The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast - Waiting for 16 Vol. 02

Episode Date: March 14, 2021

While we wait for the Season 16 premiere on Apr 4, enjoy some of our Season Pass stories from the past. “Sweet Remains” written by Jay Sisco (Story starts around 00:01:05) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Peter Lewis, Judd – Kyle Akers “Becoming Robby Shelton” written by John Coming (Story starts around 00:23:30) Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Kyle – Atticus Jackson, Robby – Graham Rowat, Joan – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Delaney – Nichole Goodnight, The Tall Man – Graham Rowat This episode is sponsored by: ShipStation – ShipStation makes it super easy to manage and ship all your orders from all your sales channels faster, cheaper and more efficiently. You can import orders from any sales channel and ship with any carrier using their deeply discounted rates. Go to shipstation.com and click the microphone icon at the top of the page. Enter code NOSLEEP to get a 60-day free trial.   Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team  Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone “Waiting for 16” illustration courtesy of Alexandra Cruz Hernandez Audio program ©2021 – 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

Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. We're in between seasons 15 and 16, but horror takes no holiday. We have two tales to tickle your ears and other body parts. And don't forget, for the next two weeks, we'll be featuring two of our sleepless decompositions episodes. These standalone episodes feature tales that push you to the edge and then go even farther. will be starting pre-orders for season past 16 very soon. Make sure you follow us on most social media platforms at No Sleep Podcast to know when you can order your season past 16. Our 16th season begins on April 4th. So let's take our foot off the brakes and keep the horror rolling. It's time for you to brace yourself. In our first tale, we know Zernerner. We know Zerner for smells. They're said to be one of the biggest memory triggers. We associate smells with a lot of important memories in our lives, whether we realize it or not, and so the scent of something can be hugely formative to us. But in this tale, shared with us by author Jay Sisko, we discover what

happens when the smell you regard with such fondness is something which leaves you ashamed. Performing this tale are Peter Lewis. and Kyle Acres. So let's head to the sight of an unusual smell, the crematorium at a veterinary clinic. And let's take a deep sniff of those sweet remains. Delying if I said it wasn't appealing. It's one of the first things you notice,

but you never talk about it, ever. And when all my years not one member of staff, no janitor, no grieving family member, who insisted on being there when it happened, talked about the smell. It makes you think you're the only one to notice. You stay up late at night, wondering if there's something wrong with you, whether it's some caveman instinct that after millennia can still only see meat as meat. Then you see them when they come in, stumbling on their paws, coughing weakly in between

yowls and howls of fears. You prop them up and pat them down. See the sadness and acceptance in their little faces as they have one last cuddle before crossing the rainbow bridge into oblivion. And you know that's bullshit. Your heart melts for the little creatures right up until the fire swallows them. I never talked to anyone about the smell, but I know they all feel it too. My first day on the job, the guy who started with me didn't even wait for us to be out of the crematorium before suggesting we go

at lunch. He had steak, medium rare, and I had a roast. We both acknowledged that our meals were missing, a certain something, that they were okay at best. Even as I said that, my palms were sweaty, my mind raced. It was like remembering something about yourself that you've repressed, something that changes how you see your entire life. Even through the burnt hair and the sound of family members crying. Even through the heartbreak you felt when you watched it shuffle off this mortal coil, they smell delicious. Still, you move on, you waited out until it's past cooking and the smell fades and it's ashes to ashes, dust to dust. You feel a brief cloud of shame before remembering that this time, as with all others, you didn't give in such a known secret.

It's hard to not talk about, though. Sometimes the smell was so strong I'd excuse myself to go throw up. I'd force myself if I had to. Anything to put me off to associate the smell with something I hated. In the aftermath, listening to the rushing water and the distant sobbing, I'd feel clean. Then, by sundown, I was a nervous wreck again as the desire, the sheer curiosity of it ate. me from the inside. The internet gave me some solace. I reached out, phrased the question as nonchalantly as I could, and received the validation I needed to be able to sleep at night. Other people

knew, too. The smell was nicer than you'd think. The trick was to do nothing until you grew accustomed to it and stopped noticing altogether. They told me not to worry and So I didn't. I went to work. I did my time. I thought about the crispy skin browning in the flames and did nothing. Until Judd started. Judd was a burnout, volunteering to make his resume look better, who smoked like a chilled out chimney at every opportunity he got. He also stank. Weed I could deal with. More than a few animals came in with that stink on them. Though unsurprisingly, the tale of their sudden illness almost never mentioned it. But he didn't shower either, and he used that kind of deodorant that boasts containing no dangerous chemicals, and as such, it doesn't work. Thanks to Judd, I couldn't smell anymore.

All day long at work my nostrils burned with his stench, my stomach curdling when he spoke to me. He didn't brush his teeth, though he claimed to, but you don't end up with a mouth like a geyser filled with trash water by brushing daily. Visitors held their hankies to their mouths all the more often. The animals feared him and his greasy mitts, and I absolutely hated him. But it wasn't until the next cremation that I realized just how bad things were. Alone together in that hot room, his smell was overwhelming. It dizzied me. It made my ears ring and my eyes water.

And no matter where I stood, it warmed its way into my throat and made me breathe it in. All the while a doberman cooked, crisped, and then disintegrated, unnoticed. After he'd scooped the remains into an iron and made his exit, I sat on the floor for what felt like a year. I felt robbed, confused, like an addict whose needle snaps against his skin, whose nostrils clamp shut against cocaine. The high passed me by. It ignored me. That night, when I ate dinner, I tasted nothing. Nothing at all.

I told myself it was for the best. There are better smells, I said. Better tastes. It's creepy. Anyway, what kind of sick fuck wants to eat an animal that just got put down? What weirdo looks at a grieving family and thinks this is the right time to think about eating? It was sick, strange. Judd was doing me a favor by taking it away from me before I could let it ruin my life.

I couldn't sleep, couldn't taste. I couldn't smell anything but Judd, even at home, after hours of scrubbing and scouring my skin with steel wool. Nothing, nothing but putridity and sourness and the unwashed maw of that inane ball of filth. After two weeks, I could only half remember the smell of burning flesh. My mouth still ran like a faucet at the thought, but the high of it, the richness of the scent, the accent of smoke that wasn't yet overpowering the inherent saltiness in the air. It was leaving me. I only had the words to describe it, not the memories.

I would often find myself staring into space for hours at a time, not realizing until I pulled myself out of it that I was thinking about this impossible taste. Then each time remembering that I'd never tasted it. No, I'd never tasted it. One month, then two, but it never stopped gnawing even for a second. I started to make more mistakes, more routine procedures were complicated, more surgeries botched. Because how could I look at them now? How could I look into the organs of these creatures when I was obsessed with their taste, desperate to tear into them with my bare teeth? Distracted, caught up in my own head.

Just like at home, I wouldn't realize my preoccupation until the flat line pierced. my thoughts. I started to take more and more days off. Why was this such a big fucking deal? Why couldn't I just forget the smell? People forget experiences every day of their lives. Why was the shadow of this scent? It's mere suggestion of some coveted and forbidden meal so appealing to me. I craved it. I loved it. A vacation that I couldn't afford in Yulin. During the dog meat festival, with barely a penny to my name, I bought some. I ate it without seasoning, without sauce, with my bare hands as they burned against the furnace, fresh heat of its hide, ripping and tearing and sucking the cartilage out of the bones.

I ate joint after joint, bowl after bowl, each transaction dragging me by the collar into debt. I tried as many dishes as the locals could offer me. sleeping under a bench a few streets away, in between festival hours. But it wasn't the same. With each mouthful, I was... I was angrier, more frustrated. The smell wasn't right either. It was full of pollutants of herbs and spices and marinate.

Now, these animals were special bread and slaughtered, farmed for eating. They were too deck with too much fat, a burger with one too many fillings. They weren't the same. They weren't the same. I did myself back home. I was defeated and numb. My head still swarming with memories of meat that stung me every minute of the day.

But I still walked and talked all the same. I could exist, if not in happiness. I showered, I cleaned up. I ate a regular meal that tasted of absolutely nothing at all. I felt strangely elated with my defeat. I knew it was unattainable, impossible, not just forbidden. It was like it didn't exist anymore. So there was nothing to feel sad about.

I went back to work. I let Judd do the cremations from there on out, just him. He'd cleaned up a little since we'd last seen each other. He was still Judd, of course, but now he should. Showered, even brushed his teeth. I didn't allow myself back into the crematorium. I didn't see the point. I spent my time comforting the families and with them myself.

Then, one day, Judd was late, very late. It reached 11, then 12, 1, and then 2, without him. The procedures went on longer. The surgeries were more time-consuming and more daunting. I used to be the only vet, only nurses assigned for me, but without Judd, none of them were quite the same. They were clumsier, less aware of themselves, and their hands were less skilled. At 5 p.m., we lost a patient, a Labrador, only four years old, been in to get a benign lump removed. As it bled out onto the gurney, my coat and the nurse's trembling hands, I...

I knew I wasn't ready. I dragged things out with the family. I took responsibility. They were furious. They threatened to sue, but all I could think about was how in about ten, maybe twenty minutes, I'd be back in that furnace room,

alone with the animal, the fire, and the smell. I asked if they wanted to take the dog with them. Hmm? Barry it at home? I asked this louder than I should have. Then their children started crying. They left, told me to go fuck myself. But by now I was barely listening.

My stomach, you see, was about to fall out of me, shaking and protesting as I carried the animal down to the crematorium. Once we were down there, I set it on the gurney, ready to be pulled inside by the hydraulics out of sight. I took some time to be sick. Maybe, maybe I could just hit the urnoy. button and run. Yeah, I could do that. I hit the green button on the side of the furnace, and as the gears started up and the gurney was pulled inside, I sprinted to the door. Judd came in

just as I pulled it open and we collided, banging heads first against each other, then on the floor. I saw stars and then Judd's terror-stricken face as he helped me to my feet looking me up and down. You okay, man? You look like you've seen a ghost. Something happened? Uh, yeah, I just, I need to get out. I tried to lunge past him, but he caught me with his arm, holding me in place. Whoa, whoa, you just bashed your head in. Take it easy, okay?

Stay still. I want to get a look at that. Any moment now, the smell was going to come flooding out. I couldn't be there. I couldn't. I couldn't. I couldn't. I was free.

I was, I was happy. I was free. Judd, please, please, please let me go. I need to get out. I thrashed against him, reaching hopelessly for the door, but he only held me tighter. Calm down. I started screaming.

I clamped my hands over my mouth and nose, held them shut. Death was okay. I welcomed death. Lord knew I begged for it plenty over these last few months. I held on, curled up in a tight ball, so Judd's newfound. the strength couldn't get to my face. I held on and on and on until my lungs gave up.

Their screaming and my vision faded, died with it the way it does during a heat wave or a gas leak. Smell. I breathed it in and it was like my lungs were drinking, growing fuller, fatter, richer with it. The stuff of life. I swam in it. My mouth was stuiced. up, letting my head dizzy and my feet stumble until they were steady again. I pulled open the furnace, welcomed by a wall of heat that roared in my face, as if to guard the small heap inside. I pulled it out. My hands were numb, the fire couldn't hurt me.

And eating it was like making love to a dream. It was fetish and romance, woman and man, supple and hard. It was everything. I felt my body ascending to become something I never knew existed. I looked at Judd. He was understandably mortified. He'd been there the whole time, standing by the wall, waiting for me to come to, then watching as I ate.

He was appalled, or maybe just shocked, perhaps even impressed. It was difficult to say I wasn't quite myself. Judd, did you ever notice how the cremations always smell so... Had to laugh. I covered my eyes and chuckled. How... How the cremations always smell so fucking good. He didn't see the funny side.

Instead, he strode over to me in quick steps and grabbed me by the back of the head. He lifted me up by it, forced me to look down on him as he brought my face close to his. My feet were dangling in the air, my lungs full of smoke. But what did I care? Who the hell cares anymore? I looked down at him, daring him. Punish me? Punish me?

How? I was beyond him. now. He smiled. Yeah, I have. It took me a moment to realize that he was, he was answering my question. Then, in one deft motion, he bit into my throat, like it was an apple, soft, malleable fruit, scrambled against his head for a moment, feebly. Then, then, as my blood escaped through him, Fall still, for your own stink to subside enough for you to catch that beautiful scent long for you to crave it. How many months did you spend feasting in silence while I chased ghosts in China? Judd never considered that the taste I coveted it was something more than just meat,

that it was really the very essence of a recently extinguished life that smelled so damn good. It'll clear the air and return to some sweet-smelling horror in mere moments. But first, let me take you for a stroll down memory lane. Why, I remember the very early days of our little audio horror extravaganza. Before the internet and podcasting, I had to record the show on audio cassette tapes and ship them around the world. Don't believe me? Well, that's probably smart.

But nonetheless, shipping things in the past was a hassle. I sure wish we had something like Ship Station. If you sell stuff online, you're definitely in the right business. More people are shopping online than ever. That means a lot of orders coming in and a lot of orders you'll need to ship out fast. That's why online sellers like you need Ship Station. No matter how much you sell, Ship Station makes it super easy to manage and ship all your orders from all your sales channels faster, cheaper, and more efficiently. What is it you're selling online these days?

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Enter offer code no sleep and make ship happen. And now, let's return to the cupcakes. I mean, the horror. In our final tale, we meet a man who years ago had a near-death experience and started to live his best life. We also meet his friend, who, throughout the subsequent years, noticed numerous strange changes

in his pal despite his newfound enthusiasm. And in this tale, shared with us by author, John Cumming, we begin to find out posthumously what exactly happened to Kyle's pal that day, up there in the skies when his plane failed. Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson, Graham Rowett, Sarah Thomas, and Nicole Goodnight. So take a closer look at how your friend's life played out. Uncover the mystery of what happened. Put yourself in the shoes of someone becoming Robbie Shelton. Robbie Shelton used to tell a funny story when he was still alive. I probably heard him run through the damn thing 20 or more times,

but I always smiled and played along when people asked about it. It had become somewhat famous among our extended social circle. Robbie knew how to play the crowd, always refusing to tell the story at first, building the anticipation and begrudgingly agreeing when the interest was at its peak. My daddy always said that I thought the sun rose to hear me crow. And, well, he was right. All right, all right, well, settle in then.

It's a long one. Kyle, I'll need your help. That smile and shrug with an, oh well, gesture. The funny thing about the story is that it wasn't funny. At least it wasn't to me. Nobody was laughing when it happened, and we lost contact with Robbie when he was flying 35,000 feet in the air. I remember sitting there screaming into the radio down at our communications.

building, worried I wouldn't hear Robbie if he responded, but he didn't. For nearly 28 minutes, Robbie Shelton vanished. And then, the punchline. So, there I am. Robbie would always be leaning forward at this point. By now, everyone listening was fully absorbed into the story, wondering when the tale would transition into the comedy they had expected, but hooked on the surprising action nonetheless. I'm flying completely in the dark at this point, in a thunderstorm, hollering into a radio that isn't working, flipping switches that aren't lighting, and all I see out my window is black. Not a damn light on the ground.

Robbie's eyes would always glaze over for a moment at this part. I suppose that during ever retelling, he briefly imagined himself back in that position of helplessness, stuck in a thin metal tube, miles away from safety. At this point, Starburst starts to dip down, and I've still got no damn control over the thing. So I close my eyes and say my prayers. Kyle, what were you doing at this point? Calling my lawyer in the morgue, I would say, or sometimes cracking open the scotch. People listening usually laughed, relieving some of the tension they hadn't realized it built up.

Then they would turn eagerly back to Robbie to hear the climax of the story. Then, just as I think I'm going to have. hit the ground and blow myself to hell, I see a light down below me. Looks like a house. So I pull up with all of my might. Next thing I know, I was barreling like a train through a field full of corn. I kept on rolling for damn near a mile before coming to a stop pretty close to the farmhouse that I'd seen from above. A young girl ran out with a hunting rifle, pointed the damn thing right at me. Robbie stood up here and mimicked looking down the barrel of an invisible weapon. I opened the top and stumbled out, and the girl's eyes were bugging.

out like I was a space invader. I was fairly certain that I'd survive the damn fall only to be shot in some cornfield. He always spoke with the diction of an older man, telling his stories in the same methodical sense I imagine a cowboy would have around a fire in the Wild West. The material was good, but Robbie probably could have made a trip to the supermarket sound like a Homeric epic. So, I put my hands up real slow. Robbie would raise his hands as he spoke. At this point, the world's spinning around me, and my head's pounding, and I'm not sure if this is a dream or just hell. So, I say the first thing that comes to my mind, got any whiskey? Listeners burst into laughter here, silently pleased that the story had regained its levity.

I swear to God, I did, and she goes, we don't have whiskey. My legs give out at this point, so I take a nice sit in the dirt and look back up and say, rum will do just fine, ma'am. Bullshit, someone would yell out, laughing despite their disbelief. It's all in the police report. I read it myself. I'd reply. And it mostly was, along with a lot of other details that Robbie avoided mentioning.

Now, you know what they say? One eyewitness is better than ten hearsays. The girl repeated it all to the cops when they came. Robbie was full of folksy sayings that I loved and hated. Sometimes he would sprinkle in a particularly strange one and slyly wink at me when he thought nobody was looking. This time, though, he kept the retelling fairly streamlined. Then the real kicker.

This young girl puts the gun on her shoulder and runs up to me, taking my pulse, realizing I wasn't a threat, I suppose. Sir, you're in Bent Tree, Utah, she says. This is a dry town. We don't have any whiskey or rum. I had flown nearly 200 miles west out of Colorado all the way into Utah. Then I said, shit, I am in hell and passed out.

Robbie always smiled and began to laugh when he finished. If I didn't know better, I would have believed that the whole thing was a damn hoot to him. But I knew it wasn't. Years later, his wife Joan confided to me that he had nightmares, often where he would wake up sweating, kicking, and flailing off the bed. That he wouldn't know who his own wife was, where they were. or even his own name. After the story finished, Robbie would talk about waking up in the hospital with me and the whole staff of the Sharp Flyers Association at his bedside.

His first question upon waking up was how much he owed for the corn he wrecked. That part of the story always did make me laugh, because I remember how grateful I felt that my friend was safe, that he was alive. That is, until we got sued for $10,000 by the farmer, of course. Robbie Shelton died a month before the seven-year anniversary of his famous story. It was only 33 years old. The doctor said that it was sudden heart failure, that his organs just went dark for reasons unknown. Almost like the power in the Starburst had.

I was sad that I would never see my friend again, but more devastated by what he'd left behind. Joan, his wife, and Delaney, his daughter. The funeral was called a celebration of life and asked for donations in lieu of flowers. Joan worked hard, and she mostly succeeded in making it an uplifting event. But, at the end of the day, a burial is still a burial. No drunken family members or wailing attendees, but a hanging silence that rang with shock and misty unreality. Weeks after the funeral, I got a call from Joan asked. asking me if I could help her with packing away Robbie's things.

I couldn't help but wonder if she had waited, maybe hoping she could avoid this entirely, hoping he would return. It's still so surreal. I nodded, squeezing her shoulder. It almost feels like he's still here. Like any minute, he'll walk in, trudge mud in with his damp boots, bitch about the traffic.

I could tell that you, Joan felt conflicted about what to leave in his office, but I was happy she decided to put his things away. Leaving a shrine to the dead only serves to hurt the living. We had packed for the better part of three hours, and it was already past 11 at night. I know. It's hard because it feels like it came out of nowhere. But I didn't really believe that. After Robbie's near-death experience, he acted like he had a new lease on life. Him and Joan, met only weeks later, and they were married a year after that. Nine months later, Delaney joined his growing family. Robbie traveled more than he ever had, bringing his young wife and child to Alaska

three years back, in Paris last summer. Hell, he even kept solo flying. He was reinvigorated, but for some reason, I think a small part of me just accepted the fact that my friend had died when we lost contact with him up in the air. Then seven years later, when he actually passed, I felt oddly relieved. Like, I had been holding my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I have something for you. A box full of flight documents, some pictures and knick-knacks from sharp flyers. Pictures that Robbie saved of you and him.

I scanned pictures that I wanted to keep. I hope you don't mind. Not at all. You've got time to sort things out. I don't want to take anything that... No, no, it's okay. I need time, I think, Kyle. I'm taking some time off from the hospital and me and Delaney are heading to California to stay with my sister. Now that everything is settling down, I... I think I need to get away from here for a while. I understand completely. Delaney walked downstairs and crawled into her mother's lap. The Shelton's cat, Moose, which Joan had been petting, let out a bitter meow and hopped to the ground.

Moose hid underneath the sofa, staring up at Joan and waiting for the child to leave so he could reclaim his perch. Mommy, can I see the picture of Daddy again? Delaney's big brown eyes, which matched her father's struggled to remain open. In the morning, Lainey. Joan ran her hand slowly through the small child's hair. She told me Delaney had been crying all night, and even if death itself was still a mystery to her, loss was not. Now, though, she looked peaceful, asleep in Joan's arms.

I'm taking her back up. Thanks for all your help, Kyle. Please take that box. I smiled at her and nodded. For some reason, were loved. to take anything of Robby's. I suppose I also wanted to leave this behind for a while. I didn't open the box until a couple of days later.

On March 3rd, the seven-year anniversary of Robbie's near-death experience. The first item in the box nearly inspired me to throw the whole thing away. It was a copy of the police report from his crash. I'd memorize the damn thing. I knew that the plan made contact with the ground at 10 p.m. him had a thin red line of blood trickled down from a cut on Robbie's forehead. I could recite his conversation with the farmer's daughter. Underneath, though, lay happier memories, printed pictures from us back in college,

a copy of our flight test reports at shop flyers. Other memories lay inside, too, like pictures from when we had skydived, maps from our climbing trip out in Colorado, and our entry brace. from some shitty EDM concert Robbie insisted we go to a couple of years back. At the bottom of the box, though, underneath all the memories, hidden underneath the flap in the bottom of the box, was something that wasn't supposed to be there. Robbie's Aviation Watch. Joan had been searching for it when I had been there, as it had been clearly specified to go to Delaney when she was older.

Robbie and Jones Ranch-style home was painted a rusty red and brown set right at the edge of the San Juan National Forest. I isolated and idyllic. It was drizzling when I ran from my car to the front door, and a cold mist clung to the early spring ground in their yard, rolling in from the woods to the east. I held a small coat over my head as a weak cover from the rain and the aviation watch underneath my jacket, even though I knew the rain wouldn't have harmed it. Joan, it's Kyle But I knew I was too late Her car was gone, and it was already near noon She was probably already halfway to California with Delaney

I peered in through the window wiping water away from it But the house was dark, empty Even moose appeared gone Thunder rolled overhead Along with a violent wind that turned the rain sideways into me I held the coat at an angle and turned to make my way back to the car. When I stepped off the old wooden front stoop, I noticed another set of boot prints. Fresh and leading around the house.

The marks were big, far too big to have been Joan or Delaney's. I stood there, looking back between the safety of the car and the track of indented prints leading around towards the back of the Shelton's house. My legs moved without my consent, and I began following the muddy tracks around the house. The coat I held overhead was soaking wet now, as the rain flew without direction, down and up, left and right. In hindsight, part of me knew what I would find before I turned the final corner and reached the back porch. Robbie Shelton sat, motionless, at the old glass table were him and Jones to host summer barbecues. He was staring out at the forest, his back facing towards me.

But I knew it was him. He was wearing his old denim jacket and those workboots that Joan always complained tracked in mud. The rain whipped into his face and body, and his hair dripped and hung long, almost to his shoulders. Bobby? I hope that my words would make this hallucination vanish. Robbie didn't turn when I spoke, but he let out a visible breath, like he was registering my words. My wife isn't here, nor my child. No, they went away for a bit after the funeral.

Robbie turned finally, allowing me to see his face. I'm not sure what I expected. Rot, decomposition. Bones protruding and eyes bloody. But it wasn't any of that. He looked the same. If anything, he looked smoother. His usual thick, unkempt beard was trimmed, almost painted on.

Age lines that had formed around his eyes and forehead and smile lines that Joan used to tease him about had vanished. And Robbie wasn't smiling now. His eyes were different too. Gone with a warm kind irises, replaced by grey-blue spheres that bore through me. Like, he was studying the idea of a man in front of him, not actually speaking to one. There is a joke like that. A man fakes his death, attends his own funeral to surprise his friends, family.

It doesn't end well. The man ends his own life out of shame, misery. Jesus, Robbie, what the fuck is going on? I finally gathered the courage to walk up to the table and sat adjacent from him. Are you saying, did you fake this somehow? What did we bury? No, not a fake. Robbie Shelton is dead.

His voice was low, but firm, hovering just above the constant pattering of rain onto the glass. I let the jacket I held fall to the ground, and the rain washed over me, soaking anything still dry. I was talking to a dead man. Getting wet was no longer a concern. Robbie had turned his gaze once again towards the woods, staring straight ahead. You are Robbie Shelton. I wasn't sure if I was trying to remind him or convince myself. His voice sounded the same, and his face almost looked the same. But it was all off.

His diction was different. In those words, I heard a different man. Behind those eyes, I saw a stranger. I don't think I am. I came here thinking I was, thinking I could be, to see my Joan, to see Delaney. But I think it's a good thing they were gone. Robbie or whoever this was shifted something in his pocket and placed it on the table.

Long, wide kitchen knife, sharp, covered in thick red blood and what looked like hair. Robbie, what the hell is going on? They needed experience with something else before I was done. I kept putting it off. What are you talking about? Robbie kept his gaze focused into the forest and slowly raised his hand to point forwards. I followed his finger into the woods and saw nothing but the trees swaying in the violent winds. But when I turned my gaze up slightly, I saw what he had been staring at.

Jesus! I pushed back from the table and nearly fell to the wet porch floor. Up in the trees, right at the edge of the backyard was moose, with ropes tied to each leg spreading him apart. He had been partially flayed, and his skin hung off his back in a sickening arc, still attached by several stringy cords of tissue. Thick bloody drops fell to the ground below him, and had made a small black and red puddle. The taking of a life. Robbie turned to me then, seemingly just remembering that I was there. Kyle, you remember that night when I went flying?

I nodded in response. He didn't need to clarify what night he was referring to. It had been stuck in my mind for seven years. What happened up there, Robbie? I didn't think of him as Robbie, a friend anymore. But what else could I call him? He turned to face me directly, calmly turning the knife on the table so the tip pointed towards me, leaving a coating of blood that stained the glass in a wide V-shaped.

I took a side glance at moose hanging in the trees and wondered if I would be joining him soon. Do you really want to know? The question caught me off guard. Of course I wanted to know. Didn't I? It was the question that had lingered in the back of my head for years. But now, seeing where this road led, I wasn't so sure. I do.

It was the wrong decision, even without the benefit of hindsight. But I knew I'd regret not known for the rest of my life, that the mystery would eat me alive. Sometimes it's better to make the wrong decision you can live with. then the right decision you can't. Robbie, I, we were flying fine when we thought we saw something ahead of the plane. He paused for a moment, smiling thinly. Starburst, that was the plane's name.

Fitting. What we saw, it looked like a lightning bolt, frozen in space, a jagged line of blue and white, pulsing. We tried to fly under it. it, but it was massive. We radioed down to see if you could tell what it was. On our end, we heard static come through the radio. And then silence for 28 minutes.

Robbie smiled coldly. It felt a lot longer than that to us. For us, it was like an eternity. He was clenching his fist onto the knife as he spoke. And the rain, which had become a misty spray, collected in droplets that rolled down. on his white knuckles. We flew in total blackness

for what felt like days. We thought that we would starve to death or go mad. We screamed for you into the radio, but you never responded. I'm sorry. My eyes stole glances at the knife still in his hand.

Robbie only shook his head. I can't explain this. You would have to see it to understand it. I'd have to show you. Robbie stood up and moved towards me, and I grabbed the bloody knife he had left on the table and held it to my best friend's neck. Robbie, back the fuck up. Something is wrong in your head, man, and we can fix it together. I know we can't.

Moose's blood on the knife now created a small line right under my friend's Adam's apple, and the sickening thought entered my head. Only one of us would walk away from this encounter alive. You can't kill me. I think this will do the trick. I pressed the knife in slightly. No. You can't kill me. The knife isn't what is deficient. We were standing on his porch that I had helped him build five summers back.

It was the spot that Robbie and Joan broke the news to me, but they were expecting a child. And where they told me, they wanted me to be delayed. his godfather. I felt the strength in my arm go out. Robbie slowly grabbed my wrist and lowered the knife from his neck, and I led him. He was right. I couldn't stomach sentencing my friend to death the second time. I'm leaving this place soon, Kyle. This is the last time you'll ever see me. In turn, your last chance to know. But I have to show you. Why show me?

They want to see how you'll react. They? But Robbie remained silent, waiting for my answer. I thought about running, briefly wondering if I could still escape. But Robbie's eyes told me that I wasn't leaving without seeing what he had to show. I had escaped this truth for seven years. Now, the truth had come calling. Robbie released his grip on my wrist, and I let the knife fall to the porch floor into a small puddle of water.

He slowly reached out, placing his hand on my forehead. When he touched my forehead, a shock ran down my bones. And then, I was up in the air behind Robbie's eyes. Robbie Shelton flew alone in the starburst for hours, farther from home than we had ever imagined. Someone help me, scream, crying, praying. Alone.

The starburst's lights had turned back on in the cockpit, but no engine control. Distantly, stars twinkled calmly, rhythmically, all around the starburst. Their dim light, the only thing he could see. He almost fell asleep, when suddenly,

the plane sounded like it was ripped in half. The cockpit opened and his body was pulled out by hands unseen. I know this now because of semen, because I too have experienced it. Our body floated in the cold vacuum of space for almost 20 seconds before losing consciousness. The plane had felt silent for the hours we had drifted in the dark. But now, floating alone in the emptiness. of space, silence carried a new meaning. Silence before was like a cacophony, the blaring sound of breath, the pounding drum of our beating heart, the regent current of our blood flowing through veins,

now replaced by complete and utter nothingness. The last thing we saw was something almost indescribable. A shapeless, asymmetrical form covering half our view. Black and slithering in the emptiness of space, with a thousand arms reaching out of its center. All expanding outward, a cracking ice. The Titan moving towards our floating body in dead silence. We yelled or thought we tried.

But some formless hand touched our forehead, and another shock rolled through our skin and bone. And then, darkness, we awoke lying down on a metal table in a dim, freezing room. Whispers came out from the shadows, and into the light stepped a tall man. Can you hear me? His features at first, blurry began to materialize. He was wearing a thin flight jacket and jeans. Almost the same outfit Robbie was wearing earlier and bore a strangely familiar face.

We tried to speak and began to panic as we realized our mouth wouldn't open. We tried lifting our arm, wiggling our foot, screaming. But all control had vanished over our body. Just blink, if you can. I could feel our heart rate increasing. increasing and we began hyperventilating. Our eyes opening wide in terror.

The whole world closing black around us. Cold skin pressed on the sides of our head as something pinched sharply into our brain. We moaned in pain before a small wave of warmth rolled over our body. Our heart rate slowed and our vision cleared. Your life is a full one. His voice. Why was it so similar? Full of memories that I understand you feel are significant.

You cherish. Now you can receive a new purpose. The tall man walked up to us. He leaned over the table, grabbing our shoulder, and looked up at a large black window above the table. We slowly lifted our gaze to the window and saw the light glinting off of hundreds of twinkling points. We realized that what we had seen earlier was no field of stars outside of the plane.

They were eyes, studying us. The light of the starburst glinting off of them as they watched us for hours, blinking, studying. Now they continued to study from the window above. The tall man leaned over us once more. He looked down on our motionless body. The tall man touched our hand and began melting into it, seeping into our skin, stretching our flesh with hot pain that rang with lightning

as our bones cracked to accommodate the unwelcome invasion. The tall man inched his face closer to ours, slowly pressing in, clawing through our skin. until our view was constrained with salt blue eyes. I began to scream then, unsure where I was, who I was for a moment, as I pushed backwards and landed back in the present on the cold, wet wooden porch. You, you're a fucking monster. What the fuck? How did you?

You're that thing from the room. You were never, Robbie. You felt what your friend did. for moments. It sticks, doesn't it? And it did. My thoughts felt hazy and off. I knew I was Kyle Fields,

but it was like a secondary mind was there too. I know his memory. I lived behind his eyes for seven years. I'm not him, but I'm not what I once was, either. It's disorienting, isn't it?

It struck me, that Robbie or the tall man was also a pawn in this whole thing. Playing a game where it didn't fully understand the rules. Where the strings are pulled by someone else, far away. Why would you do that to him? To yourself. The tall man or Robbie or whatever it was slowly crouched down so he was on eye level with me. So we could learn.

Robbie's memories were useful. But we needed more to truly become. After the flight, we gave Robbie ideas. Travel the earth. Converse, read, learn with others. Find a mating partner. Procreate. And then die.

The final step. Nearly. We cannot begin to understand humanity through one man. Life. Death. Birth. The cycle continues. There is so much still to see.

That's just life. Study your own fucking people. Death is something that my people have not experienced for a very long time. I've been given a rare chance being here. But birth, the beginning of life, the creation of it, that's something even rarer. That's a gift even he does not possess. Robbie pointed upward. Momentarily, I considered my own faith,

presuming he spoke of God. Quickly, though, I remembered Robbie's last vision as he floated through space, an unspeakable form, moving in total silence in the absence of life, sending down his pawns so they could study the ants below. You're moving and talking, but you aren't alive.

You know that, right? The thing in Robbie's body smiled. I'm not here to understand everything. You know what sent me here. Why? Why would this thing care about what we did? About the intricacies of a human life? About how it felt to live, die.

Fuck! Why did it go through all these links? Because it is curious. and because it can. Robbie stood up from his crouch and began walking off the porch towards the woods. He turned to me when he reached the tree line. Like me now. He turned into the wet early spring wood and walked forward through the tall pines.

I sat and watched him, soaking wet as the cold rain set into my bones. For the third time in seven years, I said goodbye to my feet. friend. This time, I never saw him again. It was only two weeks later that Joan and Delaney returned from California, seemingly refreshed and ready to face the reality of Robbie's death. I had removed all traces of moose and the knife, hoping to spare them from any further pain, giving them the luxury of hopefully moving on. Part of Robbie stayed with me, though. After that vision, after becoming and Robbie for that short time, and began to find myself acting like him, telling our story to friends with his same charm and cadence, almost subconsciously beginning to dress in his outdoorsman's style.

More strangely than that, I began to think of Joan and Delaney often, worrying about them, desiring their company. An instinctual urge overcame me to take care of Delaney. He, he her safe, so much so that I began to dream about her. So I began to visit them, frequently, helping out around the house, driving Delaney to school or daycare when Joan was swamped with work. I even took Delaney to the animal shelter to pick out a new kitten when she finally got over Moose's unexplained disappearance. Joan and I had always gotten along, but now when we were comfortable together. It was like Robbie would take over.

And the more time I spent with her, the worse it became. Six months after Robbie's death, return, and final disappearance, I found myself at Jones three or four times a week. It was during one of these visits that I noticed just how powerful Robbie's presence was

while Joan was talking to me about buying some used car and trading in Robbie's old truck. Let's go and check out the car together. Don't buy a pig and a poke. What did you just say? I shook my head going off autopilot. It's just...

Robbie used to say that all the time to me. I always teased him about it. I guess he'll live forever in his annoying sayings. I fake to laugh, and she joined him. in. Joan and I slept together ten months after Robbie's death. She cried in my arms after it happened, out of feelings of guilt, betrayal. I felt like I had betrayed him too, not because it had happened, but because the entire thing felt so damn natural as if we had been together for years. I felt like I was impersonating him. Around that time, I decided to reread the pre-read the

police report from Robbie's accident, wondering if I could see something different, understand something new. Nothing stuck out to me until the transcript from the farmer's daughter. You see, when Robbie told that story, it was always the punchline. A cowboy who cheated death, asking for booze as his reward. Cue audience laughter. But now, I saw something else. I saw my friend falling out of the starburst.

Bleeding, wide-eyed, full of inconsolable fear over what he had seen. Yelling for alcohol because it was between getting drunk or clawing his own eyes out. He wasn't joking about being in hell. After what he had seen, Robbie truly thought he was in it. I have no idea why he felt the need to retell the worst night of his life and relive it over and over again. I'm not sure if he knew either. Now as I recount this, it has been nearly a year since Robbie's death. Although we are still working out the details,

I am to move in with Joan and Delaney in the coming weeks. A part of me knows this isn't right, but I've also become keenly aware that my decisions are no longer fully my own. It wasn't until yesterday that I began to understand why the thing in Robbie's skin showed me that vision, while he wanted to leave a piece of my friend Robbie Shelton inside of me. But now, it all makes sense.

I've developed a nightly routine with Joan and Delaney. Joan and I make dinner, talk about each other's days, take a walk in the San Juan forest, make love. Sometimes I'll wake up from a nightmare, screaming, only for Joan to calm me down. They're always the same. I'm back in the starburst, surrounded by eyes. The Titan moves through space, only this time towards me, reaching out.

I try to scream, but all I can hear is the wet sound of a thousand eyelids blinking. Almost daily I catch myself saying or doing something I know Robbie would say or do, And yet, despite the nightmares and how fucked up the whole situation is, I've never been happier in my whole life. Robbie's mind drove me here, but my heart has decided to stay here. That's what I kept telling myself at least. At this point, I'm not sure who's sitting in the driver's seat. After dinner, I'll read to Delaney until she falls asleep, something I know that Robbie used to do. Last night, though, Joan told me something before I went into a room.

She what? She's been telling her friends and teachers that you're her father. No, it's a good thing. I love seeing you two together. It's just confusing her a bit. She moved towards me on the couch and rested her head on my shoulder as she spoke. She needs you in her life, but I don't want her to forget him. That's all.

I feel the same way. I'll talk to her about it tonight. Delaney was lying on her side, facing away from me when I walked in. I pulled up the chair next to her and put my arm on her back. She stirred gently. You were late. Hey, sweetie.

Listen, you know I love you, right? She gently nodded her head. Well, you're not. Your mom told me what you've been saying at school. I had no idea how to proceed, how to remind her of her dead father without breaking her heart. You see? I know you're not my real dad. It's just easier to explain to the other kids.

Oh, okay. Well, if you ever want to talk about him, you know you always can. Delaney turned towards me and smiled. And I saw that she had fully woken up. In the dim light of her room, I saw her eyes shine for a moment, a sharp, grayish blue. I blinked, and they returned to normal, the same old chocolatey brown color she inherited from Robbie. Can you read to me, please? Life, death, earth.

The cycle continues. And if they wanted to understand humanity, Why not start then from the eyes of a child? And now they had someone watching over her. Beyond that, they had achieved something I think that they valued even more. The power of creation. Sure. I read to her late into the night,

then sat in the chair beside her bed long after she had fallen asleep. I wondered if I had the time or agency to leave all of this behind, worrying because I knew that even if I chose to leave, Robbie had already chosen to stay. Thank you for joining us on our journey down the Lost Highway. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikalski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White.

I'm your host and executive. producer David Cummings. If you would like to find out how you can hear the extended editions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season pass program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 2499. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. has the darkness fades. It feels like you're going to dream.

Audio production is copyright 2020 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.