The NoSleep Podcast - S17 Ep9: NoSleep Podcast S17E09

Episode Date: January 30, 2022

It’s Episode 09 of Season 17. Our spells go deep into family issues.“Mama’s Boy” written by Mark Towse (Story starts around 00:05:00)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Frank – Jesse Cornett, Guard – David Cummings, Heckler #1 – Elie Hirschman, Heckler #2 – Mike DelGaudio, Heckler #3 – Nichole Goodnight, Heckler #4 – Danielle McRae“I Am the Other One” written by Rob Costello (Story starts around 00:22:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Dan Zappulla, You – Jeff Clement“The Well” written by LP Hernandez (Story starts around 00:59:15)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Robert – Atticus Jackson, Mama – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Daddy – Mick Wingert, Pastor – Mike DelGaudio, Man – David Cummings“Old Mill Bridge” written by James Prower (Story starts around 01:25:15)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – David Cummings“Onward Christian Soldiers” written by Jon Vassa (Story starts around 01:42:25)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Christopher – Graham Rowat, Grandma Mabel – Erin Lillis, Purple – Mary Murphy, Pink – Nikolle Doolin, Nightmare Jesus – Mick WingertThis episode is sponsored by:Upstart – Upstart believes people are more than their credit score. We take a holistic view of an applicant, rather than write them off because of their credit score. We want to empower people to take control of their debt and financial future. Get started by going to Upstart.com/nosleepZocDoc – Zocdoc is a free app that shows you doctors who are patient-reviewed, take your insurance, and are available when you need them. Go to Zocdoc.com/nosleep and download the Zocdoc app for free. Then start your search for a top-rated doctor today.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Rob CostelloClick here to learn more about James ProwerExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Mama’s Boy” illustration courtesy of MiggeaAudio program ©2022 – 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

A new episode of the No Sleep Podcast, coming right up. Wow, so much horror content every week. I don't know how you do it. Well, thank you, kind stranger, who is in no way associated with the podcast. You're welcome. I mean, think about it. You always have spooky tales to keep us up at night. A weekly cycle that never seems to end.

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It's time for us to start the show. In 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. Much has happened in the past week. Many wild incidents, strange occurrences, and dangerous near misses.

Some of these events could be world-changing. Unfortunately, we're under an NDA about all of these different events and can't tell you about any of them right now, but trust us when we say, wow. You're going to spend the next few months feeling sleepless. And with that being said, let's kick off the fear. In our first tale, we join a dead man walking.

Frank is a serial killer, being chaperone to his execution as the crowd jeers and curses. He reflects on the events that led him to this point in life. And in this tale, shared with us by author Mark Tows, We're reminded that the evil that men do can sometimes only be half the story. Performing this tale are Jesse Cornett, Ellie Hirschman, Mike Delgado, Nicole Goodnight, and Danielle McCray. So let's hang around with Frank and find out what made him this way. He never used to be like this. In fact, he was something of a mama's boy.

Guilty is all hell. Move it. Two warders on the either side, and two more behind for good measure. The grip on my arm unnecessarily tight, as they lead me towards the horde. This ain't no confession, trying to get on your good side or anything like that. But I want you to know, I'm glad they finally caught me. I mean that, too. Countless, Ferd.

Couldn't give you a number. Not even thereabouts. Mama. And over the sea of heads, I spy the wooden frame in the distance. The rope, now too, swaying in the breeze. Next to the rounded shoulders of the hangman. My legs buckle. But momentum keeps me going.

feels like my heart is working too hard for its own good burn slowly down there fucker please hang you dumb fuck at church every sunday i was i don't have too many friends see got bullied an awful lot for being a bit slow and different mama's boy

i hope you choke for days I was just looking for someone to listen A bit of company other than Mama And when the voices started I thought it was him Waste of skin and bones We talked for hours And he listened

And even though it was all inside my head I didn't feel so lonely anymore All those children You're a fucking monster I let him in. Mama was so pleased. She knows I've been through a rough time and was so happy that I was talking to God. She told all her friends and other folks too.

Fucking devil himself! Over time, the voices began to change, though, saying things about people. said they talked behind my back, making fun a dumb old Frank and his imaginary friend. Didn't want to believe, but why would God lie? Dumb old Frank started saying things about Mama too, that she wished she'd let me bleed out that time she found me in the barn with a knife in my wrist. I was an embarrassment, a failed act of blasphemy that she had to carry around with her for all to see.

Told me I was a burden to all, and that he was my only friend. Death's too good for you. It got to be as soon as my eyes closed. The voices would start, and they wouldn't let me rest. I didn't know what was real anymore, but I'd already begun to suspect it wasn't the good lord in my ear. Fucking rat, filth! They started to drive me insane. It wouldn't let me be in the end.

Even after the sun came up, it grinds on you, takes you to the... the very edge until you kill for it to stop. Just babies they were. I can still see Mama's face. Her eyes wide and confused as I recited the Lord's prayer through to her very last breath. So sorry, Mama. It looks like the entire town is here for blood. Elbowing for the best spot in front of the gallows.

Cackling and heckling. Vendors having a field day. Lying must be 20 deep at least. People handing over hard-earned money for food and drink. Likely not even to find its way into their mouths hungry for something else. This lot, less than 40. yards to go. It's in the air. The smell of death. That is, it's as though the crowd is disturbing bad dust, tainted earth that has seen more than its fair share of evil and misery,

the opposite of hallowed ground, if you like. No, Mama. Oh, Mama. Less than 20 yards now. Between me and the steps, the crowd's getting louder. Restless. Voices stopped when I went down as if they were never there. Made me question myself for sure. But at least I started to feel some way to normal again. Well, as close as one can with so many sins resting on their shoulders. I even started rereading the Bible.

I'm a slow reader, but I had time. Prayed for salvation every night and twice yesterday because the voice came back. Something flies by my left ear, but a tomato strikes a direct hit, leaving a sting on my cheek and a string of pale red down the burlap suit they dressed me in. Other things hit on my back, chest, the side of my head. They all hurt regardless of the level of pain. I hope you feel their agony. He told me he was coming for me.

Nothing from the good lord, but I have to hope. Something splashes across my neck, catches one of the warders. too. I'm at the steps, looking up at the man that will send me to hell. Mama, I'm so scared. Mama, get up there. There ain't no coming back. The top of those stairs is the end of my story.

Ain't no coming back. I just wanted to set the record straight. I'm not a monster. Yes, I did those bad things, and those children, those poor children. Too late for tears, you dumb fuck! But he made me do it. He tricked me. Then he got in and he spread through my mind like mold.

Halfway up and silence falls across the crowd. Not a drop of saliva in my mind. blood, pounds in my ears, and my legs feel like lead waits. Three more steps to go. Bite down hard on my lip, just like Mama told me to. Don't let them bullies think they're getting to you. Final step. Lord, I beg for mercy.

My right leg gives away, but the water is quick and drags me back up. This is it, the end. They drag me towards the noose and full view of the crowd. I can see it in their eyes. Impatiently bloodthirsty. I'm ready to get on with the rest of the day and the knowledge the monster is no more. And why me? And not one of them?

Because you're fucking dumb. That's why. Nothing. but the devil's puppet. There's a mix of emotions in their faces. Fear, hatred, confusion, excitement. Some look like they don't know how to feel. The hangman steps forward.

A small piece of black cotton fabric in the chubby fingers of his right hand. I look into his eyes, but he gives me nothing, as if I'm already dead. Just a body to be discarded, just a burden. He stretches out his thick arms and begins pulling the fabric over my head. But just before darkness prevails, I see. See him in the cross. Him gray cloak. No face inside.

Just a hooded shadow that has come to collect hands around my shoulders, twisting me around. My breathing is fast and erratic. Help me, please. I feel the harshness of the rope against my neck. Mama. Down my leg, finds its way through the fabric. Never again will I feel its touch. Save me, Lord.

Save me. Mama. Only the swell of blood pumping in my ears. Don't let him take me. And coarseness against my Adam's apple. Do it now. Please. Mama, are you with me?

I hear the lever go, and my stomach drops. Eyes screwed shut. I brace for pain, brace for pain. Nothing. Ahead, and to either side, the sound of choking emerges. Pained gargles from above. What's going on? I feel the rope, but my words are not strained.

The breeze rushes across again. Strangely warm, death taints the smell of food, but even more so now, Mama. Blood-curdling rasps slowly begin to quiet, until finally silence once again. prevails a deafening and never-ending, quiet. Warmth around my wrists and neck, my arms fall to my side, no longer bound, no tightness around my throat, and I feel the damp gravel beneath my toes. What is this? A reprieve? My prayers. I ripped the fabric from my head, squinting around the wooden beam and into a sky I never thought I'd see again. But something is different, broken, and it takes a while for my brain to catch up.

Momentarily, I think I'm in hell. That he snatched me as I fell, but the place looks same as before. Bar the floating bodies, all suspended in air. discolored heads lolloped to one side. Some with tongues protruding from pale lips. It's as though someone has picked up each of them by their necks. Squeeze the life out of them and left them there. Like ghosts, someone.

A soft thud to my right snaps my head around. Another to the left. One by one, they begin falling to the ground. Lifeless sacks of bone that were heckling only minutes ago. Sunlight finds its way to my face again, as the bodies continue to fall around me. Heavy rain. Guess this ground got more than its fair share of death today.

I respect the dead. Just as Mama taught me. Weaving my way through the bodies, I take nothing from them. The vendor's cart is different, and I don't feel bad for raiding the stuffed metal tin. Grab some food for the journey, too. I ain't ever had this much money in my pocket at one time. Should see me through for a while. Don't know where I'm headed yet, but I know he'll be with me.

and it's only a matter of time before the voices begin. I'm sorry, Lord. I'm sorry, Mama. Childhood sibling rivalry can seem so consuming at the time, especially when you're the younger child, and your older siblings seem so much better, stronger, smarter, even cooler than you. It can be a real drag. And in this tale, shared with us by author Rob Custon,

We meet a young man whose envy towards his older brother may not be undeserved. Performing this tale are Dan Zapula and Jeff Clement. So let's not pretend that things are just peachy. There's obviously some underlying issue between these two boys. One of them is you and I am the other one. Two brothers ran through the woods. One me, one you. Two brothers ran, inhaling August air so thick it clung to our summer bronzed limbs like a second skin.

Our shouts and laughter are the only sounds that echoed off the mute hearts of the trees that surrounded us. Two brothers ran, dodging limbs and branches, leaping the swollen roots of hemlock and century oak, scurrying through the brush and darkening green like frenzied rabbits. Like kill-hungry hounds. I turned to see you pound your slim bear chest as if you were the master of our jungle. You inhaled the moss-rich air and shouted again. We're a ripe, blonde-headed boy built from juts and angles. Eyes the green of pond water.

Strong and tall for your age, yet so frail and vulnerable when matched against the towering world that surrounded us. Even so, you were more than a match for me. Kill the pig, cut his throat, kill the pig, bash him in! Time out! I skidded to a halt and whirled around to glare at you. I'm not piggy, I'm not. The red raw sky gaped like an open wound through the trees as I pitched forward, sneakers

towing the loam. Hands on knees gasping and cursing you under. my breath. In the distance, a dog bade in sympathy with my indignation. I said I wouldn't be piggy. I meant it. Unheeding. You leapt buck-like

over the brush, your arms outstretched to tag me out. I got you! You collapsed against the shining white bark of a birch, sliding down into a ball of breathless titters at my feet. But I called time out. I struggled to frame the injustice of it all.

I told you I wouldn't be piggy. It's not fair. I had the good sense to turn away to hide my frustrated tears. We're not playing this stupid game anymore. I won't play it. You fixed me in a hard glare and pulled yourself to your feet. I braced for the shove that would lead to a scuffle that would end with me toppled onto the ground. But no shove came. Instead, you merely snorted at me. I was not even worth your trouble, although I still watched you warily, waiting.

Your face was flush with exertion, your chest surging from your glorious run through the woods. You produced a handkerchief from the pocket of your cutoffs. You spit on a cleanish corner and dobed at a red, wet gash that snaked across your shoulder. Then you flashed me a private smirk and said, Almost to yourself. That's okay. Piggy was a sore loser, too. I called time out, you cheater.

I hate you. But before I could finish, you were on top of me, all rapid fire arms and legs. You pushed me to the ground, your ropy thighs pinioning my legs, my arms twisted behind my back, my face shoved into the dirt.

Take your punishment like a man, piggy. You leveraged your greater weight to keep me immobile. Although I struggled, you had me trapped. I was the younger one, the weaker one. The one who still cried at night, missing mama. The one who wet the bed. I was at your mercy as you pinned my wrists with one hand and jammed the other down the back of my cutoffs.

Gathering a handful of damp elastic, that you yanked upward with all your might. I hollered, first with shock, then with rage. But then the taut fabric of my underpants cut into my soft, unripened boy parts, and I began to whimper. Without mercy, you pulled harder, harder, until with a tear so violent I thought an organ had burst inside me. The cotton gave way, rending along the seam.

then you leapt to your feet laughing at me I flipped on to my back and sat up tears streaming down my dusty cheeks the baying dog in the distance let out a low sustained howl as if scenting our scuffle like the feeder of a cockfight you leaned forward and offered me a hand up but I pushed it away

you tricked me You're not piggy You smiled But you still lost Fuck you and your pity That's what I would have said If I'd had those words within me back then But since I didn't

I snorted back my tears and snot And with all the bile I could muster I hawked a lugie into your face You didn't even flinch Just snagged the handkerchief from where you dropped it and wipe my spittle from your chin. That was a wormy thing to do. Be a man if you don't want to be a pig.

Then you strode past me toward the clearing, as if stepping over a pile of dog crap. My rage deflated and I scrambled to my feet. The flapping elastic of my favorite Justice League underwrews overhung the waist of my cutoffs like the bottom lip of an orangut. I yanked fitfully at my backside, trying without success to dislodge my violated underpants from all the uncomfortable corners they dug themselves into. But after several moments of no luck, I kicked out of the cutoffs, shimmied out of the ruin briefs,

and hurled them into the low-hanging branches. Then I slipped back into my shorts and stumbled after you. By now the pinks and reds had drained. from the evening sky, replaced by the cooler blush of purple violet flecked with starlight. You stood a few paces ahead in an open pasture of swaying sweet grass. Your arms outstretched, the tallest of the feathery tips brushing the palms of your hands. Feeling better? You did not turn to look at me.

Though I took my place behind you, I didn't respond. I couldn't bring myself to a polish. I think the old man's gone. You gestured to the darkened farmhouse, hunched and brooding on the far side of the pasture. Then you pointed to the chain-link kennel backed up against the side of the house. Corporal's in the pen. Inside it, I could just make out the black shape of the patrolling Rottweiler. What if he gets out?

It was as if the dog's ears pricked at being discussed. because he let out another low howl. We'll be stupid. If he could get out, do you think we'd be standing here now? Don't call me stupid. I gave you a half-hearted shove. Stop it, we don't have time. You turned to look at me, but all I could see was your shadow in the gloaming.

The old man's always backed by ten at the latest, but he could show up any minute. The orchard's on the far side of the house, and we still have to get the baskets off the porch. You jerked your head towards the low slung shoulders of Connecticut Hill on the horizon. Gramp said the moon rises early tonight. We should meet back here when it does. Whoever has the most peaches wins. Got it?

Yeah. Yeah, I got it, boss. This was your plan. And like all of your plans, I didn't get any say in its execution. What was worse? I knew as sure as the sun would rise that your basket would close out the night holding three times as many peaches as mine. There wouldn't be a competition. That was how it always worked between us.

While I lased away the summer buried in some book, you were off scoping out Old Man Hazard's orchard, lurking among the trees, observing his routines, fixating on the prize with such a tangible first. that by the time you came home for dinner, I could practically smell the sweet tang of peaches already on your breath. Looking back, it was a pointless game. Peaches? We had our own stupid peach tree in the backyard, and grandma would have bought us bushels more if we'd asked.

What did any of that matter to you? You were poised for victory, and that's all that ever mattered. Winning. By then, you'd have been. already begun to walk toward the house. After a moment's hesitation, I followed. The pasture was broader than a football field, the ground soft and wet. It sucked at the souls of my sneakers, slowing me down, though you managed to glide effortlessly through the grass to quickly pull ahead of me. You'd just begun to whistle an old Civil War tune from a black and white movie we'd watched with

ramps on TV. When you were suddenly drowned out by an ungodly rush coming from the woods behind me, I spun around to see the great dark cloud emerge from the treetops. A cusseration of wings

followed by squeals and clicks as the swarm of bats descended upon the ripe mosquito fields of old man hazards' lower acreage. And then it was upon you. dozens of them spiraling in at you whirling and chieping until you nearly vanished within the funneling vortex of fluttering black bodies i dropped to my knees and covered my ears against the clamor but you you didn't even flinch instead as i looked on in horror you lifted your arms above your head and with a kind of manic glee

began to wiggle your fingertips at the heart of the swarm, almost as if to tickled the creature's underbellies. Stop it! Stop! And then, it was over. Corporal let out a mournful howl as the bats veered off, resuming their course to dinner. And then you were looming above me. A shadowy hand outstretched.

They're gone. That was cool. But I didn't move. I didn't speak. What could I say? It wasn't as if I were surprised. I knew well your uncanny gift. Grandpa called it your doolittle.

Your ability to commune with the creatures of the wild. Sense their minds. Share their thoughts. Feel their feelings. Though our cows and chickens and goats all ignored you, I'd personally witnessed you run with the white-tailed foals as if you were among them. I'd watched you shimmy with the squirrels up the throat of a copper beach taller than the church steeple. I'd seen ravens eat berries out of the palm of your hand, observed a mama lynx curl up in your lap with her newborn kittens, and even got

"'stopped dumbfounded while you wrestled with a wild boar "'as if you were the best of friends. "'And after each of these episodes, "'and countless others like them, "'I'd always felt squeezed inside "'by the same dread envy that you were different, "'special, that I could never be like you, "'that I would never be you.

"'One of a kind,' Gramps would boast as he tussled your golden hair. But each time he did so, I felt something stir in a small, black chamber of my heart. I clambered to my feet, refusing your hand. Are you ready? Sure. But the only thing I was ready to do

was to turn around and run home. I wanted to concede defeat, get it over with quickly and painlessly. I wanted to slink back to the book I'd been reading, where at least I might lose myself for an hour or an evening, imagining that I could somehow be special too. But there was no way I could turn back now. Are you sure you want to go through with this?

Almost as if you could do little me. My hesitation, I felt you peer at me through the darkness, judging me the way Gramps eyed the evening sky, gauging the color of the clouds for bad weather on the rise. It'll be okay. Why don't you just wait here for me? Fuck your pity. If only I'd had those words back then.

No need to console poor piggy, but instead I muttered, let's just go, and bolted for the house before you could say another word. As I ran, the pasture flickered to life around me. Masses of fireflies winked on the air like stardust. The grass swatted my bare skin as the hulking silhouette of the farmhouse loomed ahead, blotting out a larger and larger slice of sky.

Yet before I'd reached the back porch, my footfalls provoked corporal into a snarling rage. The chain length clattered tenuously, as the dog, clawed at its frail enclosure. I shuddered, slowed, and then stopped, all my nerve dribbling into the dirt at my feet. Just ignore him. You can't get out. Then you jogged around me. I watched, paralyzed as your shape dashed through the final paces of grass

and scuttled up the creaking steps of the back porch. I tried to will myself to follow you, but it was as if my feet. feet had taken root. Corporal howled at our intrusion upon his turf, the chain link groaning and rattling as he hurled himself madly against it. But nothing happened. Even so, when you called my name from the porch, I couldn't summon the breath to respond. I was frozen in place by the absolute certainty that I could not take another step. That is, until you shouted, Come on. All at once, my toes curled inside my sneakers uprooting me.

I somehow lifted one foot after the other until I was there, tottering at the top of the porch steps behind you. I said nothing about the insult, too wary to open my mouth so near to the angry dog. Instead, I scanned the porch. It was dimly lit by a lamp somewhere within the house shining through an open window. Corporal's kennel sat not 15 feet to the left, wedged between the foundation and the end of the porch. I couldn't see the dog inside it, but I could hear him, seething at this inexcusable invasion of his master's domain. I could smell him, too, smell the fetid stink of his unwashed fur and the musk of freshly upturned soil. He's trying to dig out.

Relax! You were barely audible over the dog's outbursts as you leisurely rifled through a heap of basket-shaped objects piled beside an old recliner. Once I watched a fox take a nap across from that kennel, he never got out and he was way more worked up than now. You turned to me, handing over a small wicker basket. It was the kind of dainty thing grandma might have used to pick blueberries. But I took it anyway, too uneasy to protest. Azar knew what he was doing when he built that pen. There's no way for him to get out unless that old man wants him to.

See that? You gestured at the shape of what appeared to be an overturned question mark, dangling in mid-air above the arm of the recliner. It took my brain a moment to resolve it into what it actually was, the curved brass handle of an old cane affixed to a length of rope that hung from the eaves of the porch. He's got the ropes strung to the gate latch, and he's got the gate spring loaded. One pull on that, and it's all over.

If the old bastard had been home that day, that fox wouldn't have stood a chance. You strode across the porch and leaned over the railing beside corporal's pen. You're not so tough in there now, are you? Corporal leapt and snarled trying to clamber up the side of the pen. But it was no use. The fence was too high. Oh, look at the little puppy. What's the little puppy going to do? Stop it.

I knew you hated that dog. You hated and feared all the creatures you couldn't reach. The domesticated ones, the ones too complacent or trained or skittish to do little with you. Like the cult that threw Mama. But your hate turned you ugly, cruel. Corporal was already. too riled up. I was afraid he might hurt himself trying to get out. He's just a

stupid dog. You don't need to be such a bully. I'm a bully? You whirled on me. You haven't seen him kill anything yet. You let that sink in for a moment before returning to the pile of baskets. I didn't know what else to do, so I just stood there watching

as you rummage through the remaining baskets until you'd found the one you wanted. It was at least three times larger than the one you'd handed to me, with a deep belly of woven rushes and a wooden handle as thick as my wrist. I felt the burn rise to my cheeks. I grabbed for it. I'll take one like that. No, that's okay. You hoisted it out of my reach. That one's a better fit. But come on. You slip. You slip. passed me and skipped down the steps. There's no time to argue. Then you disappeared around the corner

of the house, but I didn't follow. Instead, I cursed the worst word I knew how to curse. Shithead! And hurled the little grandma basket down the length of the porch, where it bounced off the top of the railing and pitched itself into corporal's kennel.

The dog went silent for a moment, startled by the crash, until, with a sudden rush of muscle and fury, he pounced upon the invader. I listened with cold satisfaction to the sound of wood and wicker being torn to shreds. Then I stepped over to the scattered heap of baskets. You'd been sloppy about making your selections. What had been a stack of baskets neatly nestled, one in a stack of baskets, neatly nestled, one, into the other was now a jumble. I got down on my knees and began to rummage through them, although soon enough I realized there were none as tiny as the one you'd given to me, the runt of the litter.

Shithead. My blood pounded in my ears. I sucked down a spiteful breath and continued searching for a basket to match the one you'd taken for yourself. But there weren't any others that's. size, and I was finally forced to settle for one almost as large. Unlike your basket, this one was rectangular and constructed from thin strips of interwoven wood. It had two rusty handles bolted to its sides and reeked of mildew. It was all so ridiculously heavy. I heaved it into my arms and quickly

realized that it would be impossible for me to carry such a bulky thing. through the orchard, especially once it was filled with a bounty of ripe peaches. Reluctantly, I set it back down and began to search for a more manageable basket. But they were all the same, too large or heavy or awkwardly configured for my small hands and skinny body to carry, especially when bearing a full load of swollen fruit. My heart sank. You'd chosen the right one for me all along. My arms and legs turned to pillows.

I was stuffed with feathers. What was the point? What was the point? I stumbled backwards and fell into old man Hazard's recliner. The stench of dust and sweat wafted up from the dirty fabric, but I barely noticed. Corporal's barking had become an enervating drone, like the angry whir of an overheating engine. I rested my head against the cushion and shut my eyes. I drifted back and back, falling further into the gloom behind my eyelids until my mind slipped free of my body.

Then I could sense it again, that ugly black thing taking shape within me. It sniffed at the corners, nosing for its way out. It had been penned up inside me too long, watching, waiting. my own strange and terrible companion. You weren't so special, it whispered coldly to me, weren't one of a kind. After all, we were brothers, you and I. While you let your do-little roam wild and free,

making you only seem stronger, better, after Mama died, I'd yoked mine to the feet. and guilt of my terrible secret. A jumpy colt that heated me in a childish fit of temper at not being allowed to ride him. Mama was dead because of me, because of what I could do,

and ever since then, I'd kept my own deadly do-little, caged and seething, mostly docile, yet never fully tamed. but no more, no more. Corporal's barking transformed into a kind of terrible machine gun that fired in rhythm with my heartbeat.

Thumb, thump, thump. As if the trigger inside me were being pulled tighter and tighter. Thump, thump, thump, thump until at last in that simple, perfect communion that I've come to dread and cherish in all the years since, his rage became my rage, and my rage, his. Thump, thump, thump. I reached up and yanked the brass question mark. An ecstatic wush flooded into me.

Corporal and I leapt as one to freedom. And we're gone. And then the silence. And then the scream. I jerked upright. My bond with the dog broken. The bite of cold metal still burning my palm. The sound came again.

No mistaking it now. Your voice, shrill and penetrating and so pitiful. It nearly swamped me in a swell of horror. I hurled myself to my feet and ran. You kept howling my name over and over, but at first I couldn't see you. I couldn't see corporal either. Couldn't see anything really,

nor hear anything, save the terrible sound of your shrieking, louder, louder, louder. I stumbled around the corner of the house and bolted across the driveway, nearly taking a header as I tripped over. over an old iron spade hazard had left lying in the grass. With a man-sized surge of adrenaline, I hauled its dead weight into my arms. But though I could barely keep from toppling over with that heavy thing clutched to my chest as I ran,

I finally saw the orchard looming ahead. A sorry patch of misshapen trees that quivered in a spill of a spill of. sickly light from the orange moon, cresting Connecticut Hill. There you were, kneeling on the ground, a struggling mass of boy and dog wrangling for dear life at the feet of those twisted trees. Swarms of crows and starlings dived and pecked wildly at corporal's body, but it was no use. The Rottweiler had you by the fore-on. His canines sunk fast into the meat of you. The basket lay useless by your side as you bellowed for my help, beating the animal over the head with your free fist. But he dug so deeply

into your flesh, I thought he'd rip your arm clean off before he let go of you. His grudge was that unquenchable. My grudge. That's when I knew. That's when I knew. he'd never give you up. I knew it. And in the cruel clarity of that moment, as I reckoned with my childish impudence at how to stop what I'd unleashed, I also knew I'd have to kill him

if I wanted to save you. Thus, with all the strength I could muster, I heaved that rusty spade over my head and brought it down with a sickening thud against corporal's writhing back. The birds scattered. The recoil was stunning. Kane jolted through my body.

I lost my grip and the spade tumbled to the ground. Corporal released your arm and staggered backwards. But before I could reach down to pull you to your feet, he'd shaken off my blow and launched himself back at you. In an instant of absolute silence, he had you by the throat. You collapsed back into the grass and went limp. My lungs exploded in a wail. I threw myself on top of him, dug my fingers into his eyes.

But though he whimpered and whined, he would not release you. I scrambled back to my feet and dove for the spade. I hoisted it above my head and brought the edge of the blade down sharply against the base of corporal skull. Vertebrae crackled like kindling. Jets of blood spurreded from a gash in his fur. He twitched in a violent fit and then his body deflated against yours. His teeth still embedded in your neck. I threw myself onto the two of you, driving my fingers into corporal's slippery mouth

until I pried apart his jaws and pushed him off of you. You began to convulse then, the air rich with the tang of your blood, but at least you were still breathing. The shallow rise of your chest matched by a moist sucking that escaped the terrible gore in your throat. I got behind you and jimmied my fingers into your armpits to try to lift you. But you were just too heavy. Next, I tried to stop the bleeding with my small hands, but it was no use. And so I grabbed you by the ankles instead and managed to drag you back toward the house to a phone, an adult.

Still, it never occurred to me to drop you and run for help. It never crossed my mind that that was maybe the only way to save your life. Christ, I was just a boy covered in my brother's blood. All I knew was that I couldn't leave you. Not after what had happened. Not after what I'd done. So I didn't leave you. Not as I watched your face drain of color in the rise in moonlight.

Not as the woods erupted in a mournful chorus of yowls and cause and screeches. not as your skin turned cold, then waxing, and the blood stopped pumping from your throat. Not once during those minutes that turned to hours and then lifetimes

that I move from your side. Not until I finally heard the approaching thrum of Hazard's pickup. I whispered futilely into your ear. Hang on. Only then, did I abandon your ashing corpse to run for the sound of that truck.

But before that moment, back before the night that became superimposed on everything that's happened since. Before the rages, the therapy, the self-loathing, before my nightmares of you and Mama and the others made sleep all but impossible. Before the blood, oh, the blood, and all these deaths, the take. terrible price for what I've become without you. Back before any of that, as we huddled together beneath the moonlight, you and I, back with the fingers of darkness poised to close around us forever. Somewhere, in those final moments we spent together, I came to understand one excruciating truth.

I was the only one now. And deep down, dear brother, I was glad of it. So much for brotherly love. I think we should take a quick break. It's the perfect time for a short respite. Oh, hi, Graham. Been hanging out with Peter, I see. What do you mean?

Well, your left arm. It's been mostly torn off. Nasty amount of blood, too. Oh, this. Yes, he did rather a number on it. Serves me right for getting too close to him. Off to the ER then? I probably should. Damn inconvenient.

They'll probably ask me for my family doctor, but I don't have one. You're looking for a family doctor, huh? Well, surely you're using ZockDoc for that, right? Zock Doc? Please explain. ZockDoc is a free app that shows you doctors who are patient reviewed, take your insurance, and are available when you need them. Think about it. No one knows what you're looking for in a doctor better than you,

and no one is better at giving you the tools to find the perfect doctor than ZocDoc. The people who created Zoc Doc found the major pain points in health care, all the things that weren't working, and said, enough. What a great idea for an app. I can read up on local doctors and get verified patient reviews and see what other real humans had to say about their visit. So when I walk into that doctor's office, I'm set up to see someone in my network who gets me.

It's really easy, too. Go to Zocdoc.com. Choose a time slot and whether you want to see the doctor in person or do a video visit. And just like that, you're booked. I'm glad Zock Doc will help me find the doctor that's right for me and book an appointment that works for my schedule. Every month, millions of people use Zock Doc. In the chaotic world of health care,

let Zock Doc be your trusted guide to find a quality doctor in a painless way. Okay, give me a hand. Get it? Then tell me how to get Zock. Go to ZocDoc.com slash no sleep and download the Zocdoc app for free. Then start your search for a top-rated doctor today. Many are available within 24 hours. Let me get this straight.

I go to Z-O-C-D-C dot com slash no sleep, right? That's right. Zockdoc.com slash no sleep. With Zock-Doc, you can get your docks in a row. Ha-ha-ha. Thanks. I'm off to the hospital. Shouldn't you be getting back to the show?

Well, well, well, he's right. It's time to return to the horror. Digging underground is always a risky prospect. Even when you're just helping out with a charitable project to aid the local church, all the goodwill in the world won't help when that earth comes crashing down on you. But in this tale, shared with us by author L.P. Hernandez, by some miracle, there are at least some survival. Survivors. Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson, Sarah Thomas, Mick Wingert, and Mike Delgadoio.

So welcome back the men from underground. It's surely just your imagination when they seem a little different, a little wrong. After all, they did manage to escape the well. There's something different about Daddy's eyes. For one, he doesn't look at me as a man should. He looks past me, around my ears, over my head. Like, he's waiting for something to sneak up behind me. He hardly blinks anymore either. He's all wide-eyed like a tomcat chasing a big old fat rat. It happened a couple of months back. Daddy went with a group of men to help dig a well for the church. The water they pulled up wasn't good. Smell funny. Looked like those pockets of pond water that linger after the rest of the pond dries up, the ones the fish go to die in. So, they kept digging.

I stayed back with Mama and Little Joe. We called him Little Joe because Daddy was Big Joe. Don't know why this skipped over me to name my little brother after Daddy, but I wasn't sore about it. He loved us all the same. I tended the land while Daddy walked the three or four miles to church each morning, and usually whistling before even the crow woke up. He and the others did the work free of charge, said they'd be paid and fooled in the hereafter. Daddy didn't come back on the third evening. Mama felt it in her gut,

and she stopped looking out over the window. Instead, she looked at Daddy's chair, squinting in the fading light, as if she could conjure him if she wielded hard enough. Something's happened, Robert. It was early autumn, and the air was just cooling off after a long hot summer. Mama was shivering as if it was New Year's day, though. She looked small with the little shawl around her shoulders, as if she was practicing and being an old woman.

I'll ride Benny down to the church. She shook her head, shadows settling into every line on her face. She could have been 80 years old, Ben. It'll have to wait until morning. Whatever's happened is already done. Just stay here with me and little Joe for the night. I was all at 12 years old, but felt a man's burden on my shoulders. I will, Mama.

It'll be okay in the morning, except it wasn't. I chewed on a biscuit as I rode just after dawn. Arthur the rooster sending me off with that strange crow of his, like his head was half underwater. My tongue felt like it dried up right inside my mouth, so I tossed the biscuit into the field. I rode Benny hard, and I didn't take but a couple of minutes to get to the church. I knew by the crowd Mama's feeling was right. It always was.

There was a mountain of dirt, shovels and ropes. Men dabbing sweat on their brows despite the chill, yelling words right next to the church that should have been whispered. The pastor sat down on the tree stump with his head and his hands. Is Daddy okay? He looked up at me, and I could tell from the bruised pouches beneath his eyes he hadn't slept that night. Robert, it's good to see you. I let my question hang in the frosted air between us. He is, I hope so.

The ground caved in while they were digging, and there's six down there. We don't know how far they fell. The ground angles away from the lights, but we can hear at least four. There just wasn't much we could do in the dark. They were about to lower the ropes again. I hope your father's okay, son. He's a good man. I joined the men who stood over the ragged hole in the earth, looking for a way to help.

By then, the rolls were established, so I just stood back as they began to hoist. One by one the men came up, slick with mud and eyes shining like the full moon. I couldn't tell one man from another until they spoke. None of the first three were daddy. The few bites of biscuit in my belly turned sour, and I approached the edge of the opening, but was pushed back. Whoa, whoa, whoa, it ain't stable. You could fall right in.

They were worried the ground would open up and swallow us all. but there was still one voice answering when they called. I couldn't tell if it was Daddy, but I had to hope. I grabbed a bit of rope and helped the pool. It was all I could do and probably didn't matter in the end. I had a man's burden, but not a man's strength. He broke the surface and flopped on the grass like a fish. Daddy?

The man was hunched over with his hands on his knees. He vomited, and it was his black as hard. His spine curled and straightened as more of the black came out of him. I imagined him in the dark all night, swallowing mud, choking on it. Daddy? I looked up for something familiar about this slick, wet shadow. He sat up resting his hands on his thighs. He blinked a few times, and then found my face.

My God. Daddy was laid up for a few days. He caught an awful sickness, but it was a miracle he survived at all. Two other men were not so lucky, and no one could think of a way to retrieve him from the hole. They just kept dropping the rope in, and it kept coming back up without a passenger. I took over his obligations while he recovered. He didn't talk much in that time. The third night after the miracle, a sapusie.

him and listened to his breaths, which had a terrible wet rattle. I placed my hand atop his, and he roused some. For a time, he only stared at the ceiling, Lincoln and coughing weakly. Daddy? He took three breaths before he answered. Yes, son. What happened down there? I thought he might have fallen asleep. His eyes was shut and his breathing settled into a pattern. I saw. In the dark. What do you mean, Daddy? His eyes searched the corner of the room as if the answer was hidden in the shadows there.

His voice was thin, as if he couldn't hold enough breath in his lungs. All through the night, he'd hear his voice. What did it say? I watched his chest rise and fall and waited for a response that did not come. I pulled the blanket to his chin and blew out the candle. What a nightmare Trapped in the cold mud Blind and drowning

Your friends dying Beside you Last words choked with muck I love you daddy I close the door behind me Mama sat in his chair Feeling the fabric like she sometimes did his beard stubble How is he

Sleeping? Thank God We're starting to ramble About a cavern Mama nodded and watched Embers die in the fireplace. It's been two weeks now. Summer's blue skies are gone and it's always gray. There's work to be done, and I've done my best. But I am not a man yet.

My hands are blistered. My back hurts. I had to slaughter a hog the other day and, well, it took longer than it did when I was the helper. Couldn't touch the meat after. Daddy is different. His cough is improved, but he rarely leaves the bed during the day. I encounter him at the fringes of the night, in early morning and late in the evening.

He is not shaved or bathed. There's an awful stench about him, like the bad water in the well. I can hear him at night, pacing back and forth across the porch, It disturbs my sleep, and I wake every morning feeling as if I slept not at all. I stare at the moonlight on the floor, stretched out into a long rectangle. Little Joe was snoring in his bed.

He sleeps through everything. He's off at school most of the day, so he hasn't noticed Daddy is different. My eyes ache. I feel like I could sleep until Christmas. But there is work to be done. I sneak out of the room, but there's no real sneaking in the house. The floorboard squeal and groan as I pass through the kitchen. I find Daddy on the porch.

The lamp beside him burns faintly, barely more than a firefly's glow. Daddy, what are you doing out here? It comes out as an accusation. He lowers the book and looks up, but I can't see his face. I imagine he can't see me well either. There are no sounds to be heard beyond the push and pool of our breaths. The crickets are slumbering. Our animals are at rest in the fields.

The whole world waits for winter, which threatens every day. Looking for answers. My heart steadies at the confidence in his voice. But that piece quickly gives way to my anger. If he is well, then why does he leave me to tend to the animals, in the fields? To do a man's work when I have only this boy's body. Answers. To what?

What? What we heard in the dark. He flips another page. Finds nothing of interest there and turns to the next. I open the door to the house and say over my... my shoulder. Maybe the answers are in the field where you belong. I have never said anything so cruel to my father. But before that night, I never hated him. I find the sound of little Joe's snores comforting and I sleep well and deeply. I wake and can tell by the light in the room I have

overslept. It is too bright. And I pull on my boots. Feet still throbbing from yesterday's work. Good morning, Mama. She tins a red-hot skillet in the kitchen. Sweat on her forehead like the grease popping off the iron. Pork fat. My stomach flips. Good morning, Robert. I hope you don't mind. I let you sleep in. You looked awful worn yesterday. Thank you, Mama. She is light in the stove, but the room is already filled with the odor of burning. I follow the scent to the living room. There are a few coals glowing red in the fireplace. I stir them with the poker and find the book Daddy was reading the night before.

It is charred along the edges, but mostly intact. It is his Bible. Daddy is in a poor mood today. I suppose I am to blame as he responded to my challenge by resuming his. duties. He speaks to no one but makes a terrible noise whenever he goes, stomping and mumbling under his breath. Some of those words I heard out by the church the week before. A come upon Mama watching him through the kitchen window. She has a hand to her cheek and this far-way look in her eyes. Mama, is Daddy okay? She flinches slightly at the sound of my voice.

and turns toward me, smiling. I hope so, Robert. I can't imagine what it was like for him down there. I do wish he would talk about it, though. Did he tell you about the voice he heard? She nods just a bit and begins to examine her hands. He'll come around, won't he? I want to ask her the same thing.

I'll wake, and it is dark in the room. The moon hidden behind the gray clouds that seemed to know. never move. I don't know. I am awake, but I know it is not of my own accord. I sit up in bed and tilt my head. Little Joe is snoring like always, but there is another sound mixed in with it, whispering. My eyes adjust to the darkness and a few shapes assert themselves. There is a faint glow of white pajamas beside little Joe's bed. It's daddy. I can make out the basic shape of him,

but do not know what he's doing. I want to call to him, but hold back a moment. He is whispering in little Joe's ear. I cannot understand one word, but I can sense the shape of them. The harshness in each letter. What is he whispering?

And why? Time passes and it seems like a long time. I'm afraid of drawn his attention to me, but I also fear for little Joe. Daddy stands and hovers over my brother for a moment, then pivots and makes for the door. I slide out from my blanket and matches steps as he walks, ensuring the sound of his footfalls masks my own.

He stands next to his chair, arms slack by his side. His head sways from side to side as if he's searching for something on the ground. What is he thinking? My breath passes slowly between my lips. I am quiet as a garden snake because I do not want him to hear me. I do not want him to whisper in my ear. He lifts his head and steps forward.

His hands grasped the arms of the wooden crucifix mounted to the chimney. He lifts it free and takes three quick steps to the front door, opens it, and steps out into the night. Mama has a visitor this morning, a sister of one of the men that was in the hole with Daddy. He hasn't come back since he left with the crucifix. I catch bits and pieces of the conversation. Her voice is shaky. Like she's on horseback, and she keeps putting her face right into Mama's chest. Pardon me, I say as I walk to the front door.

Dead, evil. Those are the two words she said. I do not know what to make of it. Little Joe is still in his bed. He woke all cold and clammy. His blanket soaked with sweat as if he was burning through a fever. all night. I recall Daddy standing over him like a specter, hissing to his ear. I wonder if the sickness is connected, but I don't dwell on the thought. It makes my stomach turn. There's still

dew on the grass. The sun hides behind the gray quilt of clouds. It is forever twilight anymore. Daddy's trail is easy to find. He walked to the road, and so it. I walk to the road as well. That churning feeling in my gut has not abated. If anything, it feels worse. It feels like the rock tumbler at school. I haven't gone to school since daddy's accident. And I don't think about it much. Most boys don't finish school around here. I wanted to. I like learning about science and far off places. But it is not my fate. It is easy to feel alone, as if you're the only person in the world. Fields go on forever.

You can't really tell where the grass in the sky meet. It's just a haze in the distance somewhere. The red Texas dirt crunches beneath my boots. It's a good sound, and I like it. But I soon realize I am no longer following Daddy's Prince. I'm just walking. and Mama needs me. Little Joe is finally asleep.

I can hear him breathing like there's a wet rag in his lungs. Tomorrow I am to go to town to pick up some medicine. Mama's home remedies have not helped his condition as yet. Mama reaches across the table to lay her hand atop mine. She smiles at me, but she is not happy. No expression of her face can match her feelings at the moment. We're talking about a visitor And the room smells faintly

Of her perfume Disappeared Like daddy did She nods Started acting strange Just like your daddy She said Kenneth wasn't eaten much Kept odd hours

Was awake through the night mostly He stopped talking to them at least Seemed like he was always talking When he was in a room alone Mary took to visit in every day to check on Elva and the kids. I looked to the door and wonder if I should lock it. And then she takes a breath that sends a shutter through her body. Gone for a couple of days.

Then he tried to take his own head off in the barn. Got about halfway through and maybe thought better of it. Walked into the house, Elva and kids right there eating dinner with a saw stuck in his neck. Kenneth was dead by the time Mary got there, but it wasn't quick, and he tried to talk the whole time. Blood spilling on the floorboards, mouth open and enclosing like a fish on land. That's awful, I know. Yes, I'm scared about Daddy, but I'm scared for us, too. I think we should pay a visit to your aunt in Oklahoma.

Maybe he just needs time. Now, I can get the horses ready. We can go tomorrow morning. She looks to the window above the basin, but the rain collected in thin streams. It is a cold rain, one that reminds me I broke my leg falling off a horse a few years back. No, not what little Joe's sick like he is.

Give him a day or two of rest. Then we'll see. Okay, Mama. Robert? Yes, Mama. There's just one more thing. I probably shouldn't tell you. I shouldn't treat you like a man yet.

You do a fine job in your daddy's stead, but you are a boy. I wait for her to decide. Mary said when she got there, his eyes were still open. Saddie looked scared, terrified. Something he saw or thought he saw, scared him more than the blade in his neck. My body is ragged, but I do not pass into sleep easily. Little Joe is still making that wet, raspy sound when he breathes. I hope a night's rest will put him on the right path.

The room smells of Mama's salves, which calm my nerve song. My dreams are all of Daddy, and they run together. My dream he is in the room, bent over to whisper in my ear. When I open my eyes, the whispering persists. And I see the blackness of his face. face in the dark. A smell the earth and odor about him and his rotten breath. Before I can scream, his hand covers my mouth.

It is wet and slick. Though my eyes adjust to the darkness, his face grows no lighter. It is then I realize he is covered in mud. He removes his hand from my mouth but holds up a face. finger. Then he finds my hand and turns the palm up. But he did not see. He places something in my hand and nods. By touch, I do not recognize it. And so I lean my head over to inspect. The eyes are oily with mud. One is intact, while the other is a sack of jelly. He holds up a finger again, so I do not scream, but my heart beats so fast, the whole world shrinks.

There are no weapons in this room, just my fists, and those might as well be pixies for all the good they would do. I should have taken a rifle to bed. Daddy beckons me to follow. He leaves, and I hear the front door creak open. I jam my feet into my boots and plod after him. He's. He's not. I hear the front door creak open. I jammed I'm wearing only my pajamas. Outside, the rain is stopped. The grass glistens when it catches a bit of moonlight here and there. Daddy is already walking down the road. I want to run back inside and grab the rifle, but I'm afraid of disturbing mama.

The mud sucks at my boots as I scurry toward the road. My heart is racing, and I realize that I am still holding the eyes. Whose eyes? Daddy didn't say. All of this feels like a nightmare. Like I should sit up in bed at any moment to hear the sound of little Joe snores. My pajamas do not have pockets. So I hold on to the eyes.

I try to keep them secure without squeezing too hard. But some of the slurry runs between my fingers. Daddy walks fast. and I struggled to keep up with them. My boots slip off my feet and I fall behind. Out in the fields, the coyotes call to each other, and I run a little faster. There is an orange glow ahead, and I smell burning wood. It is normally a happy smell.

One that reminds me of Christmas, but not now. I don't know what it means, but it is in the direction Daddy is head. it. It cannot be good. The flames have mostly died down when I arrive. The church where Mama and Daddy were married 15 years ago was just a pile of coals. I smell kerosene, and other fowler smells I cannot place. Daddy? I do not want him to answer. I want to wake up. I see the figure sprawled on the grass beside the smoldering rubble. There is enough light from the remaining flames to reveal him clearly. It is the pastor, and it is his eyes I am holding.

I place them on his chest, and I am so afraid I begin to cry. Daddy whispers in my ear. My spine turns to ice. His hands are on my shoulders. He turns me away from the dead man and walks me across the grass, still wet with the rain and lashing my legs. I couldn't see either. I couldn't see until I was in the dark and I heard him.

We are dozen feet from the sinkhole. It smells of decay. Spittle lands on my cheek as he speaks. But they did not accept the truth. He points to the hall. The others, the men who did not make it out. You will, won't you, Robert? You're my boy, my son.

You see the truth. We inch closer to the precipice. The earth is spongy beneath me, and I fear the hole could open at any second. He stands beside me now, stinking, muddy, and not the man I know. He inails the stint of rod as if it is a bouquet of blue bonnets. His head is tilted to the side and he nods, smiling.

I cannot hear anything except for the crackle of dying embers. You join me, Robert. It's not that far down. There is a dreamy quality to his voice. His anger and madness is tempered for the moment. What about? Little Joe and Mama. He blinks a few times.

Lujo. We need them, don't we? He thinks for a few seconds. Body teetering. And I fear he's going to take us both over the edge. He nods. And I don't know if it's in acknowledgement or something else. Oh, Fetching, Daddy.

I'll come back with him real quick. He continues to nod. I'll wait for you, sir. He aims a slick finger at the hole, and I don't wait for him to reconsider. No, if my father was in the hole when they began to fill it the next day. I stayed up all night with the rifle aimed at the front door until morning broke. I roused Mama and Little Joe, and we took off a town as soon as it was light enough to see. The sheriff and a few others went out to the ruins of the church and found the pastor there.

eyes stolen by crows that perched in the trees nearby. By noon, half the town's men were out there with shovels and wheelbarrows. I've not seen my father since that night. I dream about him a lot. Sometimes the dreams are from before, but usually not. It's hard to remember he was a good man. Usually, a dream he's in the room whispering. In my ear, sometimes his words make sense.

He spoke about a cavern, and I know there was not enough dirt in those wheelbarrows to fill a cavern. 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, Inc.