The NoSleep Podcast - S18 Ep5: NoSleep Podcast S18E05

Episode Date: July 24, 2022

Tune in to Episode 5 of Season 18 and be blinded by science!“Breakthrough” written by Gus Wood (Story starts around 00:02:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Mike DelGaudio“Eternity Park” written by Paul Spencer (Story starts around 00:06:10)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Mary – Penny Scott-Andrews, Voice – David Ault“I Found a Weird Chat Bot, but I Think Some of His Replies Aren’t Just Nonsense” written by Rene Rehn (Story starts around 00:23:15)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – James Cleveland“We’ve Been Trying to Reach You Concerning Your Vehicle’s Extended Warranty” written by Vince Dajani (Story starts around 00:40:05)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Vince – Graham Rowat, Paul – Atticus Jackson, Caller – Graham Rowat, Zee – Erin Lillis, 911 Operator – Jessica McEvoy, Lorraine – Nichole Goodnight, Auto-caller – Mike DelGaudio, Boss – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Police Officer – Dan Zappulla, Detective Bosch – Jesse Cornett, Police Receptionist – Nikolle Doolin, Ex-Wife – Mary Murphy, Taxi Driver – Mick Wingert“The End of the Whole Damn Thing” written by B’Jae Ballard (Story starts around 01:10:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Peter Lewis“Experimental Design” written by Vince Darcangelo (Story starts around 01:26:15)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Tyler – Jeff Clement, McKenna Delaporte – Jessica McEvoy, Secretary – Nichole Goodnight, Dr. Stonebridge – Nikolle Doolin, Inspector Gomez – Mick WingertThis 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.Betterhelp – Betterhelp’s mission is making professional counseling accessible, affordable, convenient – so anyone who struggles with life’s challenges can get help, anytime, anywhere. Get started today and get 10% off your first month by going to betterhelp.com/nosleepClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Rene RehnClick here to learn more about Vince DajaniClick here to learn more about Vince DarcangeloExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“The End of the Whole Damn Thing” illustration courtesy of Audrey McEvoyAudio 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

Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast Hour. I'm Reginald Scammington, CEO of WNSP Television. We'd like to thank you for subscribing to our premium programming, the first of its kind television experience. And now that you've signed up, you'll never have to worry about your subscription ending, because we'll work hard to make sure you never want to, or are able to, cancel it. Imagine if they had subscription programming back in the 50s. I wonder if they'd be as difficult to deal with as they are today. And just like Mr. Scammington, how many CEOs have gotten rich from a free trial that you forgot to cancel? Well, it's time to cut into their bottom line by using True Bill. True Bill is the new app that helps you identify and stop paying for subscriptions you don't need or want or simply forgot about.

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Go right now. Truebill.com slash no sleep. It could save you thousands a year. Truebill.com slash no sleep. Now, scientifically speaking, it's time for the horror to begin. Dr. Murphy couldn't help himself. Despite all the comics and movies about mad scientists and their uncontrollable laughter,

when the steam in the Enviropod dissipated and he saw the culmination of his research, he tossed his head back and laughed. The creature walked on its massive hind legs, shook its molting wings, and rattled the tip of its slender tail. When it noticed Dr. Murphy, the creature flicked its forked tongue, clicked its hooves, and bared its fangs. It was an apex predator, absorbing genetic information from its prey, assimilating them after death, able to adapt any disease, any climate.

Its potential was limitless. His son upstairs in his hospital bed could be cured by just a drop of its blood. Dr. Murphy laughed again. Then went quiet. The creature laughed too, pointing to the Enviropods torn open air vent. The creature was laughing. It sounded just like his son. N.S.P. presents the No Sleep Podcast Hour,

starring David Cummings and The No Sleep Players. Knights of Darkness. Fear creeping through your soul, pounding heartbeats. Join us for tales of horror during the dark hours when you dare not close your eyes. And we're warning you. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Good evening.

I'm David Cummings. Thank you for daring to be with us at the No Sleep Podcast Hour. The horror of scientific experimentation run amok. Mad scientists, nefarious attempts to mold nature to our will. It's the theme of this week's episode, one kicked off with a biological oddity from author Gus Wood, from the tale which was this episode's cold open, breakthrough, performed by Mike Delgado. We are now quite late in our journey through the 1950s. I fear it may be time to bid farewell to the earliest decade of and move on to the 1960s next week.

But the 50s were a time when technology was certainly advancing quickly. So quickly, in fact, that there were many movies and TV shows which drew upon the fear of that change and scientific advancement to craft tales of horror. The fear of the unknown this technology might birth. It's a good thing we've grown to never fear change or new technology, right? So now, adjust the antenna. Just the antenna. Tune in our signal and settle in front of the TV to watch this week's nightmares. In our first tale, we visit a place where you might assume new technology has no place.

A cemetery. But as we learn in this tale, shared with us by author Paul Spencer, even a graveyard can be spruced up with some high-tech gear. There's nothing creepy about visiting a grave where you can see and hear the departed. Is there? Performing this tale are Penny Scott Andrews and David Alt. So bring your flowers if you must, but be respectful of the departed when you go to mourn in Eternity Park. The gates were wrought iron, like any other cemetery you care to mention. But Eternity Park was different, one of a special breed.

I'd heard about them, of course, never expect. to visit one personally. They were few and far between designed for the grieving elite. Private memorial parks and cemeteries with a very modern twist. I suppose it was a logical progression, from simple wooden markers,

crosses staked into earth, to headstones of granite inscribed with verses, to this. You see, the designers had taken their memorials to the next level. They could actually recreate the person buried beneath. Sure, that was a florid way of putting it.

Some used other terms like electric ghost. Images of the dead, standing proud and smiling. Three-dimensional holograms activated only when authorise. Each burial plot doubled as a projection platform, with miniature cameras tracking your viewing angle and adjusting accordingly. A high-definition video screen was inset into granite, replaying moments from your loved one's life. Powered by an AI colonel, they could even talk to you. Their voices manufactured from dozens of recordings submitted by the clients.

The idea filled me with dread. The past held nothing but pain for me. But for some, they brought comfort. Who was I to argue with that? Entry to the park was by access cart. There would be no visible cameras, cabling or technology. Everything was obfuscated, neatly disguised, buried like the bodies. It had to look and feel right.

But security was tightly controlled. I guarantee you that. I left my car at the roadside. Stood for a moment in the cool evening air, gazing at the park entrance with a sense of disquiet. A simple card scan and the gates drifted open automatically, silently. Close neatly behind me. No whining hinges for this place, just an electric hum.

I tightened my grip on the kit bag, tablet, diagnostic tools. My life may have been a parade of failures outside of tech, but my work was exemplary. I'd been recommended to an elite consultancy firm who could pretty much charge whatever they wanted. Eternity Park was one of their choosiest clients. So just do the job you were contracted to do, I told myself. A simple OS repair. The site was almost too respectful, beautifully trimmed lawns, polished headstones of black granite with gold trim in regimented rows, lighting columns that cast an ambient glow. There was something corporate about it, something cold. It took me a while to find the spot.

Row 18, plot 20. His name was Trent. Nice to meet you, I thought. The video screen was opaque, like all the others in the park, still glistening from the last rainfall. Crouching, I wiped off the liquid, then bypassed the thumbprint scanner. The screen powered up, and a few lines of code appeared,

somehow comforting in the dark. I set to work, unpacking my carry-all. It was quiet. I pulled out the tablet, cursed the absence of a chair, and operated the touchscreen keyboard. As usual, I entered a kind of... What did they call it?

Flow. Fully intent on the task at hand, gratefully banishing all harmful thoughts. It was my favourite part of the work. I almost had the machine booting when I heard it. A voice. A male voice.

Some distance away. way, muffled, as if her hand was pressed over the mouth. I turned, at once mystified. The park was intentionally isolated, out of town. The city was a kilometer north. They said I'd be the only one here. Someone else doing maintenance? Or perhaps my presence was unanticipated.

Had they dispatched a security guard to taser me into oblivion? I couldn't see the entire cemetery. It wasn't large, but it was tiered. There were levels, short flights of steps, tight corners. But now that I was listening intently, the noise seemed to have ended. And silence fell like a shroud. I tried to focus on my work. Maybe it had just been in my head after all.

Wouldn't have been the first time. I always thought it was strange that you could hear a sound in your thoughts, tumbling down those dark halls of memory, snatches of music, unwanted voices. I decided I'd find some excuse to refuse a return visit. This place was bad for me. I began rebuilding the operating system on the headstone terminal. Slowly, my shoulders began to ease. I began to realize, too slowly, that the voice, a dark undercurrent, a murmur, had already

return. Maybe it never went away. I froze, immovable as the headstone in front of me. Those same muffled words, though I couldn't make them out. I recognized only the sibilant sounds, repeated over and over. It had to be another headstone character. That was the likely explanation. Somehow it had powered on. But how could that be so? No one was here to authorize. it. Another glitch? Well, I couldn't go on ignoring it as much as the desire to leave was rising. Lowering my kip, I made my way through the aisles of stone, through careful arrangements of white roses and lilies and soft wet grass, tracking the source. My hands were trembling. The voice grew louder as I grew closer. It definitely wasn't in my head. It was real. There was something

up ahead. Phosphorescent glow filtered through the branches of a nearby tree. I paused, taking a breath, then forced myself on. It was light, nothing more, no threat here. After all, since when had light caused harm. There it was then. I had my explanation. A full-sized human figure glowing bright, suspended above its burial plot, brought to life. by the projectors. A kind of mists lit from within, the glow reflecting off the nearby stone. God, this place must be riddled with errors.

No wonder they needed repair work. As I approached, it actually turned its head to regard me. They could do that, apparently. Eerie. I felt almost nauseous. I hadn't been able to look at it in the face yet. Instead, I glanced at the inscription on the headstone. A simple, dull, in-loving memory.

Then I saw the name and instantly felt a crawling in my gut. Mary Malone. The surname meant nothing to me, but the first name, Mary, match my own. I'd always hated that name. I went by Rosie, my mother's name. Just an unwelcome coincidence. That's all. Fingernails digging into my palms, I finally raised my.

head to look at the eyes of the projected figure. There was something wrong. That much was plain. The image was corrupted. The face improperly formed. Its eyes distended as if melting. Its jaw hanging down, tongues snaking out. It flickered again and snapped back into place. As if sensing my presence, it began to speak. At first, the sound was corrupted, like the face. More of a stoopless sized gagging noise. Then slowly I began to make out the words, a tone. This voice, with a sound like gravel in a throat

full of fluid, hardly aligned with the name on the headstone. This wasn't Mary at all. This is someone else. Incredibly, it was reciting a nursery rhyme. The blood began to drain from my cheeks. The voice, the rhyme, were terrifyingly familiar. I knew at once who it was. Impossible.

Brutal. It was him. He had chosen this grave. These words. Only he used my real first name to purposefully agitate me. That was what he always did. Find ways to hurt me. I didn't want to be here.

The place wasn't a tribute or a comfort or poignant link to the past. It was an abomination, a curse. The dead should be dead and gone. Memories should be left to fade from those dark halls, not paraded out like corpses in daylight. I walked almost blindly toward the exit, blinking back tears, numb. The talking faded away. Someone had done this to me, deliberately targeted,

remotely hacked the system. Maybe they were watching me now. Well, they were going to regret it. I was going to find them. But most of all, I was going to get away. get in my car still parked outside the gates and drive and keep driving all night if I had to. But when I finally reached the wall and reached from my security pass, too late I realised I'd left it with my diagnostic kick.

I turned red with anger at my own stupidity. I'd have to cross most of the park to get back to the first burial plot. I cursed the place with all my heart, from its assiduously tended lilies, to its polished headstones to the roots of its earth. And then, in the space of a whisper, the entire park was plunged into darkness. All at once, every lightning column had winked out before I even realized what was happening. For a few moments, I saw nothing, as if my eyesight had been stolen away. Then, as my eyes adapted, the glimmering of streetlights on the dark, distant hills made themselves known.

Far too distant to be of any help. I felt a rising sense of panic. Rational thought tried to re-establish a hold. Calm. Keep calm. It was a localized power outage, nothing more. The whole park was clearly broken. Or maybe it was something else.

An act of malicious outside control. Remembering it was still in my jacket pocket, I snatched out my phone and thund on the torch. But the weak glow was no match with a dark of unpopulated land. There was an eruption of light near the first row of stones. The figure had moved, moved to another headstone. This couldn't be. This is all supposed to be impossible.

I had to know for sure. I walked toward it, hot like a rock, torchlight dancing from my shaking hand. It had gained definition. The eyes were more human, but completely white, without pupils, like two pearls. The face was shot through by swimming videostatic. but I recognised it immediately. The deceptively warm smile, those sunken cheeks, the one face from my past I never wanted to see again.

I screamed one word. Every minute I was forced to listen to him was like my skin burning. But I did it anyway. Used whatever tools I had in my possession to tear up the earth and smash the projector terminals until my fingers were bloody. Only when I finished, The tablet shattered. The phone.

Did I realize he was gone? The rest of the park became as silent and still as the moment I first arrived. Even the lights had come back on. Somehow there was no doubt in my mind. I felt certain I'd seen the last of him. At least in this form. I wish I could have vandalized every stone. This place should not be allowed to exist.

They fired me, of course. Eternity wanted to charge me with criminal damage too, but I think they knew the footage existed. They suspected the park had been hacked. I could see it in their eyes. I could read it between the lines of their legal correspondence, despite never finding any evidence to support that. The thing is, I never suspected that, not really.

I knew that he'd found a way to come back, a little thread he could pull. That's all it took. because this was the kind of thing he did. It became almost impressive. He would find the sickest, most original ways to turn the thumb screws on my life. It would always surprise me,

and I suppose this was the most surprising of all. So, I'll try to stop them from creating these abominations. I'll keep telling my story, even if I'm just a feeble voice in the wind, like the dead crying out from beneath the earth. But I can't help but wonder, we all leave our imprints on life. In the advancing world of technology, ever more so. Digital footprints, digital echoes, enough to rebuild a hollow, artificial version of us,

owned by a corporation, soulless. One day after I'm gone, will these words be used against me? Will my voice be heard again, separated from the soul that created it? Will I be stood forever beside a headstone, staring out with bright eyes of mist, smiling broadly? An electric ghost tied forever to my grave. Being online means you're able to interact with seemingly limitless numbers of people from around the world. And more and more these days, you can find yourself interacting with non-human computer-based chat programs. And as we learn in this tale, shared with us by author René Rain,

one man digs deep into an online dialogue with what he assumes is a program, a very advanced and unsettling program. Performing this tale is James Cleveland. So let's find out what this man means when he tells us, I found a weird chatbot, but I think some of his replies aren't just nonsense. A couple of weeks ago, I stumbled upon a strange post on 4chan's X-board. The OP of the thread said he'd found some strange comments under random articles online. No one had reacted to the thread yet, so I decided to check it out.

For as long as I can think back, I've been scouring the internet for weird and strange things. To be honest, I didn't believe there was much to O.P.'s post, but I was kind of bored. The comment itself was nothing but gibberish. It made no sense at all. Maryland, strange, river, lost in, dark, cute, dogs love, nature walk, long, Tokyo City, many times want Japan all high, no one flowers, birds like play, inside, dark, no one here out. I was hoping it might be some strange cryptic message, but it looked more like someone had been toying around with Google Translate. I played around with it a bit, but I soon lost interest. I made a quick reply telling the poster that it was most likely nonsense. Later on, I saw that the guy had posted once again.

He wrote that he'd thought the same thing at first. After browsing through the blog, he'd found a variety of other similarly weird comments, all by the same poster. The poster's name wasn't normal either. It was merely a string of numbers. All the comments were similar, utterly cryptic and made no sense at all. We soon started to talk on Discord since Fouchan can be a bitch about Link. He sent me some of the articles with comments but told me that there were dozens more on that

specific blog. He'd even found others all over the internet. At first, he thought it was completely random, but there seemed to be a pattern. All of the comments were below articles about travel, nature and animals. Our conversation continued on for a while and we started to make wild guesses about what was going on. Our theories were as outlandish as they were dumb, but at least we had a bit of fun, we could let our imagination run wild. By there, it was pretty late, though, so we went to bed. It was the next day I found a couple more messages from my new friend on Discord. The first few were about other blogs and websites he'd found comments under. The last message was where things got interesting. He said they'd discovered a link, or at least part of a URL, under some

comments. After toying around with it for hours, he somehow figured out the full URL. I'd no clue how We did it. The page took forever to load. Once it was done, it was nothing but a list of URLs. When I clicked one of them, it sent me to yet another article with similar comment below. That's when I was hooked. There had to be something going on here. As I started to scroll down the page, I realized that there were hundreds, if not thousands, of articles. Every single one I had clicked had one of those weird comments. It was by sheer accident and wild clicking that I found something else. I was sent to a blank page with nothing but a simple entry field on it.

There was no description on the page, no text, nothing, only this one simple entry field. When I clicked it, I saw that I could type something into it. I typed a quick, hello, and pressed enter to see what would happen. A second after I sent my message a, hello, popped up on the screen below the field. Who are you? I typed into the box. Another short little pause before I got another message. I don't know. It was evident that I was dealing with some sort of chatbot similar to cleverbot.

I toyed around with the thing for a bit. While most messages prompted normal or silly answers, some got a bit weirder. Here are a few of the answers I got. What's your name? Toby. How old are you? Time is not real where I am. Do you like books?

I cannot see. Where were you last night? In your mom, X-D. At first I thought it was merely programmed so that specific keywords would trigger these weird cryptic messages. Then I decided to ask some of the questions again to see what answers I'd get now. This time they were different. How old are you? Nine.

Where were you last night? In the dark. So far it was nothing too weird. A reasoned that it was a less sophisticated version of Cleverbop. I asked a few more questions, but the answers were mostly silly and nonsensical. Then I got yet another cryptic one. Where are you? In a different place.

One that exists nowhere. I really checked it off as a shitty AI, and that was it for me. The next reply sent a shiver down my spine. Are you alone? I am never alone. The men in the walls are always watching. Reading something like this out of nowhere can be a bit creepy. unsettling even, especially when it's the middle of the night and you're all by yourself.

I decided to ask another question. Who were the men in the walls? You were in a wall? Well, I guess it's back to nonsense. It was at this point that I stopped toying with it. I sent a quick message to my new friend about my findings, and after that I watched a couple of YouTube videos and went to bed. When I got up, I had a few new messages.

The guy wrote that he thought the same thing as me, nothing but a shitty chatbot that someone must have put together. It might even incorporate clever bot and add in random cryptic messages every once in a while, most likely to fuck with people who look too deeply into things. To be honest, I was a bit disappointed. I'd really hope this was something more interesting. It was sheer boredom that sent me back to the chatbot later that evening. Here are a few of the interactions I had with it.

Hello, chatbot. I'm different now. Another strange message. Guess I'll bite. Different from what? From the men in the walls. There it was again. Who were the men in the walls?

Watching. Watching who? Watching you? No. I'm watching you. Why? So you don't steal my stuff? XD.

The rest continued on similarly. Most of the replies I got were just like the ones you get from Kleberpot. The men in the wall. Wall's comments stuck with me, though. I found myself going back to the bot again and again. I don't know why, but I decided to put down all the strange or cryptic replies I got from the bot and put them into a document. They didn't appear often, but after a while, they all seemed to be similar. Here are the ones I got later that evening. Do you like movies? I am trapped. Why are you trapped. The men in the walls trapped me. What's your name? Toby. Are you a bot? I do not want to be.

Don't want to be what? Do not want to be here. Do not want to be where? Do not want to be here. Do you like movies? Do not want to be here. This went on for a while. Great. I thought, I broke the damn thing. I must have asked more than a dozen questions and all I got for an answer was the same. do not want to be here. Finally, though, I got a different reply. Why are you there? The men in the walls made me here. This was getting creepy and seriously interesting.

Why did the men in the walls put you there? Calculations. What calculations? I do not like math. What calculations do you do? Math is stupid, X-D. After that, the bot's replies had once more deteriorated. Whatever I tried, I only got nonsense.

I decided to try some of the messages I sent the bot before that had gotten me weird or cryptic messages, if only to see how it would react. How old are you? There is no time here. Where are you? In the dark. What's your name? Toby. How old are you?

Nine. Can you see? I can do nothing. Why can't you? Because the men in the walls trapped me in a computer. Okay. We've officially crossed the border into Bizarroland. Why did they trap you? No, you were trapped.

Why did the men in the walls trap you? To calculate. I sat there reading through all the messages I'd sent so far and I couldn't help but be crept out. There were so many that made no sense, but some stuck out. In the dark Toby 9 Trapped in a computer

To do calculations I can do nothing Time is not real where I am Because the men in the walls trapped me in a computer It was just nonsense It had to be Someone was probably sitting at home

Sliding me these weird messages And laughing their ass off Yet I tried again What are you Human No you're a bot Help me What do you mean?

Help me. Why do you need help? Help me. Are you Toby? Help me. Whatever I entered now, all I got was, help me. It was at this point that I closed off the page. I shook my head, yet I couldn't help but shiver.

Someone was definitely doing a great job at scaring random people on the internet with this thing. That day, I sent my new friend a message about the weird things I'd encountered on the chatbot. I didn't wait for an answer and I went to bed. When I checked my messages the next day, I had one by him. Interesting, but the bot seems to be gone now. There's only a message on the page that saying the bot is discontinued, it read. I quickly opened the chatbot again, but he was right. The entry field was gone. Instead, the only thing that the page had now was simple text. Thank you for participating in the testing of our new AI bot. Your data will be very useful in our further development. The version of the bot you used has been retired. We'll be happy to be back

with a newer version in the future. Well, I thought, that's up. I closed to page, but something didn't feel right. Why the help me? Why all those weird messages? Had the bot learned it from someone else? I'd never trickered a reply like, help me or I am trapped from cleverbot. I went back to the page that contained the URL list. I scrolled around, but as I'd expected, there was nothing new, only the same old links, National Geographic.co.com, Wondaloss.com, Nomadicmaticmat.com, and other similar pages. I slowly scrolled through them all. It was after almost half an hour that I found a different URL buried between the rest of them. The domain name was weird, consisting only of random numbers and letters.

I clicked the link and a new page opened up. At first, it was just a blank page again, but it was still loading. After a minute of waiting, the page finally loaded. I had no clue what it was, though. It just seemed to be a scientific document. I scrolled through it, and I had no idea what I was reading. There was so much scientific mumbo-jumbo. The little I understood made it clear that it was a document about AI programming.

There were many chapters about topics like neural networks. networks, game theory and deep learning. As much as I tried to wrap my brain around, I just couldn't. There was one part, though, that caught my interest. In the later chapters, the topic of man-machine combinations was mentioned. It talked at length about the process of combining the human brain with a computer-based neural network to create a more advanced AI. I scanned part of it, but it all read like a freaking science fiction novel.

The more I read, the more I had stye to hurt. When I reached the end of the document, I found hundreds of comments. The first one was from the beginning of 2014. All of them were written in a similar scientific fashion. Some mentioned different stages and iterations of some weird project. It took me minutes before I got to the current year. When I finally reached the end, I found one last comment written just the night before. Help me.

I stared at it for a long time. So many things were on my mind, but none made sense. I scrolled up and down the document again to read more of it. It wasn't long before the page refreshed itself and I got a 404 page not found error. When I tried to re-access the link list, none of the URL seemed to be working anymore. When I refreshed the page, I got the same result. 404, page not found. The same is true for the page of the chatbot now.

I don't know what I stumbled upon there. I don't know if I stumbled upon anything there at all. That's why I'm writing this down. Maybe some of you can help me make a bit more sense of it. There, see how fun it is to have a nice chat with someone? And speaking with others can be more than just fun. It can be very therapeutic. Let me explain, as we now have a word from our sponsor, Better Help.

So why is it so helpful to be able to speak with someone who, is trained to help us with our mental health? Well, think about it. It's summertime. You're probably outside more, being more active, staying healthy. And if you're like me, rocking that perfect beach body. Yes, well, that's all well and good, but what about your brain, your mind, the part of you that really matters? Are you doing what it takes to keep it as healthy as it can be? For me, I like to keep my brain active with daily fun things like puzzles, you know, whirdle and stuff like like that. And I've been making these fun little stock video horror stories for our social media platforms recently. And that stuff keeps the old brain box active. But I've also learned that it is

very helpful to engage in therapy and to talk through emotional issues with a therapist, like you can with a trained BetterHelp therapist. BetterHelp is online therapy that offers video, phone, and even live chat-only therapy sessions. So you don't have to see anyone on camera if you don't want to. It's much more affordable than in-person therapy, and you can be matched with a therapist in under 48 hours. Our listeners get 10% off their first month at betterhelp.com slash no sleep. That's betterh-E-L-P dot com slash no sleep. So keep your mind in good health. You'll be glad you did. And now, hop in the car as we return to the horror. This one will drive. drive you crazy.

If you have a phone, it's very likely you've received one of those calls about extending your car's warranty, even if you don't have a car. Robo calls, am I right? They're bad enough most of the time, but what if you've had a really bad day? Like the man in this tale, shared with us by author Vince DeJohnny. He's a 911 operator, and the last thing he wants to do is deal with more phone calls, unless, of course, he can vent some steam by wasting the spammers time. Performing this tale are Graham Rowett, Atticus Jackson, Aaron Lillis, Jessica McAvoy, Nicole Goodnight, Mike Delgado,

Sarah Thomas, Dan Zippula, Jesse Cornett, Nicole Doolin, Mary Murphy, and Mick Wingert. So if your phone rings, look for the spam call notice, otherwise you might answer it to hear the dreaded phrase, we've been trying to reach you concerning your vehicle's extended warranty. Juan, what's your emergency? I was shaking. I'm barely able to hold the phone steady against my ear. Send the police to my location, please. She was just about to ask exactly where that was, but I know they can track cells at this point, so I don't answer. Instead, I say, my name is Vince. I'm wanted by the FBI.

I'll keep the phone on until the cops arrive. Finally, the nightmare is over. The torment can stop. I sink down into an empty office chair. I know it's the operator's job to try to keep me talking. I do what I said I would. Stay on the phone. But I turn the volume way down, barely audible through my racing thoughts.

Officers will be here in about 20 minutes, I bet. My fingers are sticky. I look down at them. wet red smudges across the tips. Some blood must have gotten on the phone. I touch my ear. It's wet too. I stand up again and start pacing the small office trying to slow my breathing.

I can't use voice. Can't record video. No one would believe it if I did. How do I even begin to explain this without sounding crazier than I already do? You know those robocalls? Or at least what I thought were just computer, You should have received a notice in the mail about your car's extended warranty eligibility. Press two to be removed and placed on our do not call list.

To speak to someone about possibly extending or reinstating your vehicle's warranty, press one to speak with a warranty specialist. It seems funny, looking back on it, but I guess if I had any advice, it would be... Don't press one. I'm sure you wouldn't. Most people would hang up. Some people might even press two. Obviously, they hope you'll press one, because you're concerned about your car or you're old or stupid.

I don't know. That's not me. I pressed one because I'd had a shitty fucking day. Let me back up. You might have guessed. I'm a 911 operator myself. Almost every day is a shitty fucking day. Don't get me wrong.

I love being able to help people in crisis. Before you go thinking, my cautionary tale is about a... good person getting screwed over by some scam artist. It's not for two reasons. One, I wouldn't call myself a good person. Maybe I would have a few years ago. But for two, I wish they'd just stolen my credit. Now, the thing they don't tell you before becoming an operator is that one out of every five calls, at least in my area, will be someone speaking their last words on the phone, and that you'll never be able to forget that silence you hear afterwards. Fuck that silence.

Three days ago, after a particularly silence-filled shift, I shut my headphones in my ears on my walk home. The used always helps fill the space. I'm halfway home, air drumming along with the taste of ink, when the song stops, replaced by my obnoxious ringtone. My phone's always on vibrate, so when it actually rings in my ears, I'm doubly annoyed. It's a 4-43 number, local.

It's probably spam, but what if it isn't? My grandmother's old. My dad is always getting involved in things he shouldn't. Maybe I won the goddamn lotto. I answer. We've been trying to reach you concerning your vehicle's extended warranty. Of fucking course. I'm just about home.

No more time to relax before it's back to reality. Well, if they waste my time, I'll waste theirs. I press one. It's a real person. Hello, my name is Paul. Who am I speaking with? No accent. Surprising.

Vince. I said, why not? Vince. What is your last name? I hesitate. This is obviously a trick. I have to be able to look your warranty up in our system, sir. Oh, he's good at this.

Vince Bennett? Fake last name, just to mess with him. I hear typing. Thank you for joining the call today. I see your warranty here. Could you please verify the make and model of your car? I make up more info. Ah, yes, I see that.

Thank you for confirming. How can I help you today? I'd like to extend that warranty that I keep hearing about. Can I do that? Absolutely, sir. Let me... Some bullshit I don't remember now. It's not important.

But the thing he said next threw me off. Oh, I see your profile here, sir, and would happily extend your warranty free of charge. I just need you to repeat a phrase for me to confirm that you're all right with that. Free of charge? He didn't need a credit card or have me wire $500 to some prints in Africa? Well, what was the phrase? The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. For real? I repeat it, emulating his diction.

Was he messing with me back? Maybe he found out that my name was fake. Maybe it wasn't associated with whatever database he had linked to my cell phone and he just wanted to get me in the system. Either way, it wasn't funny anymore. I was about to hang up when he quickly thanks me for my time. Don't hesitate to call us back if you encounter any issue with your new warranty. And ends the call.

Bert McCracken's voice yells at me in my earbuds. I almost forget I was listening to music. Honestly, the call was weird. It got me through the end of my walk and into my apartment. At the time it ended, I was lying on my sofa, baffled. Z, my roommate, called out from the other room. Who were you on the phone with? Nobody.

It was probably what I said. It wasn't until later that night when things got weirder. I remember the time exactly. 237 a.m. when my phone was vibrating so loud that it woke me up. I looked over in my stupor to see another random number calling. I ignored it. Bitch buttoned and tried to go back to sleep. It started vibrating again. Different number this time. All right, going to silent.

I found myself staring into a mirror, one of those full-length ones. I touched it, and my reflection mimicked it. Then my hand kept coming closer. through the mirror. I couldn't move, but rather just watched my own fingers wiggle eagerly as they came toward my neck. The face in the mirror made a motion to shush me,

as if telling me everything was okay. His hand clenched around my throat, and I felt the grip start to tighten. Then I jolted awake. My phone read 6.54 a.m., just a few minutes before my alarm was supposed to go off. After the one call in the middle of the night, I expected to wake up with a bunch of spam voicemails, regretting, adding myself to whatever list I'd gotten to.

All for what? Just to satisfy some ego about standing up to an annoyance? Ah, shake it off. Coffee, breakfast, shower, then back into work. My co-worker Lorraine stopped me near the clock-in station. I thought you're out sick today. Murphy Force you in? Out sick? She clarified. Apparently I called out-suit. sick today. Our boss took me off the schedule. It wasn't me. I'm obviously not sick. Luckily, no one else had filled the spot yet, so I was able to work. It seemed like a normal workday,

a few break-ins, one woman calling because her boyfriend smoked the last of her weed. Not 911 worthy, by the way. Six car accidents. Until I got a crisis call. A man threatening self-harm. There's probably a full transcript being written up. up of the call. I'm sure it'll release on some news report in a few days, once this whole situation's been sorted out or after they announce I've been arrested. But for now, I'd rather not relive the whole thing if I can help it. And to spare you most of the routine details, the caller was a man in his 30s. It wouldn't give me a name, but he did sound familiar to me. Maybe a repeat caller or someone famous I'd heard before. He gave me his location and I dispatched DMS and police as quickly as

possible. It's protocol to try to keep them on the phone, so I did. You said you're in your bedroom, right? What color the walls? Blue. I'm sure you have something hanging that's important to you, a poster or a picture of family or friends? Nothing. I have no one. I'm completely alone. You're not alone. I'm here with you. He was starting to sound desperate. Sad, maybe even crying. I'd love to know your name. You tell me something about yourself and I'll tell you something about Me. Then we won't be strangers. I heard some movement. A siren way in the distance on the other end of the phone. The police were close. Then a click, something metallic. I thought he'd hung up at first until he said. A gunshot rang out, blaring into my ear. I shot up from my desk out of terror, and Lorraine looked at me from across the cubes. Are you okay? The sound of the gun, the squish. The slump. Then nothing echoed over and over in my head. Then there was always just silence after.

Two minutes and twelve seconds of silence through my headset as I waited on the phone for officers to arrive at the scene and pick up, letting me know what happened. But I knew what happened. They didn't need them to tell me. Surprisingly, they never did. That one hundred thirty-two second wait was until my boss tapped me on the shoulder. She called me into her office. Dispatch and EMTs just reported that they found no one on the scene you sent them to. Nobody, no gun. The location was an elderly couple alone.

Didn't you trace the call after you were given the address? Of course I did. We were on the phone for a while. I didn't make a mistake. The number was a landline associated with the house at that location. Does the name Bence Bennett mean anything to you? Fuck. I realized.

I'd just gotten pranked for lying to a spam caller. And I thought it was real. I didn't tell her. I couldn't. Instead, I left work early. Turned out I wasn't feeling all that great after all. That evening, the phone calls continued again. On the fourth, I answered.

I pressed one. Please wait to hear the full menu of options before putting in your request. For real? I waited. I heard the goddamn menu, then I pressed one again. Hello, Vince Bennett. This is Paul. Are you enjoying your car's new extended warranty? Listen, you fucking asshole. I let him have it. I knew it was him, and he knew I knew. But why the fuck was he doing this? What was the point? I was never giving him money. He can try to scam someone else.

It's not about money. Everyone always assumes it's about money. I very politely asked what the fuck it was about. Enough of this cryptic bullshit. He explained quickly, like he was anticipating my responses. You know, your real last name is associated with your phone number, right? Not to mention, you don't even own a car. I hesitated. Should I just hang up? He'd probably keep calling me. But something in his voice told me there was more. How was work today? So clever, I touted back, refusing to waver or give this asshole even a tiny ounce of what he wanted. If you gave me a real name, I could probably figure out where you're hiding, too.

I'm not hiding. I'll text you our address if you want to meet with customer's service in person. Just ask for Paul, but you won't. Why's that? An incoming text made me jump. Was I actually nervous talking to this guy? Something about his tone just seemed too cheerful. Before I could look, a different voice on the phone spoke,

the one I vaguely recognized from the 911 call that day. You'll be too busy handling your roommate. They're not home. Paul, or whoever that was, hung up. But then the apartment door flew open. Oh, thank God you're okay. Zee rushed in, giving me a hug. What the hell?

Why wouldn't I be okay? Because of the voicemail you left me? They pulled out their phone, pressed a button while giving me a look like there were three of me. I stared with my eyebrow raised, questioning, until Z's phone started to replay the message. Zee, it's me. The voice started crying, hysterical and deeply disturbed at one moment. It's happening again. The kitchen floor is too much to move.

And then whispering, almost like a secret. to a child. I pulled all my fingernails out. There was heavy breathing into the phone, until Zee ended the voicemail. My eyes were wide, and I can only imagine the look on my face. He called you, too? This was getting scary. That same guy who called 911 earlier, who hung up on me a minute ago, was now calling other people in my life too. But I wasn't prepared for what Zee said. What do you mean he? That was you on the phone. Excuse me? I didn't believe it. Even when Zee showed me their phone screen. One missed call. New voicemail from my cell number with my face next to it. That's not me.

Of course it is. That's your voice. We've been down this road. Is that why I didn't recognize it? That can't be right. Don't answer this. I pulled out my own phone. It rang. Z, bitch-buttoned it, knowing what I was doing. Zee, it's me. It's happening again. I tried to imitate what I could remember. I ended the call.

Without skipping a beat, Zee played it back to me. Zee, it's me. That's the thing about your own voice. You don't recognize it on the phone. Maybe it's the mechanical nature of technology. That thing you hear people talk about where their voice inside their head is different from the one everyone else here. It's bizarre, but it certainly was my voice. The same one, maybe, that was from the missed call, the one that spoke to me earlier.

What the fuck was going on? Are you losing time? You should go to the police, or the doctor. Among other unhelpful suggestions, what the hell were the police going to do? I wasn't going crazy. Right? You better make sure you didn't call your wife with this shit. I clarified ex-wife.

I checked my phone. No outgoing calls placed in the last, oh, 200 incoming at this point. None to Z, and definitely none to my ex. The rest of the day was empty. No missed calls from Paul or any other random number. The silence was almost worse than the constant ringing had been. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep. I just held my phone looking at the internet.

coming call screen every few minutes, then clicking over to my text messages. The text from the number actually was an address. Somewhere in Virginia, about three hours south of me. I checked Google Maps, and there was definitely something there. A square building with no name associated in the middle of the woods. The cursor blinked back at me, almost tempting me to respond. I'd never actually go there. That would be idiotic.

I'd be human trafficked or killed. on the spot by whatever shady crap was happening there. I certainly wouldn't voluntarily put myself in danger just to stop some spam phone calls and I couldn't even stand up for myself when it counted. I could call the cops, maybe, leave an anonymous tip. But then what if it isn't a real address? They'd just be messing with me again. Whoever they were.

I saved the number from the text as a new contact in my phone. Paul. It seemed like my best option was to leave it alone. I clicked back, away from the address, put my phone down on the nightstand, and tried to fall asleep. After a futile few minutes, I picked up my phone again and texted my ex. If you have a missed call from me, just delete the voicemail. A bang outside my room nearly made me fall out of the bed. Then it was followed by a few more.

Was someone pounding on the door? Zee? I called down the narrow hall. They popped out of their bedroom. Not them. We crept to the door. Another set of pounding, followed by... This is the Baltimore Police Department.

Open up! Zee backed off. I didn't blame them. I'll answer the door. First, I peered through the peephole. Yep, dressed in police uniforms. That didn't really mean anything. Can you hold some ID up to the door?

We're here looking for Vincent. Is that you? Open the door, or we have authority to knock it down. down. What the fuck? I let them in. Z. stood with their phone in hand just in case. Once inside, it was like a whirlwind. Sir, you're going to need to come with us. What's this about? I protested, but not stupidly enough to get myself shot. They wouldn't tell me, but I went with them, shoved in the back of a police car for an uncomfortably silent ride to the nearest station. They rushed me to a room with a small

table and chair. A camera was set up across from me. They'd taken my things. Good riddance to the cell phone for a bit. I stood at that table in the middle of the night, wondering if I'd uncovered some weird conspiracy or a criminal mastermind named Paul on whom I was the only one with info. Yeah, right. My blood was boiling, knots in my stomach, nervous, anxious, scared, you name it. And I'd been in this Precinct before, although not under the same circumstances, obviously. After what felt like hours, someone finally came in. A man in a suit introduced himself as Detective Bosch. He was a prick in case anyone there is reading this. And I still deny what they have on the recording. I'm sure you know why we're here. I didn't. And he didn't like that answer. He pulled out a

laptop and placed it on the table. After typing something, he spun it around. and pressed play. I didn't recognize the first voice on the recording. Baltimore City PD. Where can I direct your call? But I did recognize the second. I'd like to confess to a shooting. The recording went on with extreme detail.

The person on the call, me, described the shooting of a man a few weeks ago in a back alley across the city. I remember those reports. I watched the news religiously. The guy was a dealer. cops initially thought self-defense or a deal gone wrong. His blood tested positive for a bunch of stuff, and they found unmatched DNA on the scene.

Detective Bosch asked if I'd submit a sample of DNA, which, of course, I would. I wasn't involved in any shooting. But you own a 22-caliper handgun, correct? The bullet used by the shooter was identified. I did. Just because it was the same type of gun I owned. "'owned, registered and locked away in my bedroom "'didn't mean anything.

"'He asked if they could examine the gun. "'I said no, unless my DNA somehow proved I was on the scene. "'But that would have taken things to another level. "'Weigh past someone who sounded like me "'calling in a fake confession. "'You know false confessions are a crime in themselves, right? "'That wasn't me on the phone. "'Someone is harassing me.

"'Sure, he probably said. It's all a blur at this point. I was kept there for hours and then finally released. Bosch handed me my phone back, glaring at me. Don't leave the state. I hadn't planned on it, but after looking at my phone, waiting at the bus stop, I reconsidered. 10.21 a.m., 7.54 missed calls. 300 voicemails and another few hundred texts.

It took me the rest of the day to go through them all. There were hate messages, dickpicks, solicitations for sex, spam offers, graphic violent videos and images texted to me. And my mom saying to call me, call me now! I had a handful of loan approval messages and amounts ranging from $1,000 to $50,000. Personal loans, a home loan in my name, apparently. A voicemail from my boss. If you were going to quit, You could have at least given me two weeks and not been such an ass on the phone.

Fine. You won't be missed. Even a few dozen from my ex-wife. You fucking asshole, and I hope you choke, were among the text highlights. I didn't even make it through the voicemails before calling her. How dare you fucking call me? I tried to explain. I don't want to hear any more of your bullshit excuses. If you're drinking again or on drugs, then fine.

Go die in a back alley for all I care. But you cannot say those things about our daughter just because you don't want to accept that you're a coward who didn't protect us. I grieved my own way, and part of it was getting rid of you. Zee was gone when I got back, with a note that just said, get help. And I was on the phone the rest of the afternoon

trying to unravel what had happened. Sir, we can't take the money back just because you're regretting the loan, and your father and I think you should go to therapy. No one should talk to people the way you did. Or, thank you for your generous donation to the Children's Hospital. We've publicly announced our gratitude. They had my name, my voice, my fucking social security number, credit card info.

I don't know what else. I don't know how they got it all. Just talking on the phone? My phone beeped mid-conversation with someone, trying to undo whatever was done in those few hours. An update from your provider. We're sorry to see you go. And then I had no service.

But I could still pull up my old text messages. And staring me in the face, it was right there. That fucking address. With the name above it like a friend. Paul. On autopilot, I was bent over in front of my nightstand, grabbing whatever cash I had, my gun, and a hoodie. It came to my senses during a two-hour train ride south,

as I was questioning what I was doing. Damning myself for answering that phone call in the first place and wondering why I thought I could fix any of this by walking into a sketchy building, carrying a tiny, single-shot self-defense pistol. I got into a taxi in Virginia, paying cash. I'm honestly surprised they even still existed, but it helped since I now had maxed credit on all my cards

and zero dollars in my checking account. Hell, my Uber account was probably hacked too. The driver didn't want to talk, which I was glad about. I was not in the mood to let anyone else hear my voice. I sort of stared out the window as the cab went from cityscape to back roads to middle of nowhere dirt path. Embedded in the back of the passenger's side car was one of those little taxi TVs playing the news on mute. On it, the headline ticker read, Former 911 operator calls in bomb threat against U.S. Capitol.

Police raid apartment. Next to the reporter was a captioned picture of me. Armed and dangerous. I didn't feel very dangerous. The driver turned to face me. We're here, I think. We were stopped on a gravel road with a dead-end sign. I looked around after I paid him.

He drove away quickly. Can't blame the guy. He'll probably get asked about this by the police once they figure it out. Sorry, buddy. The woods around here were dense. The gravel road was atop a pretty steep hill, and it was either climb up another hill to see what was up there or go down to hope there was something below.

I chose down. Down seemed like less effort, and I was exhausted. About halfway down is when I saw it. A small gray building about the same shape as whatever I'd seen on Google Maps. There were no signs. No logos. Nothing. It just sort of sat in the middle of the woods. I watched the only door I could see, even after the sun went down. No one came in or out. So I decided to knock. Nothing at first. Then I pounded at the red metal door. There was a video camera looking down on me. I looked back up at it and pulled my hood off my head. The camera turned away. I kept pounding. Then the door swung out toward me. I had my hand on the gun inside my hoodie pocket.

I tensed with it. Was I really going to shoot someone? What if it was Paul? Or what if, even worse? It was me. Or whoever sounded like me on the other side of that door. Holy shit. There was a bearded man standing in the doorway.

He sounded like Paul. You're early? Then he smiled. You want the door? He waved me in, leaving the door open. My hand didn't stop tensing, but he just walked back inside, so I followed. What was this place? The hallway was dark, with a small red overhead light.

I could barely see down the corridor as I followed into what was most definitely a trap, but Paul seemed to know where he was going. He took a right at the end of the hall into some room with glass windows. I could see inside before going in. The entire wall was lined with computer screens. Dozens, if not a hundred computers, all running some software. I went in after him. Welcome to the call center.

As if I knew what that was. He waved his hand around. On the table in the center was a single laptop, office phone, and it was probably his personal cell phone sitting next to it. He sat in the chair. We figured you'd get caught by the police before actually making it here. But you act on impulse, huh? You made it out of the state before we even called in the bomb threat.

You folded. And the only thing I could think to say was, we? Ah, yeah, the call center. This is just the one in this area. There's a bunch of DOD facilities gathering data for an AI voice program called MMIK, or MIMIC. It's a program that can replicate any human voice. as long as it has enough samples. I'll spare you the boring details,

but essentially this man's job was to call people using automated telephone software, then anyone who spoke was to be flagged in a system where they'd be monitored and recorded, gathering voice samples so that another AI program could replicate the voice perfectly for any phrase, any inflection. It's like creating a virtual copy of someone,

as Paul described it. They were in late-stage testing, rolling out a final version soon. He was very excited about it, much more than I was. Since you're a 911 operator, your voice was already recorded hundreds of times. So as soon as you said that quick fox phrase, we had enough to start using it. You're like an alpha tester. How cool is that?

The FBI even authenticated the sample as a real threat. I squeezed the gun grip inside my hoodie pocket. You ruined my life. To test a software. Not just any software. This is going to revolutionize... I don't care! I was furious.

Maybe even more mad now that I knew. You destroyed everything! Relax! We relocate everyone this happens to. You'll get a new life, new job, new identity, and... My ears started buzzing. And that brings me full circle. I found him.

I found me or us or them or whatever you want to call it. I thought it was just one guy. I figured he was trying to make a buck. Scam some people. Scare me. But after Paul explained everything to me, told me why and what it was all for, I felt angry.

I felt taken advantage of. We stood there and he just kept fucking talking. Talking in circles, like everything was amazing and great. This latest test proves the endless possibilities of the software. Telling me about why they did this and that and blah, blah, blah. I just wanted him to stop. I wanted to not feel like a weakling who was at the mercy of whatever other people wanted to tell me across the phone.

I wanted to be good and to be needed. And now I could never be either. I wanted to make him stop talking. So I pulled the trigger anyway. But then there was a loud sound. Followed by silence. Sweet, sweet silence. Police are going to arrive, and they're going to help me.

I hope. They'll find the body, of course, because I'm not hiding it. I'm sitting right next to it. Blood's still dripping from the bullet hole. After I shot him, I took his phone from the table and dialed 911. Then I opened his web browser and made this account. It took me while to write this. way more than it should have taken the cops to get here,

even if it was in the middle of the woods. It was the 911 operator, but it wasn't the same woman I had spoken to when I called. The voice was... It was my own again. I fumbled with the phone, turning the volume back up. The police aren't coming, Vince. The phone buzzed.

A new text popped up from a random number. It was another address. We hope you survived our terrifying tales. Join us again next week, if you dare. The No Sleep Podcast Hour is presented by WNSP in conjunction with Creative Reason Media. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cordette. Our creative content manager is Olivia White.

Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. If you would like to find out how you can hear the extended editions of our 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 Hour, we thank you for tuning in. This program is copyright 2022 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respect of authors. No duplication or reproduction of this program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.