Fresh blood, we need to identify that... Kevin noticed a fly crawling around on the Veep's forehead. He watched with mounting horror as it crawled in and out of his ears, then casually strolled up the man's left nostril as he buzzed and burbled on about the need for new ideas and fresh perspectives.

After a minute or so, the fly exited via his right nostril and flew away. So now I turn to all of you, the VP said, and I ask you this. Who amongst us can make that sacrifice and feed this new purpose? Who is it? The others moaned, and as one, they swiveled in their chairs to face Kevin. He can, someone said.

It was Marianne from a county. Her lips twitched uncontrollably, exposing a patchy row of blackened teeth. Kevin pushed back his chair and lunged for the door. It was locked. He rattled the door in its frame and turned to face them, his heart pounding in his chest. His co-workers were shuffling towards him

in a straggling line, a wall of empty stone. tears and rotting teeth. Marianne from a counting stepped on the hem of her long dress, and it slowly pulled down as she staggered onward, exposing a long autopsy scar that ran between her breasts and clear down to her pubic bone. Fresh meat, they chanted. Fresh meat, hot blood, fresh meat, hot blood. Kevin shrieked as the mob surrounded. They fell upon him in a snarling, clawing knot, and the VP switched to a new slide. He smeared blood across the screen from his chewed-up stump of a hand. "'Tleeping reform,' he gurgled, and one of his eyeballs slid out of its

socket. "'Slash and burn. Come on, people, show me what you can do. Fresh meat, hot blood, "'go get them.' The door was no longer locked. They all learned. They all learned. touched into the corridor, looking for fresh meat with a single-minded determination, seeking hot blood and fresh ideas. The vice president heard the screaming, and he grinned his cadaverous grin at the projection screen. Budget cuts, he said. Cut-throat investments. Show us what you can do, people.

An honest man by Manon and Lyset. Where did you go after leaving the restaurant? The man sitting across the table in the interrogation room peered at me with his clear blue eyes. We'd been talking for over an hour, but he hadn't given me much to go on. On the other hand, he also hadn't given me any reason to doubt his word. His body language was surprisingly open for someone being interviewed for the murder of a college student on his block. He hadn't given me even the slightest impression of dishonesty. No facial cues, no nervous tics, no tells whatsoever.

However. Still, something about him put me on edge. The suspect shrugged, leaned back in the chair and answered without a hint of stress in his voice. Oh, you know, I killed the next few hours at the club on 6th Street. I sighed knowing how much of a pain it would be to check his alibi. The larger the crowd, the less likely you were of remembering an individual. Add booze and drugs on top of that, and you had a recipe for a fruitless investigation. As I was about to move on to my next question, my partner burst through the door. He pulled me aside and whispered in my ear.

They'd found the killer, a jealous ex-boyfriend who'd murdered the victim in a fit of rage. The guilt had been too much for him and he'd confessed almost as soon as they'd cuffed him. I'd turned to the man at the table. Looks like you're free to go. Sorry for the trouble. He smiled and grabbed his coat. No trouble at all. Those who have nothing to hide, hide nothing.

A few days later, we received a call from a panicked sanitation worker. He'd found a dumpster full of body parts outside Starshine, a club on 6th Street. The address sounded familiar, so I looked through my notes. It was then that I came across the transcript for his interview. I killed the next few hours, at the club on 6th Street. In a city full of thieves, killers, and the scum of the earth, a little bit of honesty is usually a good thing. Usually.

Sweet 16. By S.H. Cooper. She's whimpering on the table. They do that a lot when they realize what's about to happen. I don't react. It only makes it worse if I do. More complicated. Her eyes are shut.

I prefer it that way. I turn her on her side and she sobs loudly, but there's no comfort to be had here, none from me or anyone else. Her dress is royal blue with little white flowers on it. It complements her fair hair and pale skin, and as I unzip it and slide it down her body, she cries out again. Please don't do this, she said. It's my birthday. I know that already, though. The same way I know her name is Jenny.

Her parents are Max and Sheila. She has a little brother named Mark, and there was supposed to be a big sweet 16 party for her today. She's pleading with me, begging for me to let her go back to her family. I take her ring off first, and then her bracelet, and finally her necklace.

and I place them upon her folded up dress. She's lying naked in front of me now, and she's screaming. Don't do this, she's saying again. Her voice is terrified, still a little girl's. Please. She's small and light, and I can lift her from the table myself and carry her to the cardboard box. It's long enough that I can lay her down flat.

again. After she's settled within, I rest my hand upon her brow for just a moment, my one attempt at soothing her. My touch makes her shriek more until it fills the room. This is always the hardest part, listening to them scream. No, she's crying, no. She's wailing as I close the lid over her. It muffles the sound of her voice but doesn't silence her. I walk towards the foot of the box where the button is, and with her terror ringing in my ears, I push it. The box with Jenny inside begins to slide forward on its conveyor belt into the waiting flames. I don't know if they feel pain, or if it's just panicked fear that makes them howl,

but they carry on for a while after they've been put in the chamber. Jenny is no different. I sit at my desk and put in my earbuds to block her out. The folder is already open in front of me. Her picture, the one I used for a reference, is clipped to the top and smiling up at me. I flip past it to the page beneath. Jennifer Marie Hodgians,

15. 5 foot 1, 103 pounds. Today is her birthday. She should have been 16. Car accident. I dot my eyes and crossed my teas and then signed my name, Herb Sinclair, on the last line, right above my title. Funeral Director. The Cannibal Clock by Elias Withrow. I can hear them outside the house. They're all riled up, screaming, yelling, banging on the doors. But they can't get in here. Not yet, at least.

I still have time. It's been three days since the clock tower rose out of the ocean. It's size dwarfing our little island town. No one knew where it came from, what it meant. And honestly, we didn't have time to figure it out. because once the tower began to toll, everything changed. I can still hear that ominous note ringing between my ears, that lo gong echoing across the water.

That's when the hunger began. That's what they called it. In a moment, half the town went insane. A mob of carnivorous cannibals all tearing into one another. Teeth, blood, clawing fingers, ruptured eyeballs. It was a massacre. but not all died. No, the two sides went to war.

And the cannibals began to lose. And with it, they're fire. But the clock rang out once more. And again, half the remaining population turned murderous. The hunger spread deeper across the town. A more cunning hunger. The scales tipped drastically in favor of the mad. The remaining survivors barricaded themselves into their homes,

hoping to outlast the slaughter, the feasting. There were rumors that a call had been sent for military help. I heard gunfire last night, so perhaps there's some truth to that. This morning, I chanced to look between the blinds. There was a body in the street, the young girl. Her throat had been gnawed through. Her stomach had been gourd. Her arms had been, I stopped looking.

Now I can hear my wife weeping from the bedroom. I don't blame her. She's scared. Those bastards are still pounding at the door against the walls. I boarded up the windows after I saw the dead girl in the street. I've locked us inside. I don't know how much longer it will hold. They're screaming my name.

Voices I recognize. Voices I don't. I can hear gunfire again in the distance. They want me dead. and they know it's only a matter of time because, you see, I think the cannibals are losing. I think the military has come. I think they're wiping everyone out.

But not me. Not yet. I'll stay alive just a little while longer. My wife is still crying. I'll go to her soon. Once I clear the remains of my son from the kitchen table, once I get hungry again. My daughter is sensitive.

By VR. Greg. She's such a... socially awkward child, my daughter, and sensitive too. I can never come right out and tell her to do or not to do something. It makes her too upset, as if I've scolded her. I've recently tried to go the old-fashioned storytelling route. Before bed every night, I tell her a story with a moral. Maybe it's a story about a lonely teddy bear who wouldn't share,

or a story about a pony who wouldn't speak up in class. This seems to be the gentlest way of getting the point across to her. Last night, I made a mistake. All day long as I talked to her, I watched in growing frustration as her eyes darted around the room, looking at everything but me. That night, I scooped her up in my arms and carried her to bed. I tucked her in tide and sat down next to her on the bed. What's my story tonight?

Well, once upon a time there was a little girl. Like me? Just like you. Now this little girl was a very smart girl, but she had a problem. What was it? Well, I'll tell you. This little girl wouldn't look at people when they spoke to her. She'd look at the ceiling, or at the floor, or at a spot on the wall.

One day, she was walking alone in the woods when she came upon a witch. The witch said, Oh, what a good and smart girl. The girl said thank you, but she was looking up at the tops of the trees. This made the witch very angry. She grabbed up the girl and sat her down in her hut. Why won't you look me in the eye? Asked the witch.

The girl was very scared. Finally, the witch got so angry that she was. She went around the forest, scooping out the eyes of the woodland creatures. She made a crown of eyes and placed it on the girl's head, so that no matter where the witch stood, the girl could always look at her. I looked down at my daughter. It was finally looking back at me. Her eyes were wide and tearful.

I knew it then. I'd screwed up. But of course, In real life, witches don't exist. She nodded. I went to bed, fully expecting my daughter to come running into my room in the middle of the night, scared by nightmares that I'd fueled with my story. To my surprise, she didn't.

I saw why when I woke up this morning. There, in a pool of blood on the kitchen table, was a crown. The eyes were different colors. and sizes, all woven together by a pink band of optic nerves. My daughter stood next to them, looking proud and fearful at the same time. She lifted her blood-stained hands toward me. I made it so that I can always see you, Daddy. It's my party by Rona Vassala. The hallway seems endless, probably because it is. Each door that opens, you are given the opportunity to peer inside. This is perhaps the 20th door that has opened for you. You look around at the scene in

front of you, considerate. Then with a sigh, you shake your head. You hear a frustrated sigh from beside you. You know that this stalling won't do you any good. You'll have to make a decision sometime. You're a little offended by that. Obviously, I have to make a decision. But if there's no going back, no refunds, no exchanges, then I think it's only fair that I take full stock of my options. Don't you?

Another sigh, then silence. You continue down the hallway, opening doors right and left. Many of the options are bearable. Some are attractive, even, but none give you that rush that you're looking for. And then, after hours of searching, the 50th door opens, and you find yourself completely and utterly charmed. The room is in chaos. The walls are practically painted with blood. Gore drips from the table in the center of the room, adorned with a seven-layer cake.

It's hard to distinguish, but you can't. be certain at least one layer is stuffed with intestines. Thumbs are scattered on top of the cake like sprinkles. People in various stages of dismemberment are screaming and struggling, trying to find their way out of the room. Demons catch them before they get very far. Eyeballs are pulled out, fingernails are ripped from the nail bed, organs are removed with care and hung from the sea. A banner hangs above it all, written, in a strange language that you can't understand. But you're pretty sure you know what it says.

This one. The determination in your voice surprises the demon at your side. So very rarely choose this room. It's true. There's a dearth of humanity in the room. But there's just enough for a party. And there's room for one more. Already you're planning how to steal one of the bone-hewn blades you see the demon.

wielding. Yes, I'm sure. I can think of no better way to spend an eternity in hell. The demon gives you a strange look and shrokes. You walk into the room willingly and the door shuts behind you. You smile blissfully as a demon charges at you. It has no idea what it's getting into. You welcome it with open arms as you sigh with happiness.

I do so love birthday parties. Horror Stories from the Future by Matt Dimmerski. Today, I was given a glimpse of horror stories from the future. You may not think much of this right now, but believe me, it'll simmer in the back of your mind while 10 or 20 years go by, ready to pop back into your thoughts with a vengeance just as your car pulls up. As my engineering friend Liam puts it, the issue is simple. It's impossible for a driverless car to determine whether a passenger is dead. I was skeptical.

Surely there'd be internal cameras for that kind of thing. But no, Liam replied. Nobody would use a driverless car service that watched you while you rode. That would feel incredibly invasive, and nobody wants a video of them picking their nose or farting recorded for the whole world to possibly see. So the car can't watch you. It also can't listen to you, because most people would want their conversations kept private. Okay, then, I asked him. Surely there would be sensors for that sort of thing. The car could monitor heart rate, body temperature, that kind of thing. Nope, he shot back. That's all medical

information protected by very strict laws. And powerful people will make sure it's an issue so that the paparazzi don't get wind of secret heart conditions or the like. Fine. Then maybe the car notifies somebody if the passenger hasn't moved in several hours. I answered my own question even as I asked it. Sleeping would be very common while taking a driverless car somewhere. Weight sensors? Nope. Nobody wants their weight recorded. Okay, then maybe there's a beam that you break on your way in and out that tells how many people got in. Liam shook his head. Would senators want their wives knowing how they didn't ride somewhere alone?

I was out of ideas. I asked, so what? Let's say driverless cars are completely data-free on the inside. Somebody dies in the car, the detection system will be the disgust of the next person who tries to use it. they'd call someone, it'd get taken care of. Liam got real quiet then. I pushed the issue. All he said after that was,

what would I do if I was on my way somewhere in a rush and a driverless car pulled up with a dead body inside? Oh, if I really admitted it to myself, I'd probably send that one on its way to somewhere random and call another one. I didn't want to deal with a dead body, I would hope the next guy would take care of it. And besides, I wouldn't want to be late to my event.

Exactly, he said. Exactly. And now I see the horror stories from 20 years in the future. A not insignificant percentage of driverless cars will be eternally carrying dead bodies back and forth all over the country. They'll be alongside you, staring at you, rotting, because nobody wants to be the one to deal with it. Greyhouse by Jackson Loughlin.

Can you describe it? Tom, we're trying to help. If you wanted to help, you should go find those fucking kids. I have four men out in the woods right now. They haven't found anything. What? Nothing? Are they in the right place?

Right where you said they'd be. That can't be right. It is right. I need you to tell me what you saw again on the tape. You believe me, right? Tom, tell me what you saw. Tom? A house. A house?

Not a whole house. There weren't walls. Well, there weren't outside walls. What do you mean? It's like I could see the inside of a house, but there was no outside, just the inside. I'm not sure I understand. It was just the inside of a house. In the middle of the woods. I could see everything inside it.

You could see through the walls? No, there weren't walls. It was just the inside of the house, just there. Just the inside? Yes. That's impossible. What did the house look like? Gray.

Tell me more, Tom. I can't. The walls, the floor, just, and they were... The house was moving? No, it was like TV static. Like the walls and the... Where were the kids? Inside, sitting on the floor. What were they doing? Nothing, just sitting, crying.

How did they look? Scared, dirty. Did they see you? I don't know. They must have. I mean, I was right there. But... But what? They didn't re-act... Tom.

What? What happened after you called their names? I tried to grab them. He came at me. Who came at you? The gray man. What man? I didn't see him at first because he looked just like the walls. But he was there.

Tom, what? He was there the whole time staring at me. No expression. Tom, what do you mean he came at you? His whole body just moved at me. I don't know. He moved towards me without moving his arms or legs. He just moved...

What happened when he got to you? It felt like my head was burning. Everything. It went gray. You don't remember? I remember gray. Tom, where are the kids? They're in the gray house.

Tom. They're in the gray house. Tom, work with me here. They're in the gray house. Tom. Stock photos by Jared Roberts. My big sister Jamie was my hero. funny, smart, and seemed to know everything.

We all knew she loved taking pictures more than anything. She'd go out strolling all the time just snapping pictures. She had the eye, that instinct for a good shot. Whenever she'd go on her strolls, mom would tell her to stay away from the Renkees. No idea where that word came from, but it refers to the dirt roads back behind the tree. train station. Some people live there, the kind of people with more, no trespassing signs,

than teeth. When I was 12 and she was 16, she changed. She wasn't funny anymore. She didn't even laugh at my jokes. She wanted to be alone more. Sometimes I'd hear her up at all hours of the night. On one of those nights, I got up and hugged her. I wished so hard she'd hug me back. She didn't. She pulled away. I was in the dark place. Your dark room? Dad made her one in the basement. She knelt down and put her face next to mine. I'm still in it. I'm not really here. I told her she was scaring me. I'll be slipping through the crack soon. Since her change, she'd stopped taking me on her strolls with her.

I used to love the strolls. This one morning, I insisted on going, and she agreed. She went straight back behind the train station to the dirt roads. I pleaded with her to turn back. They'll shoot you out in the Ranky. I've been coming back here every day. I was scared, but didn't want to leave her alone. So I followed back to this rotten old house with an electrical tower in the yard.

This place draws me back. I keep taking pictures. There's something here. She took picture after picture of this rotten house. I saw handprints in the wind. Some one had painted a smiley face on the front door. That door suddenly opened and a man in a suit stepped out. You're not allowed to be here.

He was walking fast toward us. Jamie grabbed my hand and we ran. Who was that? He's bad. The next day, Jamie disappeared. I told my parents everything. Police searched thoroughly. Not a trace.

Nothing. Nine years later, I found a picture of Jamie on a stock photo site. It was from her missing flyer. I was mad. I found more. Photos of that rotten house. I knew they were hers.

Dozens of them. Who would do this? Then, one of her in front of the house. It looked recent. I started weeping, planning to go there. But my gut drew me back to another photo, one she'd taken years ago. Something in an upstairs window, surrounded by dark. Jamie's terrified face, written in handprint, the word.

Don't Cricket Hills by Jimmy Giuliano. In the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, there exists a small town by the name of Cricket Hills. And this town has quite the peculiarity. Not one single person owns a dog. In fact, if you find yourself driving through Cricket Hills with your dog in the back seat,

it's best you and the canine keep a low, profile. Don't stop for gas. Don't let the dog out of the car. Don't even let one resident of Cricket Hills see your animal. Keep the dog's head low. Muzzle him if you have to. Put your foot to the gas and keep driving. It all stems from an incident a few years back. Hank Weathers, a plumber from Cricket Hills, picked up a stray dog on the highway. He'd all stems. He brought the animal home and named him Chester. Everything was normal at first. Hank took Chester on walks, then played fetch in the backyard,

and the dog slept at the foot of Hank's bed. But then things got strange. Hank insisted that on multiple occasions, Chester locked him out of the house. Often when Hank came home from work, he found Chester sitting upright, in Hank's favorite recliner, and Chester had an insatiable desire to be scratched along his back. Hank would dig his fingernails so deep into Chester's back that he pierced the dog's skin,

drawing blood on a few occasions. Chester would always moan with approval. But what concerned Hank most was the feverish digging. For weeks, Chester tirelessly dug a sizable hole in the backyard. He created a trench about two feet wide and four feet deep. Then, late one night, Chester led Hank into the living room. The dog fell onto his side, convulsing and howling. The fur fell off of Chester's body and clumps. He thrashed and kicked, and the dog's legs and paws cracked and morphed into the limbs of a human. The tail fell off and Chester's snout retreated into its head. The transformation was complete.

Chester was gone. What remained was a naked man writhing on the floor. Hank watched in horror as the man staggered to his feet, stumbled out the back door and collapsed into the floor. the hole Chester had dug. Panicked and dumbfounded, Hank grabbed a shovel from the garage and buried the man in his backyard. A neighbor spied Hank's mysterious middle of the night digging, and the police arrived at Hank's house early the next morning. They uncovered the fresh courts, who was later identified as a drifter. The authorities didn't buy Hank's story of course.

But the people of Cricket Hills did buy the story. Each and every dog in Cricket Hills was sold, abandoned, or worse. It's now an unwritten town rule. Any and all dogs will be shot on site. No Cricket Hills resident wishes to wind up like Hank Weathers, rotting away in prison, put away for life by a dead body and damning evidence. Evidence like the drifters dried blood and skin cells found underneath Hank's fingernails. Happy birthday, sleepless, by Olivia White. What do you want for your birthday? I lean in and kiss you on the forehead.

You, just you, you're all I want. The headaches and sickness I've been suffering from for the past few weeks have abated right now, and I'm in that space of blissful relief, overwhelmed by my love for you. You're so cute in your tank top and shorts, looking at me with wide hazel eyes. I think that can be arranged. You kiss me back. We're in your apartment, and you lead me to the bedroom. shedding off your clothes and guiding me to the bed.

You want to make the most of my feeling better. We both do. A week later, on my birthday, you sleep over at my apartment the night before. I awake with a pounding head and an ache in my neck that won't go away. No amount of cups of coffee will shake the migraine plaguing me. You look pale and sickly too. And I worry that I've given you whatever I've had recently that's left me so drained. You're talking excitedly about the evening, pushing through your own fatigue, and it's too much for me.

I snap at you over some perceived slight, and it descends into a full-blown argument. Each angry word and yelled accusation piercing my migraine like spikes to the head. At work, my headache slowly eases. But my anger does not. My self-destructive side nips at my heels. I want to punish you, although you've done nothing wrong. I know you've been excited about tonight. We've both been so busy, and you wanted to spend my birthday with me.

So I don't come home to meet you at my apartment. I accept my work colleagues' offers of birthday drinks, and by the time 1 a.m. rolls around, I'm too drunk to make my way home, and I crash on a friend's couch. I wake up feeling fresher than I have in weeks, but when I check my phone, you haven't called. You aren't playing my game, aren't chasing me, and this enrages me. I shower and borrow some clothes from my friend and go into work, and then that evening I return home with my friend, and I crash on her couch again. And the next day, and the next. And still, you never call. But the more I'm away from you, the more my headaches and fatigue subside.

I begin to blame you for this, too. Eventually, after a week, two things occur. One, I realize I have worn out my welcome with my friend. Two, I realize how poorly I'm treating you yet again. You, who loves me with infinite patience, who gives me space when I need it, who tolerates my mood swings and petulance, which have only escalated since my sickness. I try to call you, but it goes to voicemail. I hurry home to my apartment. I need to shower, change into my own clothes.

Then I'll come find you. In my apartment, the first thing I see is a box on the living room floor. It's large, very large, wrapped in bright gift wrapping with a bow on top. I step towards it, somehow already knowing what's inside, and tears, begin to well in my eyes. I undo the bow and open the gift. You lie within, naked and curled in a fetal position. You're sucking your thumb like you told me you did as a child. Your skin, once so vibrant, is blue and pallid. Your eyes wide open are glassy and lifeless. Flies hover around your corpse, and I absent-mindedly bat them away as I stare down at you.

My gift in utter horror. The carbon monoxide leak has been slowly getting worse for the last month, they say. I'm incredibly lucky that I wasn't in the apartment, too. Have I been getting headaches or sickness? Yes, I say, yes, but I'm only half listening. All I can think about is you, my beautiful heart, my soulmate, gift-wrapped and bow-topped and dead to the world, waiting for your lover who never came home. Thank you for celebrating seven years of the No Sleep podcast with us.

I invite you to visit the no sleeppodcast.com to learn more about the people who bring you this show. And be sure to check out the hundreds of hours of horror storytelling in our archives. The past seven years has produced quite a bit of sleepless stories for you. Join us again soon, in the dark hours when you cannot close your eyes. Yay, verily, this audio production is copyright 2018 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. Say it with me. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective and respectful authors.

No duplication, reproduction, or fornication of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of creative reason media, Inc. Years of this.