The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast - Sleepless Decompositions Vol. 24

Episode Date: August 9, 2026

Oh the humanity! We have two inhuman tales from our Sleepless Decompositions."Harvesting" by Anne Wilkins (Story starts around 00:04:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Phil MichalskiCast: John - James Cleveland, Ma - Penny Scott-Andrews, Adele - Erika Sanderson, Richard - David Ault"The Cathedral of Blood and Bone" by Alex T. Singer (Story starts around 00:42:10)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Claudius MooreCast: Narrator - Nikolle Doolin, Keysa - Sarah Ruth Thomas, Meyme - Mary Murphy, Engineer - Atticus Jackson, Bishop - Graham Rowat, Old Bishop - Danielle McRae, Lillias - Nichole Goodnight, Nino - Jeff Clement, Captain - David Cummings, Voice - Mary MurphyThis episode is sponsored by:DripDrop - Take hydration seriously with DripDrop's award-winning taste and doctor-developed electrolyte powder. Trusted by the best! Get 20% off your first order by using promo code NOSLEEP at dripdrop.comMint Mobile - Ditch overpriced wireless with Mint Mobileís deal and get premium wireless service for 15 bucks a month. Cut your wireless bill to 15 bucks a month at mintmobile.com/nosleepHome Chef - Home Chef's meal kits are rated #1 in quality, convenience, value, taste, and recipe ease. Head to homechef.com/nosleep to get 50% off your first box plus free dessert for life and of course, free shipping on your first box!Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamCheck out our NEW MERCH!Click here to learn more about Anne Wilkins Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"Sleepless Decompositions" illustration courtesy of Kelly TurnbullThe NoSleep Podcast is Human-made for Human Minds. No generative AI is used in any aspect of work.Audio program ©2026 - Creative Reason Media - 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. No part of this audio program may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. All rights reserved.

Greetings, sleepless listeners. Thank you for joining us, and welcome to Sleepless Decompositions, Volume 24. I'm your host, David Cummings. With Season 25 fast approaching, we're working hard to make it another season of audio horror nightmares. That's just the kind of good people we are. And let's face it, isn't it easy in this day and age to assume, most people aren't good? The media, both social and traditional,

seem to want to convince us that there's no one good out there anymore. I see people constantly conveying the sentiment that people suck. And truth be told, I've uttered that phrase more than a few times myself. But deep down, we know that we're being manipulated into that anti-social way of thinking. There are good people. out there. Truly. So don't let horror podcasts convince you that everyone is ready to stalk you, abuse you, torment you, and kill you. Let's not dwell on the dangers from people. Instead, this week we're presenting two tales which present horror that comes not from people. No, in these

tales, the sucking comes from life forms decidedly outside the realm of humanity. So for at least a little while, we can give our fellow humans a break and commiserate with their plight. That's the kind of human bond we all need to experience. And the humans who work for our sponsors are amazing because they allow us to provide these stories to you for free. So listen up. It's peach season. And no, this isn't some dirty euphemism inspired by naughty emojis. I genuinely love that delicious fruit.

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Stock up now at dripdrop.com and use promo code no sleep. So, come on, folks, let's all join hands and bask in our collective humanity. It might just be the only thing that's going to save us. And while you're at it, make sure you brace yourself for our sleepless decompositions. In our first tale, we meet John. John isn't a fan of those eight-legged little beasties that reside in his garbless. He just can't seem to appreciate the way spiders are beneficial to us.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Anne Wilkins, these aren't the typical spiders you and I know of. They are the widows spiders, and she has some specific requirements for all the good they do. Performing this tale are James Cleveland, Penny Scott Andrews, Erica Sanderson, and David Alt. So just avoid the webs and the spiders. It's best to be far away when it's time for the harvesting. I've always hated the widow spiders.

The elders say they're good for our crops. They eat all the beetles, aphids and caterpillars and the like. Anything that'll eat our corn, fruit or vegetables, her spiders are upon them. They're not picky, and they're always hungry. One year, when the crops right around the country were getting decimated by locusts, the widow spider spun a web so thick that not one of those locusts could get through. Still, I don't like working among them in the fields, wading my way through their web and seeing their black eyes on me.

Sometimes it takes an age for me to wash all that web off. It sticks something chronic, and it's always worse just after harvesting. You better hurry, John. She'll be here soon. Ma rings her hands in worry as I finished scrubbing the last of the web off me. Hi, Ma, I know. The garlic, fresh from this morn. She hands me a pot of it all minced up and smelling bad.

We've been doing this every year for the last four years, and it's always worked a treat. I've never been chosen. Ma rubbed some into my beard and my hair, making sure there's not one bit uncovered. I feel the panic in her fingers. She glances out of the window, and her hands painfully grip the hairs on my chest.

She's here! I look out and see a small figure dressed all in black, making its way toward the town. Her long black skirts kick up dust as she walks, and her pale, unsmiling face stares from behind a curtain of midnight black hair. A parade of her pet spiders follow. Close on her heels, their long legs scampering to keep up. The widow has arrived.

Christ, Almighty, get under the blanket sun and lie nice and still. I do as she says, lying on my bed, stinking of garlic as Ma sits by the window and begins her fretting. Every harvest, since the widow's husband passed, the widow comes to town to find herself a mate. And it's an unspoken agreement that the village provides one. Young men mostly are taken. I'll take good care of them, the widow always promises, but none are ever seen again. Forgone in the last four years and not a whisper heard as to their whereabouts,

and folks too scared to ask questions. She's talking to the village, Elder. Let's hope he sends her on her way. But there's little hope for that. The widow's spiders not only help with the crops, but their venom provides medicine. Their web gives us rope, material and armour,

and the larger spiders defend the village boundaries from intruders and marauders. The widow's spiders are tightly woven into all our lives. Just release the spiders! The choosing has started. Be still, son!

I close my eyes. Breathe in the garlic and begin silently praying. Waiting can be a long time. and I know plenty of what to wait for. The sound of a knock, normally a woman screaming, it could be a wife or a mother, and the muffled footfalls of a thousand spider legs.

I've heard it all before from other houses. But today, the knock I hear sounds much closer to home. I want to yell out, to ask Ma if there was a knock on our door or if I'm hearing things funny. but I get my answer in the sound of Mars weeping. Still, I don't move. I keep praying, and I keep the blanket over my eyes,

wishing it not to be true, wishing that I were still back in the field, picking corn and dusting off web. There's the soft sound of approaching footsteps and a collective skitter, skitter, by the foot of my bed. Your name? The widow's spiders are already climbing, on my blanket.

They're tiny feet like pinpricks all over me. I lower the blanket with trembling fingers and dare to look into the widow's unearthly eyes. Black, endless holes in a moonlit face. More than a hundred spiders are upon me, clambering across my body and over my beard. I am nobody, and I will never be yours. Prepare him.

Spider-venom enters my veins and the cocooning begins, stifling my screams. My last thought is of mar as the venom takes hold. When I wake, I'm cocooned on wooden floors in a cottage, not too dissimlet from Mars. The smell of freshly baked bread and chicken soup wafts from a stove where the widow stands and stirs. The web over my mouth has turned to a soft mush which I spit. and swallow. Ah, you're awake. The widow turns toward me with those soulless eyes.

John, isn't it? It's the name your Mar cried. I refuse to answer, clamping my lips shut. The strong, silent type. A challenge. I will never be yours. something close to a laugh escapes her lips Yes, you said that before

You're different Perhaps your fate will be different too What do you mean? Where are the others? The others? The ones you took these last four years What did you do to them? I did nothing but love them We all need love, John

Even monsters I will never love you. Her black eyes pool. Well, perhaps you will grow to like me instead. Like you, I will never like

you. You're... The widow beckons with her hands and spiders pour in from everywhere, from corners and crevices and floorboards. They crawl over my face and silence me once more, shutting my mouth with their web. I can only watch in silence as the

Widow works humming and crooning, eating her soup and petting her monstrosities, but always looking at me with her midnight eyes. Do you like my spiders? The next morn she's released me from the cocoon, but a tight leash of spiderweb still twists around my throat. She pulls it now, forcing me to answer. I'd like some water. Answer me first.

Do you like my spiders? What does it matter whether I like them or not? It matters to me. Answer. No, I don't like your spiders. I don't like their black eyes, their long legs, the way they move and spin lies. I'm not sure if I'm talking about the spiders or her. Spiders are necessary, you know.

Without my spiders, you would have no cross. to harvest. Most of your medicines would be... Can I have some water now? My mouth is parched. The stink of garlic still upon me and all I want is water. For a second I think the widow will refuse, but instead she pulls me on my silken leash to follow her into the kitchen, where she pulls me a glass. Did your ma not teach you manners? Thank you. Good boy.

She smiles and, like I am one of her pets, she reaches across and pats my head. Instinctively, I lurch away. You'll need to bathe today. The garlic is never a deterrent. All you young men seem to think it is. It's not? Of course not. Then how do you make your choice?

My choice? It is never mine to make. The spiders. choose for me. How do they choose? If I know, perhaps I can warn the others. They choose someone who would make a good father. The idea repulses me. I am not their father. No, you're not, but maybe you will be in time. A small spider crawls up from under the floorboards and impulsively I squash it with my foot. I will never be your mate.

I will never be a father to your foul spiders. Let me go home. This time the wells of her black eyes overflow and tears like smudges streak her pale face. She pulls my leash until I struggle to breathe. My eyes bulge and I clawed my neck with my hands. This is your home now, John. And you have just killed,

daughter. I think she means to kill me, that it will be all over right here and now. But instead, she releases me. I sink to my knees and inhale sweet air as the widow picks up the dead spider and croons to it softly. For a week, I watch the widow, as she watches me. I'm no longer cocooned, but she keeps me on her spider-web leash and posts a century of her most poisonous spiders to guard me at night as I sleep. I seem to have little purpose but to eat and sleep on the widow's cold, hard floors and plot how to escape. Do you think the spiders chose wrong this time? I ask her on the seventh day. What do you mean? Well, they've chosen someone who doesn't care for spiders.

Perhaps they were confused. Perhaps you should choose another and let me go. No. They always choose right. Most spiders smell through their legs. Did you know? But jumping spiders and wolf spiders can smell through the air. They smelt you.

They knew you'd be the right choice. But they could be wrong, couldn't they? Maybe the garlic confused them. No. They're not wrong. They're never wrong. Her black eyes glistened. She's always so certain of her words.

What? What do you want from me? I only want what you are willing to give, John. Her voice is lower, filled with silken strands at T's. She comes closer, so close, till I feel I could lose myself in those eyes. Are you tired of sleeping on the eyes? the floor. You could sleep in my bed tonight. I picture myself strangling the widow while she sleeps. A chance for escape. I could. The widow rarely smiles, but I have pleased her.

Good boy. She pats my head, and this time I let her. That night, the widow opens her bedroom door to me. Do you still need to keep me leashed? I... I suppose not. We have to learn to trust each other. She takes a knife from the kitchen drawer and slides it up against my neck. Her eyes meet mine. My heart pounds, but I do not move, as with one swipe she cuts the web. The golden orbs make the strongest thread. My leash falls to the ground. She leaves to return the knife to the kitchen while I rub my neck, glad to be free of one chain. The widow's bedroom is simply furnished. A bed, a set of drawers, and a chamber pot.

Her bed is covered in silk sheets made from the finest web. They feel so soft to touch. The only thing at odds is a painting of the widow and a man. In it, the widow wears a smile and a dress of green, and the man beside her is smiling too, with eyes blacker than hers. Is this... My husband. I'm sorry for your loss.

Don't be. She unbuttoned her black dress and it falls to the floor. Her body is moon white, her lips blood red and her eyes the deepest pits of black. Love me. I... I can't. I say even though my body says otherwise. Am I that hideous?

You are a monster. My voice deepens my head, swims. A beautiful, beautiful monster. She pulls me to her and I fall deeper and deeper into the black. When I awake, she is gone. But a cluster of black widow spiders with their distinctive red markings, watch me intently from the bedhead. The morning light is just starting to creep under the curtain. Widow! Did you enjoy my wife then? A dark shadow moves from the corner. A man with black eyes and

eyebrows that are knitted together. The smiling man from the photo, but without the smile. I, I didn't. Of course you did. Who wouldn't? Who wouldn't? She is rather tempting. I would myself, if I still could. I don't understand. I thought you were dead. No, not dead, not yet. Just unable to father. That's what we need you for.

I shake my head. I'm not going to be a father. Of course you are. My wife's very fertile. She'll have a whole new brood of spiderlings soon, over 10,000 new babies. Spidlings? Yes, and with your contribution they'll be very hardy and strong, a good new breed. I start to gag as the realisation hits me.

I must say, I thought you might have held out for a lot longer, I think Adele was looking forward to a bit of a challenge. Adele? My wife, a fool. Shame, you don't seem to have much intellect. No. I roll from the bed and find my clothes on the floor. You're not going anywhere.

You're going to be a father. Babies need their fathers. The man laughs as if he has said something hilarious. I slip on my trousers and... bolt, flinging open the bedroom door only to find the widow standing there with her black eyes. I'm sorry, John. I hear they're scurrying. I feel the little legs climbing up my legs. I lurch forward as the venom sinks in and fall into the widow's arms. This time when I wake, I am not in the softness of the widow's spider silk sheets. Instead, I am cocooned,

hanging from a ceiling in what looks to be a barn. Four other bodies are beside me. Skeletal carcasses picked clean. Pre-decessors. My body feels sluggish, still filled with the venom. I try to move an arm. A leg, but nothing responds. You can't escape.

It's the monster. Beautiful monster with her silken traps. Let me. Go, Adele. I use her real name, and I see a flicker within her blackness. I can't. You'll stay here until the birth. We'll take good care of you.

Like this, in a cocoon with the dead to accompany me? Stop spinning your lies. What do you want with me? You really want to know. Her eyes darken and her voice saddens. Tell me. She turns away so I cannot see her blackness, and she speaks in soft murmurs.

It was Richard's idea, not mine, never mine. I need to know. He doesn't like that he can't have me anymore. The fathers, like you, are strung up here. When my spiderlings are born, they're different, not like other spiders. They can't reproduce. Their fangs are sharper, and my children are hungry, so hungry.

There's always so many of them to feed. Richard doesn't like waste. He thinks it's fitting that they eat their father. A sob escapes my throat and I'm crying. And before I know it, I'm begging, pleading for my life. Please, Adele, please. I can't I like this? I have a ma.

People that love me. She turns to me with those obsidian eyes so sharp. so cutting. I'm sorry, John. There's nothing I can do. The village needs my spiders. And to make my spiders, I need a villager. My begging turns to anger.

You monster, I'll kill you. I will kill you. I scream in my cocoon and she hurries away covering her ears. It is strange that when one has all the time in the world how the small things come to mean so much. The sounds of birds chirping each morning pleases me, as I know they eat spiders, and I hope they're gorgeing on the widow's children.

Likewise, the howl of the wind outside gives me delight as I imagine it ripping webs apart and tossing spiders asunder. I get to know the barn well. My gaze always upon the same things. An old water trough, no doubt for a long day. dead horse, horseshoes, a wheelbarrow and a pitchfork that I gaze at longingly. And, of course, my dead companion swinging beside me. Mostly though I sleep, drifting in and out, and wondering if today will be the day I die.

Each day my body feels less, like it's shrinking. My muscles becoming weaker. New spiders come daily like clockwork. to fill my body with fresh venom, and small ones scramble over my body like cleaners, taking away my excrement in silken webs. Adele comes each morning to feed me. She stands on a small ladder, spooning broth and gruel into my mouth, and every day I ask her when I'll be dying.

Not today, she always says. Sometimes when she comes, I try to be loving. I try to spin lies, telling you. her, I love her, that we could run away together, be together. But I am not a spider and she sees through my weak web. Other times I toss my anger at her face, I clamp my lips shut and refuse to eat or drink. And more times still, I cry and weep and beg like a child for my life, asking her to please not let this happen. None of it seems to matter. She comes every day. with her belly bulging a little more as I grow less.

I never see her husband, Richard, but sometimes I hear him shouting and slamming doors and the sound of Adele crying. In those moments, I hope she's pleading for my life, bargaining for the man strung up in the barn, only just alive. Your children will be strong, John.

She pushes her gruel into my mouth. I know it. I already feel their tiny kicks. I wonder whether they will be great web spinners or whether their poison will be potent enough to kill. I wonder if... I groan. Her talk makes me sick.

Please go. You've barely had any. What does it matter? I'm dying any day now. You'll live on. In your children. In a new... breed of monsters. My spiders are necessary.

Even yesterday my border spiders were at work preventing the village from attack. How lucky we are. You don't understand, John. I understand plenty. There's no need to kill me. Feature spider links something else. My death is only to appease you a husband who can't get a hard on. The slap comes out of nowhere.

Her cheeks are aflame just as mine are. Tomorrow you'll die. She leaves. What do you think? I ask the skeleton swinging beside me. My fellow fathers, are you proud of your children? I laugh like I don't care.

The laugh of a madman. It rebounds off the barn walls keeping me company. I've given up. There is no escape. Perhaps there never was. But I still eye that pitchfork, lovingly. I'm dreaming, a dream where I walk in fields of corn without web. My children walk beside me all 10,000 of them. They don't want for aphids or beetles or caterpillars. Instead,

they hunger for humans. No, I tell them, you can't have humans, choose something else. And so they turn on each other, eating each other one by one, and Until there's only one spider left. A spider with black eyes, long legs and skin the color of moonlight. A familiar spider. Spider begins to crawl up my leg, pulling on me. Pulling becomes more intense, more urgent, and my eyes stagger open. I wake from my dream to a pulling beneath me.

A tearing of my white cocoon. Adele? I whisper into the blood. blackness, but instead I hear a sobbing I'd recognize anywhere. What, son? Ma, looking like a ghost wrapped in layers of white web with just her eyes and mouth peeking out. Ma, that really you? Hi, son, it's me.

She brushes back tears. The web's to stop the spider's sensing me. It's me here, under here. Now hush, let's get you out of this god. forsaken place. She tears the cocoon open and I slide to the floor. A terrible stench of my own piss and feces comes with me. I try to stand but fail.

My muscles withered and the venom still has its hold. Come on, son. Ma puts an arm under me. She tries to lift me, but it's useless. I can't, I can't even stand. Then I'll track you. No, Ma, it won't. Don't work. Nothing will work.

Don't you give up on me now. It's too dangerous. Let me die. That's not the sun I raised. We don't give up on life or each other. No, come on. She starts dragging me again, pulling my useless body to the open barn doors where the cool night air beckons. Wait, I say as I remember. There's a wheelbarrow in the corner. You sat. Perhaps it'll work. And Ma?

Yes, son? Bring me the pitchfork, too. The white eye of the moon casts her silvery glow down on us as we make our poorly planned escape. Trees rustle in the wind, owls' call, and the wheelbarrow squeaks with every goddamn push. I'm curled under a blanket again, just like at the beginning where it all started. But this time it's part of the cocoon shoved on top of me to keep me hit me hidden. We don't want the spiders getting a whiff of you, John Mar had said. The pitchfork is with me, and my fingers have just enough sensation to curl tightly around the handle.

I know spiders are mainly nocturnal, and even though they might not smell us. I imagine their spider legs will be tingling as they sense of vibrations from the sound of the wheelbarrow. It will be a miracle if we make it out of life. We don't get far. her voice drifts towards us. Who's there? The squeak of the wheelbarrow gets louder as it's pushed faster. I can hear Ma's hurried breaths as she attempts to run.

The wheelbarrow judders and shakes. You can't leave! The wheelbarrow comes to a sudden stop. The cocoon covering draws back just enough to allow me to see a monstrous spider barring our way. One of the widow's sentries. Me? I hear the widow's footsteps as she approaches, her voice becoming louder. Are you alone?

Stealing my wheelbarrow? I meant no harm, widow. I just wanted some weapon to spin and a wheelbarrow. Nothing more. Nothing more? Do you think me a fool? Did you not think I'd recognize you when I stole your son? I'm not done with him yet.

Mido, I only have one son. Only one, John. He's all I have. He's a good boy. Please, just let him go. I can hear the ache in Ma's voice and my own heart breaks inside. No one needs to know what you get up to here. I'll move to another village, another town.

John's a good boy. John must stay. He's about to be a father. Father, it's not possible. He's not been gone a month. I can hear the conclusion. fusion in Ma's voice. The wheelbarrow tilts. It does not take long for the spiderlings to be born.

Spiders! Your village needs them. Let's put your son back, shall we? And then, you can both be present for the birth. Not that, please, not that. Ma looks down, and she must see my frightened eyes, the glint of my friend, the pitchfork. I love you, son. And she picks up that pitchfork and swings. I never saw what happened, but I heard. The widow screams, Maas screams, the sudden movement of the monstrous spider behind me, a splash of blood on my blanket of white. All of this, while I did nothing but hide in my wheelbarrow, clenching my hands, twitching my toes and willing my body to respond, the screams peter out, till only the rustling of the wind is heard again, the owls all flown away.

Ma? There's only a gurgle in reply. I managed to lift my head, but not enough. And then he comes. Richard. Adele? Adele? Say something.

Even monsters cry. I hear him sobbing into the darkness while I will myself invisible. And then a different sound. A skittering of ten thousand tiny legs. A father should know the sound of his own children. And I know these are mine. I hunker further into the wheelbarrow in dread. I needn't have worried.

My children are just like me. They hate spiders. Get off me. My children get to work. I remember Adele telling me her spiderlings are always so hungry. I lie there in my world. wheelbarrow listening to the screams. This time with a smile on my face.

By the time the morning breaks and I can move my legs, the birds are about and there's a cool breeze. I uncover myself from the web and manage to sit up. Two bodies have been picked clean. Just skeletons, fully dressed, lying on the grass with dark holes where their black eyes always were. And Ma, her body intact but pale white and unmered. moving, her eyes staring upwards to the heavens.

Oh, Ma! And I start sobbing. Kneeling down in front of her, holding her hand in mind, she'd risked everything for me, never giving up. I love you, Ma. I'm just about to get up and leave when I feel just one of her fingers twitch. Ma, that... That you?

And unbelievably, her finger twitches again. I prayed for a miracle, and here it was, Ma, still fighting. Stay with me, Ma. It takes almost all my energy to lift her body into the wheelbarrow, but I do it. Laying her on the blanket of Webb. I'm not sure what toxins are in her or how long it's going to last, but I'm taking her home. Both of us are going home.

I lift the wheelbarrow's handles and slowly start to walk, but then I remember something, something important. I go back and pick up the pitchfork. You never know when you're going to come across monsters. As I do so, I see a small spider. I pick my foot up to squash it, but stop just in time. This spider is different. It's bright green with wings?

My son? or perhaps my daughter. I watch as it flies away to hunt spiders. Then I wipe the widows blurred off the pitchfork and place it in the wheelbarrow next to Mar. Family. That's all that counts now. And it looks like mine just got a little bigger. Let's take a short break for our sponsors who help us keep our heads above water.

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a beast of enormous size, almost unimaginable. I suppose it's a good thing the creature is dead. But as we'll learn in this tale, shared with us by author Alex T. Singer, the beast is still integral to the people who serve it, an almost religious devotion which some are beginning to question. Performing this tale are Nicole Doolin, Sarah Thomas. Mary Murphy, Atticus Jackson, Graham Rowett, Danielle McCray, Nicole Goodnight, and Jeff Clement. So prepare to worship in the most bizarre way possible when you enter the Cathedral of Blood and Bone. Kesa lives in a Cathedral of Blood and Bone. She has lived there almost as long as she's known her name. The Great Hall is a massive ribcage. Butresses of bone canvassies.

by stained glass of flesh and nerves. The inner sanctum is a heart, chambers supported by filaments of tendons and cartilage. Long has Kisa walked the long, slick arteries with her fellow obelates. Long have they sung to the cathedral's outstretched phalanges, where their faithful land their ships, after having made their pilgrimage from across the stars. Kisa and her choirmates stand on the platform built into the great hall,

It's a delicate scaffolding, built around the spiraling pillar of its spinal cord. The choir mates walking among the tissues, they touched that delicate membrane and they sing their finest hymns. Songs of preservation, songs of rising, the song of heightened pulse, songs of sleep, songs of preservation once more. That is the prescribed set. It's Kesa's job to start it, and it's Kisa's job to stop it. She's the oldest of the choir. She knows best.

So when Kisa loses the last note and her eyes go blank, her choir mates all stop with her. Mamie, the youngest, tugs at her robes. Miss Kesa, are you okay? Kisa shakes her head and smiles.

That should be enough, Mamie. Let's go meet the Shep's. and Kisa leads them down the scaffolding, back into the throat, and through the torso, and out into the Great Bone White Walkway. The pilgrims will soon have permission to land. The starship slides through the amniotic barrier. Its engines flaring as it hits the artificial atmosphere.

The bishop swings the sensor. The blue smoke wisps in an arch over the Great Cathedral's closed palm. That's Kesa signal. She places her hand on the dry floor of the landing pad and begins to hum. The choir joins her. Melody. Harmony. Counter melody.

The cells vibrate. The cells pulse with renewed life. New sparks of electricity passing through long dead tendons. With each verse, each mummified finger creaks and uncurls. The cathedral's hand. opens to welcome the new pilgrims onto its wading palm. The starship hovers and deploys its landing gear. By the time the hot air sends the oblate's robes a flutter,

the flesh beneath them is warm and spongy, very nearly alive. The censor stills, the choir falls silent. Kisa steps back, silently guiding her choirmates into a line to wait. The pilgrims on Lerner. load. Their chief engineer provides the donation, a receipt presented in a box of ornate bone, the actual credit transfer having been settled well ahead of the ritual, and barrels of physical offerings are kept in the social stomach of their own ship until processing. The bishop raises his robed arms. Kesa is granted the honor of taking the box on his behalf.

Been a bit of a journey. Fleet's been running on faith and faith alone. We only have enough synapses for one more leap. Anything you can do for us, Your Grace? The bishop is all smiles with the engineer. Of course, my children, we shall provide all you need. Thirty cartridges, a gift from the stars. Above them the cathedral's great domed skull grins.

Its eyes have long frozen in their sockets, perlessent in the light of the hanging beacons. But as the oblates bow and line up to follow the procession back through the arch of its wading ribs, they all hope those eyes are on them. The oblates sing. It's their holy duty to sing. Elaborate madrigals to inspire beating hearts and vibrating tissue. They sing to a rhythm of twitching tissue and clotted blood.

It is a song the priest taught them with utmost care. Kisa remembers the way the bishop who raised her plunged her hand into graying frozen flesh until the space under her palm turned red. You must sing until it bleeds. The old bishop taught Kisa every song in the book. When she lifted her hand, it came away fresh with newly broken, newly raised cells. But no more.

Why not? Kies's flesh was then as fresh as the newly knitted walls around her. Wouldn't there be more nerves to harvest the further it rises? Because, dear, we raise what we need. The dead mustn't be allowed to truly. truly opened their eyes. It's cruel and dangerous. You would be caught in its flesh and lost to us, dear child.

And what would we do without you? Kesa believed her. Of course she believed her. Why wouldn't she? As long as the bishop smiled and held her close, Kisa knew no one would lie to her. Once the cathedral was a great star, It flew across the galaxy with impunity, carried on membranous wings of gold.

Its blood-filled body beat and writhed, miles upon miles long. It might have journeyed for all of eternity, across time and space and back again, had it not attempted to cross the great asteroid belt which would become their sanctuary. The star beast died there, crushed between two mighty stones. Each nearly the size of a planetoid. It might have stayed wholly dead and hopeless, suspended and forever forgotten. Between the rocks that caught it, had the patriarchs not found its beautiful crushed corpse adrift in space. Those first patriarchs sung the first song of rising.

They sang until the muscles flexed and the jaws quivered. But they sang no further than that, knowing well what was forbidden. They knitted its broken flesh back together and reconnected its frozen sinews. It was the god creature's beautiful nervous system that provided the synapses to all starships and active flight. They carry pilgrims and great leaps across the galaxy. Father than any man-made thing could fly.

For that the galaxy praises it. For that the faithful dock on the god creature's outstretched palms. For that. Kisa and the other children sing and sing, so that there is always fresh flesh to walk upon, and there is always fresh bone and blood and nerves to harvest for those in need. Kisa has lived in the cathedral for ten solar years, an ablate, an offering, like most of the choir.

Her flesh has become gray and cool, like everyone who has slept regularly within its warm, beating halls. She sleeps in the cathedral's lung cavity among the soft marshy clusters of alveoli. Every morning, she leads her choirmates up the spiraling staircase that priests of old installed in the inactive windpipe, running their hands along the still flesh until it grows slippery and warm with their song. In the upper rafters of the cathedral's skull, Kisa sings to the teeth to make sure they're shiny and white, free of any kind of yellow decay. She leads the other children to the Great Dome.

The cathedral's half-shattered skull, where a stained glass viewing bubble protects and displays the precious silver nervous tissue. This is the cathedral's greatest glory, a whirling exposed cerebral cortex and synaptic fluid, that glowing magnificent tissue which makes it possible to phase between the stars. Kisa is a chorister, not a priest.

Kisa knows this very well. It is the job of the choir to sing, to preserve, to wake, just enough, not to speak. So Kisa and the other children can only look on with respectful curiosity at the pilgrims and their strange silver ships, more metal than bone. But the ships have no skulls.

Where do they put every? breathing. Amniotic capsules. You can store any type of organic material in those. It lasts forever. The pilgrims unload their offerings. It's why they come to the cathedral. Offerings in exchange for fresh tissue. A good faithful's transaction. The pilgrims line them up for inspection. A row of white barrels covered in thick dissolvable casing. The priests count them, tap them, and read out the blessings in return. Something is wrong with one of the offerings. The bishop stands over it and frowns. He calls over the engineers, the captain, the shipboard bursar. They talk in hushed voices for a long time. Before at last, the captain frowns and the bishop smiles. They take the offending barrel back to

the ship. The rest are ready for transport. They have choristers over to take them to the gut. Kisa shows the littlest ones how to tip the barrels onto their sides and roll them along the path, mindful of the railing. She shows them how to angle it against the wall of the cathedral's throat and sing just so, so that the flesh becomes warm. The flesh does most of the work, squeezing the offering down. What's in them? Don't think about it.

But Kisa thinks about it. She thinks about it more often than not these days. Mamie crawls into the same alveolus as Kesa that night. In the safety of the pale pulsing flesh, the children always confess their greatest fears. The priests say I'm supposed to be part of the offerings tomorrow. Will it be okay? Offerings are an important part of being an oblate.

Nina is missing a foot. Lulius is missing an eye. Kisa comforts Mamie the same way she comforted them. She shows them her arm in the spot where her wrist ends and says that it makes them like the cathedral, part of the whole galaxy. This was how the old bishop comforted Kisa when she gave her hand an offering.

They took her to the inner chapel, the great arched ventricles of the long dead heart. She laid her hands on the centermost valve, and there, with the bishop watching, She sang and sang and sang until the flesh closed around her fingers. There was no pain, at least not at first. The medicine took it away, and weren't her new stitches pretty? And you'll get a few days off from the heavier duties too.

Don't worry, someday we'll all get it back. It is what she said to Lillius when she gave her eye. It is what she said to little Nina when he gave his foot. It is what the old bishop said to her when she lost her hand. It is what Kisa has said so many times. It has begun to sound more like a question of itself. We'll all get it back. We'll all get it back.

We'll all get it back, won't we? The bishop Kisa knew is gone. She left on her own pilgrimage long ago. The bishop who took her place, much more austere. Gray, long-faced. His time in the cathedral has left him drawn and severe, but there are few that speak the word with more confidence.

He does not take audience with the oblates. He does not hold them near and comfort them when they cry, nor do they expect or want it of him. But they look at the suture marks on his wrists with envy. His hand is long and bony, more pale than the rest of him. They hope, if they're chosen, they'll be like him. Put back together, blessed gray flesh, mixed in with the rest.

Mamie is called away before the morning hymns. The bishop holds her hand as they line up and leads her away. She looks back at Kisa, and Kisa summons a smile for her. It will be okay. She tries to sing it through the flesh. that morning, under the dome of the god creature's skull, hoping it will travel downwards and reach her dear little sister in its great empty heart. Dear Mamie, it will be okay. You'll get it back. I promise.

Mamie doesn't come back that night. Mamie is not back by morning either. Kisa lines the choristers up. She counts, then she hesitates. She waits. She waits. She counts again. She stands on her toes, trying to look along the clusters of Alveoli to see if anyone's still sleeping. The bishop clucks his tongue. What is taking so long, choristers? Father, where is Mamie? The bishop's sculls, something the old bishop never did. Mind your duties, child. Some things are not for you to know. His voice is like the crack of a whip. Kesa does not hesitate any longer. She assembles the line.

They hold their heads up and march across the scaffolding to provide their morning services. Kisa asked, But mother, when will we get it back? The old bishop answered, When you are grown, I shall take you to the inner sanctum. We will sing to it together, and the cathedral will return it all. This was how Kesa learned the priests sometimes lie.

Kesa asked, But father, we will get it back, won't we? The new bishop answered. That is not for you to know. This was how Kesa learned the priests don't always tell the truth. At noon there is an extra barrel among the offerings they roll into the gullet. It is not the same color as the ones from the shawl. ship. Kesa notices it. Her voice falters. Her song falls flat. The rest of the choir is in

crescendo and do not notice. She leads them through the end of the song, but she does not stop staring and she does not forget. What's in it? The walls seem to ask it as they return to their beds, shuddering walls nearly alive. What's in it? What? What? What's in it? What's? The next morning she pats the empty alveolus where Mamie once lay. She keeps her hand there, humming out her feelings until the flesh under there is beating and warm. She asks a question.

She places her cheek against the warmth, listening to loosening of blood beneath the tissue, whispers through the flesh, the rush of fluid. Hush. Hush, hush, she gets an answer. Kesa sits there, crouched over the patch of living flesh, humming until she can feel the blood filling the newly awakened veins. She hears the blood rush. She feels the beating of it.

It occurs to her, then and there, that it is not coming from the cathedral, but her own head. Kisa wakes the other choristers. Isn't it late? Kisa plasters her face with a rictus smile. Midnight vigil. Line up everyone. None of them think to question it.

Kisa is the oldest. Kesa knows the most. Kesa clearly will lead them where they need to be. They sat out among the curtains of pink and gray flesh. It's time again for hymns. Miss Kisa. It's Lilius, the youngest after Mamie. Aren't we going to the thoracic dais?

No, we are going to the inner chapel. That is not a lie. They reach the inner chapel. Its beautiful gray-purple flesh arches among atrophied sinew. There is no one on duty. Kisa leads all the children through the first valve into the main ventricle. Miss Kisa, It's Nino, the next youngest after Lilius.

Where are the priests? Their devotions lie elsewhere. This is also not a lie. Kesa will not lie to them. Kisa will never lie to them. The sutures in her wrist itch and itch and itch. Miss Kisa, where's Mamie? She'll be back soon.

I'm sure she'll join us in a little bit. Now, everyone. Song of rising, then the song of heightened pulse. You know how to do it? Yes, yes, just like that. The children hum, and the walls of the inner chapel hum with them. The children sing melody, harmony, counter melody, and the walls darken. The children sing the song of preservation.

They sing until the flesh around them begins to look slick and shiny. Kisa signals. They move into the song of rising. They sing one refrain, and the veins shift from white to blue. They sing another, and the otteries flush red. They sing another, and the walls around them flex and shiver.

The eyes of the choristers turn to Kisa. they have been told this is the place where they stop. Kisa meets each of their eyes and signals for the song of heightened pulse. Relief fills the staggered breaths of each of the little choristers, except then Kisa signals for a procession. This is not unheard of, but it's odd. It's the priest that ask. They trust Kisa, and Kisa has asked.

So when Kisa marched out from the inner chapel, among the spreading flush of blood and the shiver of waking flesh, the chorus follows. They follow out into the spiraling stairs of the thoracic cavity, where everything has begun to echo up the grand cartilaginous arches. Kisa's song is bright and full. Her eyes are wide and full of heat. Surely something must be burning behind them, she thinks, but perhaps that is just the rising internal temperature.

The priests appear from their cells in the upper cranium. They look bewildered. Then they look alarmed. They might be shouting. They might be attempting a counter melody. Kisa doesn't hear them. She signals for another refrain. Then another.

Little Nino tugs on her empty sleeve. He's still singing, but his eyes are full of a question. Isn't it time for the song of sleep? Kisa shakes her head. No sleep. No more sleep, only heightened pulse, only refrain. The songs have no words they understand, but now Kisa thinks she can. You have taken something from me, oh life.

Give it back. Give it back. Give it back. Their song reaches the cathedral's lower diaphragm, which begins to push upwards. Their song reaches the esophageal. entry hole, which clenches. Paintings fall off the walls. Blood wells around the nails that held them in. The priests in their desperate attempt to reach the choristers slip on an influx of fresh mucus. The stairs begin to bend and warp under the strength of the muscles as they begin to flex and twitch. The bishop reaches them, angry enough that his flush shows even in his normally gray flesh.

Stop! He reaches for Kisa's collar. Kisa meets his eyes and presses her sutured wrist to his. Give it back! Their flesh tries to stick together. The bishop's eyes go wide in pain. He pulls away on reflex. His heel comes down on the end of the platform and he falls backwards.

Like an offering. Into the surging, churning red. All around them the great inner chambers of the cathedral heave. The diaphragm comes surging upwards, pushing everything, renewed organs, priests, platform, out into the amniotic cold. The ship's synapses fire. The pilgrims who have made it to their cranial cockpits try to engage the stolen nerves of their ships. Try to escape into the wading dark. They are knocked off kilter, scattered and smashed like little toys.

The palm that houses them rises and rises. one by one, those fingers fold. The nearest, the newest pilgrimship, is too slow. They haven't finished loading. They are caught under the cathedral's middle metacarpal. Great jaws full of knitting tendons rise over them. The captain cries into the black of space. Mercy!

The open mouth is full of echoing song and long white-pillared teeth. There is love, yes. There is mercy, yes. It is for another. Full of jubilation, the jaws close. Somewhere, through the rush of blood, the synapses and the great dome pop and reconnect. This flesh, it seems, is newly offered.

Somewhere, not so far away, something around children and priests both goes, Oh. The children huddled together in the amniotic atmosphere, clutching to the pieces of the scaffolding. The pilgrim ships float twisted and sideways in mockery of an orbit. Beneath them, the cathedral stretches and shifts. Its great domed skull, now encased an iridescent flesh, flows beneath them. They see a flash of great jaws, a flash of long bladed teeth.

At last, The eye blooms beneath them, a great disc larger than all of them together and then some. It's blue like a sun at its peak. The pupil is narrow and black like the absence of light behind that sun. It rolls once, twice, before the tendons tighten around it. It focuses on Kisa, truly looking at last. What do we do? But Kisa cannot answer.

Her head is too full of song. Her new hand is cold and hot at the same time, too large with long nails and thick, pearlescent skin. The voice booms in her head. A thought so overwhelming she thinks it might shake her apart. Sa. How? Kisa swallows.

How do you know my name? The booming in her head is a little quieter now, as if recognizing it needs her on her feet. Urge, sad. It sounds familiar. Maney? The great cathedral rises beside them. Now more blood than bone. It tilts its dome.

Kisa places her new hand on the flesh beneath its eye. The pearly skin is warm and welcoming. It's full of blood and life. One given no... Yes. I think I know you too. Elsewhere. Now... A question. Kesa might know the answer.

Even before the great beast lowers its head, a different offer. She wants us to come with her. Her choir mates gather behind her. They form a line without even knowing it. Whatever you say, Miss Kesa? They trust her. They've always trusted her. Kisa faces the starbeast with her shoulders squared

and her head held high. Yes. Wherever you want to go. And now, good people, we bid you farewell until next time. Thank you for being with us. Join us for Sleepless Decompositions, Volume 25 next week. And remember, to always stay sleepless. The No Sleep podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media.

The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornett, and Claudius Moore. Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McAnally, Ollie A. White, and Kristen Simito. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. Please visit the nosleeppodcast.com for show notes and more details about the people who bring you this show, along with hundreds of hours of audio horror stories in our archives. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening and for supporting our Dark Tales.

This audio program is copyright 2026 by Creative Reason Media. 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. No part of this audio program may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. All rights reserved.