The NoSleep Podcast - S17 Ep4: NoSleep Podcast S17E04

Episode Date: November 28, 2021

It's Episode 04 of Season 17. Our spells force you to deal with the strangest people."I Think We Should Kill Bullet Three" written by Rona Vaselaar (Story starts around 00:06:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Nichole Goodnight, Sanford - Dan Zappulla, Johnson - Mike DelGaudio, Merrill - Wafiyyah White, Peterson - David Cummings"Room to Grow" written by Michael J. Nicholson (Story starts around 00:24:00)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Julian - David Ault, Pete - Andy Cresswell"The Night Visitors" written by Andrew Kozma (Story starts around 00:41:30)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Mick Wingert, Lana - Kristen DiMercurio, Harriet - Sarah Ruth Thomas"My Mother's House" written by Blaire Wolff (Story starts around 00:52:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: David - Jeff Clement, Mother - Erin Lillis"Floating" written by Jackson Laughlin (Story starts around 01:21:55)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator - Atticus Jackson, Dr. Monason - Graham RowatThis episode is sponsored by:Truebill - Truebill is the new app that helps you identify and stop paying for subscriptions you donít need, want, or simply forgot about. Start cancelling today at Truebill.com/nosleep. It could save you thousands a year.Raycon - Raycon's new Everyday earbuds look, feel, and sound better than ever. Small build, mighty sound. Raycon's most compact wireless earbuds deliver crisp and powerful beats for your everyday grind. NoSleep listeners can unlock up to 20% off their Raycon order at BuyRaycon.com/nosleep.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Rona VaselaarClick here to learn more about Michael J. NicholsonClick here to learn more about Andrew Kozma Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"Floating" illustration courtesy of Alia SynesthesiaAudio 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

We are most thankful for all the horror coming our way in mere moments. Are you fully braced? Um, excuse me, Mr. Cummings. Might I have a word with you? I'll allow it. A while ago, you asked for my Netflix password to watch a movie, right? You said you'd remove yourself from my account right after the movie was over, correct? Ah, gosh, Dan, I don't recall.

Ah, the old memory isn't what it used to be. Well, I can assure you, you're still using my account, and I don't like it one bit. I can only apologize. It's tough enough when we have companies auto-renewing free trials without notice. I'm paying way too much for services I no longer used, and now even you are taking advantage of me, you cad. I have the perfect solution for you. You need True Bill.

Pray tell, what is True Bill? True Bill is the new app that helps you identify and stop paying for subscriptions you don't need, want, or simply forgot about. On average, people save up to $720. a year with True Bill. That's a substantial amount of money to save. I know firsthand how difficult it is to cancel subscriptions. Right.

And because companies make subscriptions hard to cancel, True Bill makes it incredibly simple. Just link your accounts and True Bill will cancel your unwanted subscriptions in one tap. And your True Bill concierge is there when you need them to cancel unwanted subscriptions, so you don't have to. Sounds like the perfect solution to my problem. Listen, I'm someone who's sign. up for free trials of things and then forgets about them like the dummy I am.

Your words, not mine. But with True Bill, I can find all of those pesky things and cancel them. And let's face it, a lot of us signed up for a bunch of streaming services during the pandemic. Now's the time to clear up all those services you no longer have time to watch. I love True Bill for making this so easy. I'm sold. How do I get started with True Bill? Danny Boy, don't fall for subscription scams.

Start canceling today at TrueBee. Bill.com slash no sleep. Go right now. Truebill.com slash no sleep. It could save you thousands a year. Truebill.com slash no sleep. I'm heading there now. You'll be glad you did.

And as we start the show, I'm going to watch that great new series on Netflix. Cool. Hey! Not on my account. You're not. Why, you dirty, rotten scoundrel. Cummings, I swear, one of these... Times long gone.

In days of yore, there are legends and tales of dark folklore. Round candlelight and fireside, the tales are shared. Enchanting dark secrets in hushed toes declared. And from those days, both present and past, We beseech you now to brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Let the sleepless tales commence, fellow travelers. I'm your guide, David Cummings. At some point in our lives, we have all frowned upon the monotony of daily life,

the rinsing and repeating of the same actions with the same people at the same time every day. The only comfort being the solace of knowing that when you die, you'll finally be at peace. This repetitious purgatory called existence will surely be forgotten in the afterlife, right? Wrong. Because you just woke up in The Grey Rooms. Starting its fourth season, The Grey Rooms podcast begins their next chapter with a trio of guests aboard a luxury train barreling across an impossible landscape. At each stop, a guest exits the train and finds them.

forced to experience the final moments of another person's life. Every episode of the Grey Rooms features a new, harrowing demise. Again and again, the passengers find themselves awaking back on the train, dreading the next stop, determined to escape from the agony and terror of ends, not their own. Build is a cross between Tales from the Crypt and Quantum Leap. The Grey Rooms podcast offers a unique journey in which an overarching narrative combines with anthology, horror. Enjoy terrifying stories from a variety of authors and voice actors, including familiar names from the No Sleep Ensemble. All past seasons are available now, including the recent miniseries,

Descent Into Hell, featuring our own Graham Rowett and Sarah Thomas. The premiere of season four has just left the station, so it's time to climb aboard. You can enter the gray rooms now wherever you get your podcasts. Listen with extreme coffee. Oh, and speaking of listening with extreme caution, it's time to get sleepless. In our first tale, we join a woman who is bored senseless, and that's because she's stuck in a boardroom meeting. Many of us know how dull it is to be stuck in an unnecessary meeting, but in this tale, shared with us by author Rona Vassilar, we find out how much worse it can be when a meddling co-worker decides to prolong matters in the most infuriating ways.

I joined Nicole Goodnight, Dan Zepula, Mike Delgadoio, and Wafia White in performing this tale. So settle back and try not to get noticed. Maybe you can use this dull conference to get some shut-eye. But it's more likely that you'll have to pretend to care why your colleague insists, I think we should kill Bullet 3. I think we should kill Bullet 3. The air conditioner made a clicking sound every 20 seconds. I'd never noticed it before, but I did then,

sitting in that conference room 20 floors above street level. Briefly, I fantasized about walking over to the wall, ripping the air conditioner from its perch, and tossing it through the window to the street below. I let the imaginary sound of shattering glass fill my ears, but it still wasn't enough to drown out that noise. Bullet three?

Realigning cost optimization structure? That's a critical component of our Q3 strategy. We can't leave that out. Turns out there's one thing more annoying than the repetitive clicking noise, and that's Johnson's voice. I glanced at his position near the head of the conference table. His expertly tailored navy blue suit was ruined

by the obnoxious Paisley tie that he probably thought was quirky and fun. Who unironically wears a paisley tie to work? Assholes. That's who? Assholes who slick their hair back with enough oil to kill a flock of unfortunate waterfowl in other circumstances. He caught me looking at him and flashed me a smarmy smile, the kind that makes you want to take a three-day shower. I let my eyes flick back to his presentation. It was a white slide with a slim black border.

In the left corner was her company logo. The text was made up entirely. of black headings with accompanying black bullet points. It had taken two weeks to come to an agreement on that template. And now, Sanford wanted to kill Bullet 3. It feels duplicative to me. We mentioned right-sizing our capital structure in Bullet 7. Isn't that enough?

We can take out Bullet 3 and the slide will look less cluttered. It's the smart move. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. The smart move. I knew I wasn't the only person to sense Sanford's passive-aggressive undertone. My eyes flicked back to Johnson, taking in his cold, stony stare. Let it go, just let it go. But while Johnson was capable of many things,

letting it go was apparently not one of them. Wait a minute, I'm sorry. Do you mean to imply that realigning your cost structure and right-sizing your capital structure are somehow equivalent? Would you care to explain? how you came to that conclusion? Too aggressive. He could have gotten away with a little snark,

but that last sentence, that last sentence set the entire room on the path to escalation. I watched Sanford's eye twitch, his jaw open, and promptly tried to focus on anything other than the argument boiling at the front of the room. That's about the moment I noticed Peterson staring at me. He was sitting directly across from me,

and instead of angling his body to the front of the room, As the rest of us were doing, he'd shifted to stare at me straight on. I looked back at him, bewildered. There was something strange about him that day. He looked the same as usual, sure, sandy blonde hair, black suit, no tie, hands folded in front of him on the table. But he was, no, not staring, actually glaring right at me. What? I mouthed with an exaggerated quirk of my eyebrow. He didn't respond.

He didn't move at all. Kate? My attention was called to the front of the room. Now Johnson and Sanford were staring at me, along with everyone else. Did you hear what I said? Johnson somehow managed to look unimpressed and skeevy at the same time. I could feel my face turning red as I cleared my throat. No, I'm sorry. I didn't catch that.

His mouth twisted a little. Please, try to pay attention. There was a chuckle somewhere behind me. I nodded in the argument up front, continued. What if we reword bullet three and take the mention of capital structure out of bullet seven? I'm not confident we could do that and preserve the original meaning of both bullets. Bitch. My head whipped back to Peterson.

It was his voice, I was sure of it, the way he lingered on his vowels. He was still staring at me. I glanced around the room. Nobody else had heard him say it. Perturbed, I kept my eyes on the front. Maybe if I ignored him, he'd eventually stop. The argument raged on. We were still on slide six.

We had 46 more to go. Or was it 48? Did we end up adding the two case studies or did we leave them out? I leaned forward to catch Merrill's attention. She glanced back at me, a little annoyed, as though she'd been entirely engrossed in the endless bickering. How many slides did we settle on? She rolled her eyes.

Six thousand. I paused, my brow furrowing. What? I said 53. Would you pay attention, please? I rolled my eyes right back at her and settled down in my chair. But this time, as I looked at the back of her head, something caught my eye. It took a moment for me to discern what it was, so much so that I thought maybe I'd imagined it.

But no. There. Her collar. She was wearing a slate gray shirt, which almost, but not quite, concealed the blood stain that was spreading on the cloth. I leaned forward and saw through her thick, dark hair, blood pouring down from the crown of her head. Holy shit. Apparently, I was louder than I thought. Something you want to share with the class, Kate?

Merrill's bleeding. Now everyone turned to stare at me once again, including Merrill, who was looking at me like I'd grown a second head. Look at the back of her head. She's got blood running down to her shirt. Meryl, you need to see a doctor. I'm not bleeding. Her voice was flat, devoid of the inflection I normally associated with her. It matched her eyes the way they stared blankly at me, unblinking.

Jesus, how do you not feel that? I reached to the back of her neck, dragged my fingers through the hot liquid. She swatted me away. Are you kidding? Do not touch me. Still, she didn't blink. I held up my blood-covered fingers. See? We need to call an ambulance. Someone get a towel or something? We should apply pressure to the wound. Are you done?

I looked around the room at everyone's faces, all shades of annoyance and apathy. Am I... What the hell kind of question is that? No, I am not done. What is wrong with you people? Beverly, do you feel that you need to go to the hospital? Sanford rode over me, staring at Merrill. An eyebrow raised. I watched her shake her head in front of me. No, I'm fine. Let's continue.

She turned back around to glare at me and I shrank in my seat. The conversation droned on again at the front. All the fight drained out. At some point, they'd settled on keeping bullet three, but now they were discussing the merits of the second heading. I tried to concentrate, but I couldn't stay focused. Peterson's behavior, the blood on Merrill's shirt, Something was wrong.

And no matter how hard I tried to ignore it, I couldn't. I think we need to include a definition for digital transformation here. I disagree. Our audience will know what that means. They'll think it's insulting if we have to spell it out for them. Wait, why were they talking about digital transformation? I stared hard at the slide, but I couldn't seem to get a grip on what it was talking about. Cost optimization here, private equity there, digital transformation, single audit, risk mitigation assessment.

none of these things made sense to me. And then there was the audience. Who were we giving this presentation to exactly? A group of investors? The C-suite? Or were we the executives? Wait, who were we? I looked around the table with new eyes. Peterson, Johnson, Sanford, Merrill, Thompson, Smith, Cleaver. I knew their names. I knew their faces, but no, I didn't know them at all. to remember when we'd met. Merrill, Beverly Merrill, didn't I meet her when I interviewed? Here at, where, where were we? What company were we working for? No, no, no. I shot out of my chair and adrenaline surge shocking my heart as I stepped away from the conference table of strangers. What's going on? What the fuck is happening here? This time nobody looked at me. Nobody paid me

attention at all. Johnson was still talking at the front. Interoperability is going to be a key issue here. If the legacy technology doesn't... What the fuck is happening? I could feel the sweat trickling down my temples in a sick, nauseated feeling pounding in my gut. I backed away until I hit the window. I looked down, but I couldn't see anything below us, no street, no clouds, not even darkness, just emptiness. No, I'm leaving. Fuck this and fuck all of you. I was trembling now. Trying to. hard to slow my heart rate as Johnson glanced over at me and rolled his eyes. You can leave any time you want. Don't let the door hit you on the way out. I was carefully ignored as I strode towards the exit, just barely restraining myself from a

full-on sprint. It wasn't there. The smooth white wall was entirely unbroken. Where is it? Where's the door? I started running at a full tilt around the room. The door was gone. Now so too were the windows. We were sealed inside a white box. The fluorescent lighting got brighter and brighter as I stared wildly around the room until it was physically painful to keep my eyes open. I crouched down and shoved my hands over my face. I tried to be anywhere else tried to will myself into a different reality, but I was in this reality, and here, there was no escape. Sanford's voice, slightly distorted by a strange gurgle as though he were drowning in his own blood, filtered into my left ear. as I sobbed.

Let's go back a moment. I think we need to return to our previous discussion. I screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed. And then... It's time to kill Bullet 3. The fluorescence burned my eyes when I cracked them open, so I shut them quickly and groaned. Ms. Reynolds?

Are you awake? I wondered for a moment who Miss Reynolds was before remembering. That was me, and my first name was Stephanie and, I was lying down and most certainly not wearing a suit, and there was still an annoying chirping noise, but no, no, it's beeping. It's like a heart monitor. Is that a heart monitor?

Trying to speak made my throatache. It was so dry. I cracked my eyes open and let them adjust slowly to the light in the hospital room. A nurse stood at my side, his reassuring smile, belying the clear concern in his eyes. Just hang tight, Miss Reynolds. I'm going to go get the doctor, okay? Doctor?

What? Why? I looked down at myself for the first time. Thick bandages covered my torso. I tried to remember what happened to understand why they'd be there, but whatever it was, it lurked under the surface. If I just thought hard enough caught the right train of thought, I was sure I'd remember, but... Ah, Miss Reynolds, it's good to see you awake. How are you feeling?

blinked in shock. Merrill was standing right in front of me. Her box braids pulled away from her face, her smile so pleasant I almost wasn't sure it was her at first. But it was. You, I don't, what happened? The nurse was adjusting my IV, only he wasn't just a nurse. He was Johnson. I didn't recognize him at first because his hair wasn't slicked back, but now that I knew what to look for, I could tell it was him. It's perfectly normal to to feel confused. Tell me, what's the last thing you remember? The last thing I remembered was the lights. They were so bright, and I was screaming, but there weren't any doors or windows. Her brow furrowed as she listened to me. She glanced at Johnson before returning to

meet my gaze. Ms. Reynolds, you were a victim of a random street attack. On the corner of 40th in May, Do you remember anything about that? I tried to make my brain go somewhere else anywhere but that sterile white room with its projector and presentation in stifling air. No, I'm sorry, I don't remember. She smiled again. She was smiling an awful lot, especially for what she said next. That's all right.

You were stabbed 14 times, Miss Reynolds, before pastur-byes were able to pull him off of you. Things were pretty touch and go for a while there. But you're strong and you pulled through. You're going to be okay. My brain snagged on something she said. Touch and go? What does that mean?

The doctor hesitated for a moment. Your heart stopped during surgery. Fortunately, we were able to bring you back and get you stabilized. I started to feel lightheaded as her words fuzzed out and static filled my ears. My eyes darted around the room, taking everything in, trying to come to terms with what had happened, what really happened. My eyes caught on the TV. I hadn't noticed it before because the sound was muted, but it wasn't possible to miss, especially as I saw Sanford's face staring at me from a news program.

Who is that? The doctor's eyes followed my line of sight until she saw the TV. There was a brief heated conversation with the nurse who shut the program off as fast as humanly possible. That's him that was... Yes, that is the man who attacked you. I'm sorry you had to see that. We didn't... What happened to him? Where is he now?

Did the police catch him? The doctor appeared at a loss for words. Finally, she spoke. He's dead. He slit his throat before the police arrived. And that, as they say, is that. My recovery in the hospital was briefer than I had expected, partly because my body healed faster than anticipated and partly because my health insurance made a longer stay cost prohibitive.

By the time I was released, I was certain of who I was. My name is Stephanie Reynolds. I'm a 24-year-old barista at a coffee shop working my way through a psychology degree. I've never worked in a corporate office, much less put together a business proposal. The man who attacked me has yet to be identified. His fingerprints aren't in any known database. nobody has come forward with so much as a name. The police assure me they'll find out who he is, but I've told them it doesn't really matter.

I have a name for him, and that's enough for me. I also learned that the doctor's name is Dr. Monica Small. The nurse is Stephen Finch. They were both extraordinarily kind to me over the course of my recovery. Eventually, I was able to separate them from the nightmare versions of themselves in my dream. Was it a dream? Since my recovery, I've been repeatedly returning to what I saw, what I experienced. Rather than fading over time, the images have become more real, more visceral.

If I close my eyes, I find myself back there, stuck in that room of strangers who aren't strangers, screaming for someone to let me out. I've done some research, and now I think I know what happened. I think I know the truth. Jean-Pasadre once famously said that hell is other people. but I don't think he got it quite right. Hell is a boardroom meeting, and you'd better pray to God they don't kill Bullet 3.

It only takes a second to change your life, a sudden win of the lottery, a long-dormant aneurysm suddenly rupturing, the words, I do, or a sudden swerve away from oncoming headlights. And in this tale, shared with us by author Michael J. Nicholson, The second to swerve leads to hours of undiscovered agony.

Performing this tale are David Alt and Andy Cresswell. So try to be positive. Maybe it's a blessing. You've got time to yourself to reflect and reassess and reconsider who you are. You've got room to grow. The flash of oncoming headlights. A prolonged squeal of rubber on tarmac. A sudden weightless sensation as the.

car leaves the road, giving a fraction of a second to think, I'm going to die. The sound of metal folding in on itself, pain, darkness. My eyes flicker open. The light hurts my brain, so I squint, trying to determine if it is morning or afternoon, but I don't know which way is north. I have no idea how long I've been lying here. My car is on its side about 30 meters away on the far side of what looks to be a crater. I must have been thrown clear when it hit the ground. I wonder if I went through the windscreen and tried to sit up to check for injuries.

Pain shoots throughout my whole body and the darkness closes in again. This time I dream, or at least something like it. Images of Judy flashed through my head, Judy sitting with the tattie old yellow and gold throw cushion she refuses to get rid of, wondering where I am. Judy angry at me for wasting money buying her roses, Judy and I making love in the tent in the rain. These are interspers with jagged flashes of the accident frozen in time.

I see the moment the car left the road in perfect clarity. I can even make out the look of panic on the other driver's face. I am cold. Well, my dreams are. I think I've come to again. The ground under my back is cold, hard and uncomfortable. remembering the last time I tried to move, I make do with opening my eyes carefully. The stars are out and the moon is almost full. Does this mean I've been lying here for a full 24 hours?

Why has nobody come to look for me? The car is where I remember it, but the door is hanging off, and I see the impact has forced the engine back about three feet into the passenger seat. There is no way I am driving out of here. The crater is covered with light green ivy, or at least some kind of creeper. I don't recognize it at any rate. I wiggle my fingers. They work. I turn my head slightly to one side. There is some pain, but nothing excruciating. I try to lift my left arm, and it responds, not without complaint, but it seems I can move it. I try the same with my right arm, but it's stuck in something. The creeper. I pull at the plant in a feeble effort to free myself, but I simply don't have the strength.

I move my hands slowly across my torso up to my face, feeling torn clothes and slivers of what I assumed to be glass stuck in my flesh. It seems my first guess about going through the windscreen was on the mark. Since I appear to be in one piece, I risk lifting my head to get a better look around. That's when I see the large piece of jagged bones sticking through the right thigh of my jeans. I jerk reflexively in fright, causing a wave of pain to wash up across my body. The pain brings with it the darkness.

When I wake next, it's still dark. Or have I missed a full day? The moon is low in the sky, but I have no way of knowing how long I was out. I am still cold, but my right leg feels warm. It is meant to be a cry to anybody passing on the road, but it comes out as a hoarse croak, barely audible even to my own ears. Gently I roll my head to the right to try and see my leg. It must have moved while unconscious,

because my right leg is now tangled up in the creeper that covers the rest of the crater, so much so that I can see only the white splintered tip of bone poking through the leaves. My voice is still not functioning. I need to drink. How long do they say it's possible to survive without water? Three days? How much longer do I have left? Judy must be frantic with worry by now.

The other driver obviously drove off without reporting the accident. This should make me angry, but all I can think about is how I am going to die alone. Pain explodes in my leg and I let out a hoarse scream that only serves to damage my parched throat. I tilt my head around again to get another look at it. All that is visible now is the creeper. It is as if I have been lying here for weeks and the... the plant life is gradually covering my body. Pain again different this time slower, like an injection at the dentist. I feel movement. Something is sending out exploratory tendrils.

Something inside my leg. One heads down my thigh working its way around muscle and tendon. I feel it probing my knee before spiraling around my calf and down towards my ankle. A second works its way around the back of my arm. leg. The sensation is not unpleasant now. It feels as though something is tracing patterns inside my leg with a ballpoint pen. Then it stops. I am powerless. There is nothing I can do other than lie there wondering what will happen next. I don't have long to wait. The exploration seems to be over, at least for the moment. There is still movement, though it is more focused now. Then I realize what happening. They are tightening, pulling together. The pain that had begun to fade into the

background comes back with a vengeance as the broken pieces of femur are dragged agonizingly slowly back into place. About halfway through the operation, I thankfully pass out again. When I come to, I discover that my leg has been straightened and the bone is no longer sticking out. I can feel no movement of the plant in my leg right now. Instead, it is slowly spreading across my torso, slowly this time, as though there is no longer any rush. I no longer feel any pain. I have given up trying to work out how long I've been lying here, but I've stopped feeling thirsty, or hungry for that matter. My throat is dry and cracked, and I cannot talk, let alone shout for help, yet somehow my body is being hydrated and nourished. I can only as soon as you. I can only a

June it is the plant. The creeper that was covering my leg has disappeared, but the plant has grown tightly around my wrists and ankles, holding me prisoner in a star formation. I can move my head and look around me, but nothing more. Raising my head a little, I can see where the invader has entered the wound on my leg, but other than this, there is no evidence of what is happening inside me. A thought occurs to me, what will happen when the creeper reaches my heart? It's It's too late to worry about this now, and part of me wonders when the panic will set in. For the rest of the day, I am held in place by the vine unable to move. Every so often I test my bonds, but they hold firm.

I've given up calling for help few cars use that road and no pedestrians. Besides, my voice hasn't recovered, and all shouting achieves is pain in my throat. In the end, I resign myself to the fact that I am being held prisoner by a plant. I lie there and think of Judy. She is my only hope after all, and perhaps she has search parties out hunting for me, though she hadn't known my route. As night descends and the stars begin pricking the heavens,

I drift off to sleep. This time I dream of alien landscapes, two moons in the sky at night, and an unfamiliar pattern of stars. The landscape is verdant, lush with plants and grasses, and I curl my bare toes into the damp earth. It feels good.

I push them further in, extending my toes down deep into the earth, seeking out nutrients. I wake with a start. The sun is already halfway to its zenith, and it must be around ten in the morning. My dream is fading, and I am left with a tingling in my toes and a strange sense of belonging. My fingers itch. Without thinking about it, I lift my left arm to inspect my fingers. it is only after a moment's introspection that I realize I am no longer held down by the creeper. I test my right arm, then my legs.

I am free. Tentatively I sit up, my senses on high alert for any sign of pain. Nothing. As I raise my torso and pull my knees up slightly to gain balance, the vine falls away. I pull at the remaining shoots that are tangled in my clothes and around my limbs. They fall away without resistance. With a moment's careful maneuvering, I am on my feet again for the first time in... How many days has it been? I have no idea. The right leg of my jeans is caked with dried blood and dirt, but the leg seems sound when I put some weight on it.

I climb the embankment up to the road. There was no guardrail on the corner, and so no sign from here that there has been an accident. I have no plan other than to start walking in the direction of home, the direction of Judy. After spending so long lying in the middle of nowhere, my perception of time is skewed, but it seems like maybe an hour or so passes before a truck approaches from behind. I turn to watch as it slows, passes me, and pulls over to the side of the road. I walk up to the passenger door. You off the ride, buddy? He is an unshaven, untidy man dressed in jeans and a t-shirt that does little to conceal his gut,

but he doesn't look like a serial killer, and I really don't. really want to get home. Please. Jump in. I can take you about 40 miles down the road, but that's the end of the line for my delivery. That do you? That'd be great.

I croak out the first two words before seeming to find my voice. It hurts my throat still, but it does seem like I can talk again. As I sink into the passenger seat, I realize just how tired I am. I might well have taken a lift from a murderer if it got me just a mile further down the road. The driver makes no move to restart the engine.

Pete, sorry. I study the driver and notice he is doing the same to me. I suddenly realise that I must look a right state and wonder if he is regretting picking me up. Names Pete. And you are? I have to think a moment. Julian, my friends call me Jules.

Pete nods towards my leg. You need a doctor, Jules. Looks like you've had a bit of an accident. I'll be okay. It's only as I say this to soothe my ride that I realize it's true. I will be okay. I had a bit of an accident back there. I just need to get home, see my wife and call the insurance company.

Pete's shoulders relax a little. My story is normal enough to reassure him, even if my appearance is a little scary. At the touch of a button, the engine roars into life and he pulls the truck back onto the road. I could do with a drink if you have anything. Pete looks abashed as though he's ashamed of playing the poor host. Sorry, don't know what I was thinking. There's a couple of cans of coke in the glove compartment. I open it up and pull out a can.

I don't really like Coke, but right now I'd probably drink seawater. The liquid feels great on my throat, and I feel the sugar rushing through my system. It feels good. Very good. In fact, it feels good in places that a soft drink. drinks shouldn't reach. My whole body is suffused with energy as the coat courses across my torso and down my arms and legs. I feel I could take on the world. I feel alive. The change obviously isn't just in my head. Pete notices. That seems to have helped. Take the other can if you like.

No. No, it's fine. One's enough for now. It's true. I don't need more fluid for the moment. what I need is to spread, to grow. There is only one way to do this in the current environment. Do you think you could pull over for a moment? Call of Nature. Pete smiles. Sure. When the truck stops, Pete jumps at the touch of my hand on his shoulder and looks a little nervous.

It doesn't last long. Within seconds, it has turned to fear as the green shoots extend from my fingertips, slithering across his face and into his mouth and nostrils. He gags a little, then stiffens. I sit there a minute or two, feeling my roots explore his body. They wrap themselves around his nerves, spread down his limbs and his spine, shoot tiny tendrils up into the brain. Everything about Pete is open to me now.

Where he lives, what he ate for breakfast, who his first love was, everything he has ever done or read. His life has been empty. It will be better now. I pull my hand away, snapping the connection between us. My first child is born. This will be a good planet to call home. It takes a while for Pete to wake.

When he does, his forehead furrows, and he opens his mouth to speak before a look of calm descends across his features, and he smiles at me. Where, too? I think you should go and visit your sister. It's been too long. But first, I'd like to get home to my mother. my wife. I tell him my address. Judy will be with me soon. It's no accident that we're taking a short break from the horror. How does that sound? That sounds almost as good as my new earbuds. Cool. What kind

did you get? I got some Raycon everyday earbuds, of course. I've heard you talk about them before. What a great choice. I love how Raycon sound and how gosh darn affordable they are. Thanks for recommending them. They're like a gift to my ears. Speaking of gifts, it's never too. early to start gift shopping for the holidays, especially because today you can save big on a gift they'll use every day, those great Raycon wireless earbuds. I love the seamless Bluetooth pairing and their comfortable noise-isolating fit. You can start listening right away and keep listening for hours. I use my Raycon everyday earbuds when I go for my walks. The audio quality is amazing. Comparable to what you get from other premium brands, except Raycon starts at half the price.

And they come with three new sound profiles to make everything you're listening to sound its best. Whether you listen to rock, metal, hip-hop, EDM, or podcasts. Silly, everyone listens to podcasts. Unlike some pricier earbuds, Raycon offers eight hours of playtime and a 32-hour battery life. There's also a built-in mic, and you can take calls on your earbuds at the press of a button. So this holiday season, get them something they can use for calls or music, for work or play. At home or on the go. Or pick up a pair for yourself.

Trust me, you're going to use them every day. Remind everyone how they can get a great deal on Racon everyday earbuds. Go to buy raycon.com slash no sleep today to unlock exclusive deals up to 20% off your Racon order. But hurry, this offer is available for a limited time only, and you don't want to miss it. That's buyracon.com slash no sleep to unlock up to 20% off your Racon's. by raycon.com slash no sleep. That sounds great. Almost as good as my Raycons.

Now, I think we have some visitors. Let's help them get us back to the horror. I've never been a fan of friends dropping by unexpectedly. You know, those folks who just show up out of the blue, those I was just in the neighborhood, people. I like my company to be announced, thank you? But in this tale, shared with us by author Andrew Kossi, We find ourselves faced with guests who are not only unannounced, but also entirely unknown.

Performing this tale are Mick Wingert, Kristen DiMecurio, and Sarah Thomas. But don't worry when a stranger calls. It's happening to everyone these days. They've become a part of everyday life, the night visitors. When the last blanche of light faded into the shadows, there they were. The doors locked, the front gate tightly shut. It didn't matter what you did to keep them out. They never were.

One night I couldn't sleep again and shuffled into the kitchen for water. From the corner of my eye, I noticed an old man chewing a cigar at my kitchen table. The wet end of the cigar smacked against his lips like a lollipop. That was the first night visitor I'd seen, though I'd been hearing about them for months. I told myself, if some person randomly showed up in my house, I'd confront him right. away, yell and scream, pick up a chair to use as a club, throw every knife in the drawer at his face. Whenever I heard a night visitor had been spotted in my neighborhood, I'd keep watch at the window. I'd never let them in, of course. How could you see a thing like that coming and just do nothing?

But when I finally saw one, it wasn't like that at all. He sat at my table like he belonged there. The light wasn't on. And though a stranger sitting in my kitchen in the dark should have been creepy and strange, it fit him. A darkness in the greater darkness. His hands were clasped before him on the table, but awkwardly because he was missing two fingers on his right hand. He never even looked up at me, despite all the noise I was making. I almost asked him if he was okay, as though we were old friends who'd run into each other at the grocery store. In the dark, he looked hanged.

dog and hag ridden. His eye socket so bruised with the lack of sleep, I couldn't see his eyes at all. I wish I had asked him then, because I never saw him again. I had a visitor. I told Lana when she picked up the phone. We'd been broken up for months, but some of my stuff was still at her place, which meant she always took my calls. I thought we agreed not to discuss our sex lives. No, come on, I'd never. But I would. And I had. I'm sorry. Lona ignored my apology. I couldn't blame her. It was half of what spilled from my mouth every time we talked,

as constant and meaningless as junk mail. I changed the lock, just so you're not surprised. I'd been expecting it. I was still surprised, but I wasn't going to let her know that. Instead, I was direct to the point. I mean, I had a night visitor. She didn't say anything at first,

but the tone of the call changed. It was as if the emptiness, which was her lack of voice, meant not just that she wasn't speaking, but that she wasn't there. She was there, but also not there. Like a wall of glass had suddenly risen up between us. And we could see each other, but we couldn't touch. Not anymore. And when she finally spoke, her voice had the tinny, stilted quality of a recording.

They won't hurt you. It was an accusation rather than something meant to comfort. I wanted to say I wouldn't hurt her either, but I don't. I would. And it had. During the day, everything was normal, or it was the normal I had come to accept. If Houston looked emptier, that was my imagination. The sidewalks had always been shed snake skins. I walked them and the people I passed didn't look up. Why would they? Summer in Houston was always oppressive, but now it was just as if the city itself were sick. The weather careened from heat that tried to melt your shoes and chilly days, which promised a rain that never came,

all without reason or warning. Some evenings, I'd step out for the last moments of daylight and see the staticy fog of a snow flurry bearing down on me, but it never hit the ground. I tried to expect the night visitors. When I brushed my teeth, I watched the mirror for the shadow in the shower behind me. I wore slippers so I'd hear the echo of someone else's footsteps. Like when you're driving to work on a snowy gray morning and you realize, just a split second before it happens, far too late to stop it, far too late to do anything

useful at all, that you're about to skid into the guardrail, and so you try to brace yourself because you want to survive. The wreck is inevitable, the pain is inevitable, but your body tries to survive even when your heart isn't in it. That's just the way it is. Your heart could let your body know when survival isn't worth it, but your heart is stupid and slow, and usually doesn't get around to voicing its opinion until the wreck is all over. I had no idea what the night visitors wanted, but I braced myself anyway, just as I hugged my cat to my chest during a rainstorm to brace her against the thunder I knew was coming, but she didn't. But even though I expected them, I was always startled. A woman slowly making instant coffee, sadness in the arc of the water

from the kettle to the cup. Two men sitting in the chairs on the back lawn facing each other, not speaking, just staring. Every night visitor froze me in the middle of whatever I was doing. Every thought vanished from my mind. Instead, I saw them and only them as though they were a memory I couldn't help reliving. They never spoke. They never told me what they wanted. They never told anybody what they wanted. But I noticed that with time, everyone else seemed to get used to their night visitors. They became quirky bits of house. household folklore, almost a status symbol. They became normal. Up so late that I wasn't watching TV so much as letting its light scrub my face. I saw a cable news segment about making your night

visitor a part of the family. Oh, don't mind him, an elegant middle-aged blonde told the camera as it panned across her unlit den and the motionless figure on the couch. He won't bite. Other people seemed charmed by their night visitors. So why wasn't I? I woke. I woke from a nightmare each time a night visitor appeared, except the nightmare was ongoing. I was terrified. I was fear and only fear, and I had no idea what I was scared of. I tried to explain that fear to other people, just to get those feelings outside of my skull. They're not real. I know that. Just it's impossible not to see them as real. I want them to be cardboard cutouts, you know, one-dimensional, easily tipped over something I could stuff into the trash can or the fireplace.

Sir, have you tried restarting the modem? I was on the phone with Harriet, my friendly Time Warner Tech Support Associate, tech support being the only number I could call at this hour and get an answer. Though I hadn't had any night visitors for three days, I could not stop thinking about them. I'd wanted them gone for so long, but now I was haunted by their absence. But they aren't cardboard cutouts at all. all. I continued, my tone perfectly and utterly sane. They're like relatives I've never met, only seen pictures of, and no matter how I want to, I can't be rude to them. It's possible your

modem just needs to be reset, sir. I took a breath to admit my modem wasn't the problem, and at the same time she inhaled sharply and went silent. Just like with Lana, Harriet had seen something I hadn't. I was sure of it. Do you see one? now? Is there a night visitor there with you? Resetting the system now, sir. I expected her to hang up, but she didn't. Her shallow breaths kept coming. I imagined her eyes focused on a night visitor in her office building,

occupying a cubicle that should be empty, or standing at the water cooler, eyes staring vacantly back at her, through her, as though she wasn't there and never had been. And while there came then no sound behind me, No brush of moving air. I was suddenly convinced a night visitor was with me too

in the doorway to the kitchen behind me. I was facing the fridge. Its surface covered with pictures of Lana and I together at friends' parties at the county fair on a boat in the Caribbean. And none of those pictures were we touching. But I couldn't remember whether they'd always been that way. Had one of my night visitors changed them? Was there someone behind me?

And had that person modified the images on the fridge? Or was it my own memory that was trying to trick me? I don't know what to believe, but whose fault was that? I didn't want to let whoever was there know I knew they were watching me. The phone dug into my ear and my arm cramped, but I didn't move. Harriet still breathed on the other end of the line. I considered asking her for something, anything. Stillness smothered me like a heavy quilt.

The longer I stood there, the more my kitchen felt alien to me. The pictures I'd taken from the old place, and had nearly memorized I couldn't recognize myself in them anymore. Why had I even put them back up? Why had I covered my new fridge with pictures of my old girlfriend as if she lived here too, as if we were still together? I knew I was there in the picture next to Lana. I could remember being on the boat, on the Ferris wheel,

in those torch-lit backyards. But that wasn't me in the pictures. And that wasn't Lana either. But some other woman with darker hair and a sharper chin. eyes the color of rain-soaked grass. I know you're there. Why was it so hard to speak? I know what you want.

I didn't, but I found it better to have the upper hand in relationships. The woman behind me, because I was sure it was a woman now, didn't say a thing. Unlike Harriet's breathing in my ear regular as my own pulse, the night visitor might as well have been a ghost. And her silence infuriated me. All the fear I'd felt which kept me frozen in place like a little kid hiding in his bed from the closet monster, it heated, slowly, into rage. You can't have it! I swung around using my phone as a club, aiming for where I knew her head would be.

My visitors were intruders, and I had the right, God damn it. My phone hit the wall, the unbreakable gorilla glass shattering. Pain shot through my thumb and fingers. The wall was spotted with blood. No one was there. In my ear, I could still hear Harriet's breathing. The next day was a phantom. A dusty veil stored in the attic for too long.

I walked through the motions of my job speaking to no one and no one's speaking to me. And the next day and the next. Every word was written down or emailed now. The world had the cold silence of a walk-in freezer. The bandage on my hand bled through by the end of every day, no matter how well I cleaned and treated the wound. I didn't replace my phone. At night, my senses burned.

I could hear every creek of the house as it settled. I could smell mold in the attic just starting to spore. The air tasted like some exotic spice, like cinnamon or cloves, something delectable that made you sick if you took too much. The night visitors came back every night now, but I would see only a foot as one turned a corner. I'd find milk-crusted glasses littering the kitchen table.

Leftovers in the microwave just warmed and abandoned. Here, but not here. I began to write down each piece of evidence, each foot glimpsed turning a corner, as though observing was the same as knowing. And I tried to call out to whoever had left that evidence. Each encounter with the detritus left by one of my night visitors felt like the tired culmination of years spent in each other's company,

where we no longer recognized each other, where we were strangers. Yet unlike strangers, we had nothing to say to one another because everything had, oh, so long ago, already been said. It was as though I'd known them too long, even though I didn't know any of them at all. And so I wasn't prepared on the evening I'd planned to burn the house down, walking to the door with a gas can in hand,

to find my kitchen crowded with night visitors. They followed me with their eyes as I stepped into the room, and set the can on the floor beside me. I knew this, even though I couldn't see their eyes. They were watching me. I could feel it. I flipped the switch on the wall, and the kitchen flooded with light, but my visitors didn't move.

They didn't scatter like roaches, but seemed somehow to settle even more firmly into their positions, as if the light had fixed them in place. And when I walked to the table where the light was brightest overhead, I saw they didn't have eyes. but deep pits rimmed with torn flesh. They breathed in anticipation. My visitors had left a seat open for me, and I took it,

sitting next to a woman with muscular arms. Her fingernails were long and lacquered in a polish that looked like dried blood. Of course, I didn't have to sit there. I didn't have to keep sitting there. I didn't have to let her raise her hands to my face and rest her fingernails against my tear ducts. But it's always better to take the lead, even if you end up going in the wrong direction. Because how do you scream for help when you can't even speak?

How do you keep from spinning into a guardrail and having your car pierced through and through when the guardrail is actually you? I'm ready. I gritted my teeth. Ready for wherever this would take me. Anywhere, it had to be better than here. As the fires wane and embers glow, Our stories cease as shadows grow. The night is long and darkness deep. Remain with us.

Embrace no sleep. The No Sleep podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager, is Olivia White. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. 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 past program. 25 episodes, each over

two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only $25. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening and for being under our spell. This audio production is copyright 2021 and 2022 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, A.