The NoSleep Podcast - S18 Ep7: NoSleep Podcast S18E07

Episode Date: August 7, 2022

Tune in to Episode 7 of Season 18 for community horror!“In the Dead of Night” written by Anneliese Amelia Boyd (Story starts around 00:02:30)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Mick Wingert“The Doghead Man” written by Anneliese Amelia Boyd (Story starts around 00:06:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Jessie – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Timothy – Elie Hirschman“Meet the Bickles” written by Thomas DÌaz (Story starts around 00:20:30)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Shane – Kyle Akers, Zoe – Nichole Goodnight, Little Tom – Jeff Clement, Papa Tom – Jeff Clement, Paul – Dan Zappulla, Dad – Mike DelGaudio“The Affair” written by Joseph Davis (Story starts around 00:41:20)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Graham Rowat, Chloe – Kristen DiMercurio“The Burden of Leadership” written by Jae Christopher (Story starts around 00:50:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – David Cummings“There Is Nothing in This World More Disgusting Than the Common Housefly” written by Ryan Peacock (Story starts around 01:07:35)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Ashley – Mary Murphy, Mr. Arnold – Graham Rowat“Deep Ear Attention” written by Thomas E. Staples (Story starts around 01:36:55)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Becky – Erika Sanderson, TingleCutie – Jessica McEvoy, Woman – Erin Lillis, Mr. Davies – Andy Cresswell, Mum – Penny Scott-AndrewsThis 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/nosleepBetterhelp - 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 Thomas DíazExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“There Is Nothing in This World More Disgusting Than the Common Housefly” illustration courtesy of Naomi RonkeAudio 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

Daddy Cassie, old Teddy Cassie, all the tell's famous talking dolls. We pulled the ring, and you say you left them different things. Let's play house. Ah, the commercials of the 60s, where creepy talking dolls were all the rage. That's some good, no-sleep podcast material right there.

And back in the 60s, buying those creepy dolls, or any other product, usually meant paying cash. Credit cards were pretty new back then, and not many people were charged. their purchases. Fast forward to 2022, and lots of us use credit cards and carry credit card debt. Oh, curse all those creepy dolls I put on my card. But listen, saying goodbye to high-interest credit card

debt is one of the first steps towards financial independence. But the interest month after month can feel like you're in a never-ending hamster wheel. That's where Upstart comes in. Upstart powered personal loans can help you pay down high-interest debt, all online. with simple and easy to understand payment terms. Upstart has helped over 1.8 million customers on their path to financial freedom. Whether it's paying off credit cards, consolidating high interest debt, or funding personal expenses, Upstart can help you get one fixed monthly payment with a clear payoff date. Upstart knows you're more than just your credit score,

so rather than looking at your credit score alone, Upstart's model considers other factors like your income, employment, and other information provided in your loan application to find you a smarter rate for your loan. You can check your rate in minutes for loans between $1,000 to $50,000 without impacting your credit score. You can even receive funds as fast as one business day after accepting your loan. So here my command. Don't wait and check your rate today at upstart.com slash no sleep. That's upstart.com slash no sleep to check your rate today. And please don't forget to use our URL to let them know we sent you.

And one other thing, don't forget that loan amounts will be determined based on your credit, income, and certain other information provided in your loan application. So go to upstart.com slash no sleep. And now it's time to get in the zone and start the horror. A particularly loud clap of thunder rouses Albert from sleep. The house rumbles and the window panes rattle violently. He pulls himself up, reaches for the water glass on the nightstand and takes a long sip. Water always tastes best in the dead of night.

Albert then decides to empty his bladder. He walks to the bathroom and relieves himself. Lightning illuminates the backyard for a fraction of a second. Albert nearly falls backwards as fear grips him. Did he see someone standing at the back gate? He walks to the back door, peels back the curtain, and flash. The yard's empty. Thunder rocks the house.

Albert pads back to his room. It must have been his sleep-deprived brain playing tricks. Albert climbs into bed and closes his eyes. He feels his wife Mabel stir. Her arm drapes over him. Albert's guts twist. A damp, earthy stench creeps into his nostrils. A scream catches in his throat.

Mabel's been dead for ten years. You're sleepless in another dimension. A dimension of horror, cursed to be frightened and disturbed. A journey into a terrifying land whose boundaries are inky darkness. Your next stop, the no-sleep zone. Now open the door. Brace yourself for the No Sleep podcast. You're now in the middle ground between light and shadow.

I'm David Cummings, and this is the No Sleep Zone. Thunder. They say it only happens when it's raining. And when creepy people are outside in your yard in the middle of the night. A rather enlightening tale from author Annalise, Amelia Boyd, from the tale which was this episode's cold open, In the Dead of Night, performed by Mick Wingert. It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

Well, I'm sure it is somewhere. You in your own home, feeling somewhat safe, the people who live next door or down the street. It's all so idyllic, so white picket fence, am I right? Ah, but there is darkness behind those doors. Perhaps even behind your doors. And so, as it was in the 60s and as it is today, let's find the horror in the places least expected.

We won't leave it to beaver. We'll uncover it ourselves. Now that's the signpost up ahead. Your next stop awaits as the horror begins. In our first tale, we meet a babysitter. And when you combine a babysitter with a horror story, you might think she's going to tell the child a creepy bedtime story. But in this tale, shared with us by author Annalise Amelia Boyd, it's the young boy she's watching who shares a creepy urban legend with her. And in horror stories, urban legends are never real, right?

Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas and Ellie Hirschman. So rest easy and enjoy your night babysitting. And don't worry about the legend of the doghead man. Have you ever heard of the doghead man? I look over the top of my phone. Timothy stops his ferocious scribbling of crayons against copy paper and looks up at me with wide, slightly terrified eyes. He's been quiet for much of the evening,

which struck me as odd because of all the kids I babysit. Timothy is always the most talkative. The what man? The doghead man. There's audible trepidation in his voice, as if the mere mention of its name may conjure it in the middle of his living room. Dale and Marco told me about him today at school, and I... They scared you?

Timothy puffs out his chest a little. No, I'm not scared. I just wanted to know if you know him. I laugh. This isn't the first time those boys have taken advantage of Timothy's gullibility. Months before, they'd bet him a story about how they'd seen The Moth Man, despite us living states away from West Virginia. And a year before that, it was UFOs and little gray aliens.

This time, though, it seems Dale and Marco have gotten creative and made up their own monster instead of using existing intellectual property. No, I've never heard of any dog man. Dog head. Dog head, man. Those boys are just trying to scare you. It's just a spooky story. It's not.

Gregory Danner got taken by him. The smile slips from my lips at the mention of the young boy's name. Gregory Danner is not a myth or legend. He's a flesh and blood five-year-old who'd gone missing a few days earlier. I feel my pulse quicken and my blood begin to boil. Telling silly campfire stories is one thing. All kids do it. They did when I was in school, and they will for years to come.

But to bring a real-life tragedy into it, in my book, is taking it a step too far. I pat the couch beside me. I understand that losing a classmate can be difficult. Kids try to rationalize the horrors of real life by attributing them to fictional monsters. It's hard to understand that those things don't exist, and that sometimes people are the real monsters. The doghead man isn't real. Gregory...

I stopped myself short of saying Gregory wasn't taken, because nobody knows what happened to little Gregory Danner. Was he the likely victim of a stranger abduction? Yes. Was the abduction conducted by whatever the doghead man is? No. not likely the police are looking for Gregory

a monster didn't take Gregory a very bad person did Timothy has tears in his eyes but but Dale and Marco said they asked the doghead man to take Gregory because they didn't like him they called him names like Mr. Pepey pants just because he beat his pants

one time last year last week Mrs. Maple put them in a group with Gregory for arts and crafts, and they made him cry. Mrs. Maple made them pull two cars each. The tears are rolling now. Snott bubbles in Timothy's nostrils. I pull him in for a hug.

Hashnell. Dale and Marco don't sound like very nice kids. I wouldn't listen to what they say. But they said they asked the doghead man to take Gregory away. When did they say that? Today, when they told me, I told Mrs. Maple, and that made them mad at me, so they told me they're going to ask the doghead man to take me next. I make a mental note to ask Timothy's parents if they know Dailen Marco's parents' names. My heart breaks for Timothy.

He's such a bright young boy with such a big heart, and I hate to see him so upset. Nothing's going to happen to you. I'm here. You can't stop him. Nobody can. That's what Dale and Marco said. They said that at midnight is when he'll come. Well, I guess I'll just have to stay up all night to keep watch.

I give him a pat on the back. I won't let anything happen to you. It'll be okay. No, it won't. A sudden spark of curiosity takes hold of me. Did they say how they talked to the dog man, a doghead man? They said he came to their window looking for a place to stay. They keep him in their treehouse and feed him scraps from the table.

That's a little odd. Usually with these sorts of stories, there's some intricate set of rules that needs to be followed in order to summon the desired entity. Say their name the prescribed number of times. Go to the specified place at the specified. time, recite an incantation in some ancient tongue. The list goes on. With a little coaxing, Timothy takes his nightly bath, brushes his teeth, and changes into his pajamas. After I assure him that I'll stay up all night to prevent any dog-headed intruders, Timothy gives me a hug and goes to his room. Moments later, he reappears in the hall, carrying an aluminum baseball bat that's entirely

too large for him. Here. He hands it to me. Just in case the doghead man comes. I prevent myself from laughing. The doghead man must be the first creature of myth whose weakness is sporting equipment. Thanks, buddy.

Now get to bed. From the time I hear Timothy's bedroom door close until about a quarter to midnight, I sit on the couch in the living room watching television. I devote little of my thoughts to the story Timothy had told. me. I'd written it off as stupid playground tall tales. Anybody else would have two. That is, until I hear the scratching. At first, I don't think much of it. Timothy's house is old. It creaks, wood floors pop, pipes rattle and moan. But it persists, so much so that I lower the volume

to my show to hear it better. It's a rhythmic, screey. Screeze. Had Timothy's family gotten a cat but neglected to tell me? Certainly not. The last thing a child would forget to share would be the addition of a new pet to the household. I stand and look about the darkened living room, scanning for anything that might be causing the sound.

But the house is still, still and quiet, save for the perpetual scratching. Mice. It must be mice. It's an old house after all. I rationalize as I feel the hairs on my arm begin to stand. I'm just letting that stupid story about the dogman or whatever get to me. Just to be safe and be the dutiful babysitter I am, I decide to check on Timothy before returning to my spot on the couch.

I walk down the short hallway and stop in front of his ajar door. The sound is louder than it had been in the living room. With crystal clear clarity, I realize what the sound is. Something sharp, moving against the glass. The breath catches in my throat, trapped behind the lump swelling there. My heart thrums in my ear, pounds against my rip cage. I want to run. I want to scream and run out of the house.

But my thoughts return to Timothy. Stealing my nerves, I fling open the door, and instantly wish I hadn't. Standing in the window just above Timothy's bed is a man, wearing the bulbous head of an animal mascot. Floppy ears of matted gray felt drooped down around its stupid, wide-open grin, showing off-fabric teeth-stained yellow. One plastic blue eyes stare sightlessly forward.

The other is missing, leaving a stuffing-filled hole in its absence. His eyes, his real eyes, stare through torn black mesh at the back of its throat, wide and wild. The animal head is all he's wearing. His skin is pale, almost white in the moonlight. Ribs exposed and stomach distended. The nudity, though, isn't what terrifies me.

It's what he's holding in his long, spindly fingers. A kitchen knife. and he's dragging it up and down, up and down the glass. I find my voice. The boy sleepily looks up. Jesse? He turns, sees the doghead man, and screams. Off the door!

But Timothy's already in motion, out of bed, and careening down the hall. I follow him, but not into the bathroom. I grab the bat that I'd leaned against the back of the couch and start for the door. Adrenaline pumps thick through my veins as I throw the front door open. I round the corner of the house to see the naked man in the mascot head still by the window. Hey, you! The doghead swivels dumbly towards me, flopping to the side the same way a confused animal would. He growls and begins to bark.

You! I swing the bat as though preparing to hit a home run, except I wouldn't be knocking a ball out of a stadium. I'd be knocking this pervert's brain clean out of his skull. The man drops the knife and runs for the tree line, buck naked. I give chase, but only until his scrawny form is swallowed up by the dark of the woods. By the time I circle back to the front of the house, I can hear sirens. When the police arrive, I tell them the story as told to me by Timothy.

I give them the names of the boys who told him about the doghead man. They try to get the last names out of Timothy, but he can't remember. The knives collected as evidence. To be dusted for latent prints, I'm told. Timothy's parents are contacted, and they arrive hours later. Only then do I leave from my own home, but I do not go to sleep. I wait for a call from the police. I wait for closure.

I wait for assurance that the man in the mascot head has been found, and my phone finally chimes. The police find the home address of the twin boys, Dail and Marco, but not the boys themselves. A search of the treehouse in their backyard reveals a collection of old and half-eaten cans of food and Tupperware of leftovers, no doubt stolen from the boy's fridge. Most startlingly, they find Gregory Danner's backpack. The fingerprints don't come back to any known offender, but those prints have been found at the scene of several other unsolumbulled. of child abductions in the area. They don't tell me anything else.

It's an ongoing investigation, they say. I don't know who was wearing the mascot head, where he came from, or where he went. I don't know why he took Dale and Marco along with him. I'm told Timothy's parents are looking to sell their home, just in case the doghead man makes his return. Something tells me it'll be a quick closing. When a new family moves into the nation,

They're usually welcomed into the community. But if they seem a bit odd and don't fit in well, it's easy for the locals to start making assumptions about them. Like in this tale, shared with us by author Thomas Diaz, we meet two teen siblings who start spying on the new family, and they find the family's behavior more and more disturbing. Performing this tale are Kyle Acres, Nicole Goodnight, Jeff Clement, Dan Zapula, and Mike Delgado.

So why not take them over a pie? Welcome them to the area. How bad could it be to meet the Bickles? I like small towns. I like living in the one I grew up in. It was quiet, peaceful, and I knew all my neighbors. I just finished high school, and my graduating class literally had 11 people in it. Last month we gave our final performance of Clue.

I was Colonel Mustard. Like I said, I liked it there. That was until they came, the Bickles. On one Saturday morning, five months ago, they drove up to the empty house down the street and started unloading their stuff. They were completely unpacked by lunch. New neighbors were a big deal in our little community,

but I might not have paid so much attention to them at the start if their appearances weren't so odd. They dressed to match in outfits, straight out of the 50s, all pastel and wholesome. It was like looking at an old sitcom, only in 8K resolution. They all moved weird, too, always walking in this creepy, synchronized kind of way. Their names were Tom and Martha Bickle, accompanying them were their teenage twins,

who were strangely also named Tom and Martha Bickle. At first, they seemed friendly enough, smiling at everyone with wide joker grins. They waved the lot in greeting. Their fingers cupped, hands twisting back and forth like they were rotating around a screw on the wrist. In the mornings, they would pack up their minivan with multiple stacks of dishes covered in tinfoil,

returning sometime late in the evening. This went on for months. They kept to the same schedule, seven days a week, without any breaks. The lights in the house stayed on all night, as if all they did was cook. A part of me wondered if they ever slept. Sometimes other people in the same sort of clothes would show up,

load their vehicles with dishes, and leave. Never to be seen again. Shane? Hmm? Do you think they had a catering company? I was only a year older than my sister Zoe, and we were close. She was my main co-conspirator

and scrounging up gossip about the people around us. We just found out yesterday that our neighbor Paul was secretly dating Miss Lopez, our high school principal. It's possible. Maybe they own some kind of classic 50s themed food service, like burgers and malts.

She nodded. I'd buy it. Then two weeks ago, the Bickles' routine changed. Instead of leaving for 12 hours a day, they began going from house to house, knocking on all the neighbor's doors, introducing themselves and handing out baked dishes.

They did this again and again, sometime even visiting the same, house twice a day. By midway through the week, I knew that, based on everywhere they'd visited so far, they'd be dropping by our place within a few days. The day before everything went wrong, all four of them were out doing the walk they do along the sidewalk. The mom, Mama Martha, as I call her, held a picnic basket in her hand. They made their way to the Hudson's house, which was directly across the street from us. Do you think they're robots? We were watching them from our living room window, ducked down, barely peeking at them from underneath the blinds.

As a precaution, I turned off all the lights in the house. Both of us were bathed in shadows. Hmm. Too high tech. I say bugged people. Ooh, that's a good one. The mother's the queen and the others are the drones? It's all I can think of.

You got something better? Aliens. Nice. Duck, they're leaving the Hudson's. We both did, stooping down low beneath the window. We waited there with bated breath, wondering if they had passed yet. As we looked at each other, a smile broke out across my face, and she flashed me a matching grin. We both started giggling.

Do you think they saw us? No idea. Let's check and see if they're gone. Resting our hands on the windowsill, we slowly raised our heads until we could just barely peer out of the bottom of the window. I let my gaze roam until I saw them. With a picnic basket gone, they seemed to be headed towards the Hudson's next-door neighbor Miss Silva. She was a sweet, older lady who had a pet chihuahua. It was an adorable little dog who hardly ever barked.

They walked on the sidewalk in single file. Their movements perfectly in sync. Watching them was so fascinating. It made me feel like I was watching a lion give its prey that predatory look right before it pounced. I felt myself craning up closer to the glass. And in that moment they all froze. It was if someone had hit pause on them. Four seconds passed.

Then, in unison, all their heads snapped in our direction. Instinct told me to jerk myself down, but Zoe's hand caught my arm. They went on staring our way. Even though they should have been seeing nothing but an empty, unlit house, each had this odd, blank expression on their face. From this distance, I couldn't tell if they were blinking or not. It sure appeared as if they weren't. Papa Tom cocked his head.

The seconds ticked by. None of us moved. It was like a standoff. Everything stiff and still, until our next door neighbor Paul broke it by driving up in his Jeep and parking in his driveway. He called to Tom as he stepped out of the vehicle. Tom, how are you doing, man? You guys serving up anything delicious today?

Papa Tom didn't turn. He smiled, though, and I can see the white flash of his teeth all the way across the street. Yes, apple pie. Would you like some? Oh, man. That sounds fantastic. Is it fresh? Papa Tom's head swiveled in the direction of Miss Silvas' place.

He started to walk on in that creepy, Bickle Way, each movement weirdly precise and distinct. In the same instant, Mama Martha and Little Martha, separated from Paul, heading toward their house. That just left their son, little Tom, though he wasn't exactly little. I'd say he was about my age. Just like his father, he was expressionless. his face blank and passive. What are you doing there, sports? Waiting for my friends.

They live there. He lifted a finger and pointed to our house. More precisely, to our living room window. My mouth went dry. Chills ran down my arms. The lights were out, I reminded myself. He couldn't see us in the dark. Paul knitted his brow.

I don't think they're home there, buddy. Maybe you can come back later? He patted Little Tom on the back. Little Tom didn't reply or even look at him. But after a moment, he shifted to his left and went home. Zoe and I stayed perfectly still for a few minutes longer, watching the empty street. Robots. Definitely robots. Or something worse, I thought.

The following morning, a part of me wanted to thank Paul for what he had done. I mean, I know he didn't exactly do anything, but for some reason I felt like I owed him. I'd already planned on heading over that morning anyway because Paul let me help wash his Jeep every Saturday. That and I wanted to return this book my dad had borrowed. We'd had it for a couple months now. After grabbing Paul's copy of the road, I made my way over to the kitchen and found Zoe sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal in front of her. She was glued to her phone typing. Who are you texting?

Faith. I'm asking if she ate any of that food the Bickles brought over yesterday. Faith was the Hudson's daughter. She and Zoe were in the same grade. Let me know what she says. I opened the front door. My eyes dropped to the porch just before I stepped out. Sitting there was a cheesecake.

On top of it was a note that read, I see you, Tom Bickle. Something caught in my throat and a long shiver ran down my spine. When I was able to breathe again, I called to Zoe. What is it? She came hurrying over to me, and then she followed my eyeline. Holy shit. Um, yep, I'm going to Paul's.

I needed to step away for a minute. Take a few deep breaths, let the cool breeze clear my head. At I walked next door, I gave the Bickles' home a side-long glance and noticed that their minivan was missing. I'd guessed they had gone back to doing their deliveries to whomever. Seeing them gone set me at ease. As long as they were absent for the time being, I was happy. Then I looked back at Paul's house, and my blood froze. His front door was wide open.

I knew he was home because his Jeep was there. He loved that thing. Even called it the Black Panther with its big-ass tires, missing doors and mounted floodlights. He never went anywhere without it. It sat idle in the driveway. I hurried into his living room. Paul? Paul, you hear?

Empty. I moved into the kitchen. Paul! Everything was oddly clean and smelled of bleach. It felt. sterile, like a hospital ward. What made it even weirder was, resting on his dining room table was a half-eaten apple pie.

Something about it caused every hair on my body to stand on end. It looked perfectly normal, no maggots or anything that should have been disturbing. But it completely contrasted with the sanitized environment. This must have been left here on purpose, but why? Maybe it was my imagination, but just looking at that apple pie overwhelmed me with a sense of eerieness. I actually wanted to back away from it. It felt like there was a malevolent presence hanging over it, daring me to approach. I slipped my phone out of my pocket and dialed 911. Twenty minutes after I finished explaining that a family friend had gone missing, the cops arrived.

I gave them another statement. When asked what I was doing there, I told them the truth, that Paul and I had an appointment that morning to wash his Jeep. They told me they'd take it from here and had me vacate the premises. As I was leaving, it occurred to me that Papa Tom Bickle had also been delivering food to Miss Silva's house. On a hunch, I decided to pay her a visit to. As soon as I got there, unease started to fester in the pit of my gut. What was next? I knocked on the door.

No answer. Miss Silva's Toyota Camry was parked in her driveway, just as Paul's Jeep had been parked in his. On top of that, I knew she was both disabled and retired. She never left her house. Feeling my anxiety rise, I pounded. I found it on her door and waited. After about five minutes of me knocking as loudly as I could, I ventured over to the window and peered inside.

The TV was turned off and the living room was empty. I made my way to the backyard and found her back door unlocked. I let myself in. The moment I stepped inside, I noticed that strong bleach smell. It was even stronger here. More fresh, if you can say that, about bleach? Like the cleaning had been done recently. As I wandered through rooms, I realized that the entire house was spotless.

Even her dog was missing. On the kitchen counter, there sat a chicken casserole dish, minus one serving. I made my way back over to the cops and once again explained what I'd found. When they asked why I decided to go over there, I told them that I mowed her lawn every Sunday afternoon, which was true. They told me they'd follow up with me after they visited Mrs. Silva's house. Zoe started asking me questions as soon as I got home. I heard the cops outside. Paul's missing.

And Miss Silva. What did Faith say the Bickles gave them yesterday? Wait, Paul's missing? And meatloaf, why? Did they eat it? She said they were going to save it for today. Why? Tell her not to eat it. What?

I don't know. A feeling? With this intense look on her face, Zoe thumbed a text message to Faith. Her phone vibrated a second later. Her eyes widened upon reading it. Too late. Shit. Okay, you should talk to her on the phone tonight.

just to make sure. Just to make sure of what? Look, Paul's missing, and now Miss Silva, and the only connection is that the creepy-ass Bickles gave them food. Does it make sense? Hell no, but if you don't want her to end up missing too, just do it, okay? Zoe swallowed, visibly shaken. Fine.

That night, I waited by the window. In my hand, I had a pair of old binoculars that my dad had bought me for birdwatching. Since the town was so small, there wasn't much to do. As for my plan, I didn't really have one. All I knew is that I had my trusty old bat waiting next to the front door. My dad strolled into the living room. You, I'm heading to work. Dinner is on the counter.

Dad was a nurse who worked the night shift. The Bickles didn't give it to you, did they? Huh? The Bickles? Uh, no. Got it from Debbie. Debbie was our next door neighbor. Dad often got food from her, but I never felt like it was fresh. It's pretty good.

I gave her 20 bucks for it. it. What is it? Um, bangers and mash, I think is what she said. It's some sort of British dish, with sausage and mashed potatoes, tubbered and gravy. I bought it. Debbie, otherwise known as Miss Davies, was British. Okay. Thanks, Dad. Love you, kid. Hey, eat, okay? Your sister's already eating in her room. I will. Have a good evening. After he left, I totally forgot about the food and returned my attention to the Hudson's house. So far, it was clear. Every so often I squinted over the Bickles.

After I looked over a few times, I realized something was different. Though their porch light was on, all the other lights in their house were off. Where were they? I glanced down at my watch. It was 11.15 p.m. I took a deep breath and pressed the binoculars back to my face. There was a stir of movement behind a window at the Hudson's. My heart rate picked up.

Behind me I heard the sound of rushing feet, and then Zoe slammed into the room, eyes wide, and face pale. Shane, the hut's in something bad. I was talking to Faith on the phone, and then she stopped talking, started screaming, something's happening over there. Damn it! I was up, heading toward the front door. Grabbing the bat, I flung the door open, and found little Tom waiting for me. Scared out of my mind, I took a swing at him.

He raised a hand and caught the bat without even blinking or taking his eyes off my face. With a solid yank, he ripped it out of my hands and hurled it away. It went skittering uselessly across the floor. Before I could react, His hand snapped to my throat. He pushed forward with unbelievable strength, my feet back peddling, barely keeping up as he crossed the threshold in my living room. Out of the corner of my eye I saw little Martha. She had a limp Zoe slung over one shoulder and was advancing toward the back door.

Panic surged in my chest. I kicked out at little Tom. If he felt it, there was no reaction. Instead, he slapped me across the face. The blow was so hard, white flashed across my vision. My strength quickly fading. He backhanded me. A tooth loosened.

Blood seeped into my mouth. I was only half aware of him dragging me back through the house. But I felt him pause in the kitchen. And the shing of a blade being drawn echoed across the room. He had pulled a butcher knife from the block on the counter. He didn't use it right away. Instead, he forced me all the way back to my own room. There, he opened my closet door and pinned me against the wall inside.

For the first time, I saw Rob. emotion in his eyes. Hunger. His lip was twisted in a sneer. His tongue edging out of his mouth. Gazing into my eyes, he pressed the tip of the knife into my forehead. He twirled the pommel with his fingers, the point rotating, gently drilling into my skin. He barely applied any pressure, doing just enough to keep the point there as it turned.

It stung, breaking my skin, but I was too scared to make noise. Or maybe I did. and just couldn't hear myself. Tears swam down my cheeks. I could have been whimpering. It was hard to breathe around the panic and the pain. And as I fought for air, my mouth lulled open. His gaze slipped down to my bloodied teeth.

He breathed out, in odd sound, reminding me of a growling stomach. With a knife still on my forehead, he ran his tongue along his bottom lip. He brought his nose to my belly button and sniffed his way all the way up to my neck. And then he licked my mouth. lips. He closed his eyes savoring the taste. His grip on my throat did not loosen.

You didn't eat the food. It's a shame. I would have loved to have had you. I wouldn't have known what to say to that even if I could make myself speak. His mouth pulled to the side in a crooked smile. I would hide if I were you. Bad things happen to people who don't. At that, he let go, and my legs gave out. Goodbye, Shane. I hope to see you again. I'll leave you something to eat. Gently, he closed my closet door, sealing me in,

and I let it all go. The sobs, convulsing out of my body and waves. I'd never been so scared in my life. I cried and cried until there was nothing left and woke up hours later without even remembering passing out. I staggered out of my closet and made my unsteady way through the house. Soie? Dad? It was empty.

The bleach smell was there. And everything had been thoroughly cleaned. In the kitchen sitting on the counter was a keesh. Next to it was a note that read, Please eat. I hope to see you again. Tom Bickle. I grabbed my phone and tried calling them.

No answer. The 911. Same thing. Nobody freaking answered. Then I went through my entire contact list, texting and calling. Same results. Peaking out the window, I saw there was no movement. The Bickles' minivan was gone.

Knowing this gave me enough confidence to leave the house and try the neighbors, minus Paul and Miss Silva. But it was too late. Every home I checked was empty, clean. The next thing I knew I was in my dad's car, driving. I had to move. To search. It was the only thing that kept me sane.

kept me from crying out in pain that Zoe and dad might be gone. They couldn't be. I wouldn't believe it. So I've been moving, searching. I've driven 100 miles from home gone from town to town for the past week. Every town is as empty as mine is. People are nowhere to be found. Clean houses, just plates of food left behind.

There's literally nobody left. Nothing. Just me. And all the supermarkets have been cleared out. I'm so hungry. Tomorrow, I'll try to make it to 200 miles. Maybe if I get far enough, the food won't be contaminated. Maybe if I just have a bite here and there, it won't be enough to be dangerous.

Just a taste. I'm sure it'll be okay. You're married, it can be a wonderful thing having someone to share your love and joys with. And conversely, it can be horrible to discover an unfaithful partner. That's what we learn in this tale, shared with us by our... author Joseph Davis. When a man discovers his wife is cheating on him, he knows he must confront her to find out every awful detail.

Performing this tale are Graham Rowett and Kristen D. MacGurio. So try not to jump to conclusions. Talk to your partner and learn the truth before you assume you're dealing with the affair. A week ago, I discovered that my wife was having an affair with her co-worker. Anson. According to their texts, the nights that she was staying at the office to catch up on work were actually the nights that they'd spend screwing each other and laughing at how much of a moron I was. She covered up her tracks pretty well. But one night she came home late, and when I greeted her at the door, I noticed a faint scent of aftershave hovering in the air around her neck.

After a few days of deciding whether I was on to something or just being paranoid, I went through her phone, and found the answers that I needed. Chloe and I shared two years of a good marriage, and four of a bad one, so I wasn't exactly shocked at the discovery. That being said, I still felt obligated to kick Anson's teeth in. In this day and age, if someone wants to find you, it's only a matter of time.

An afternoon of research and a little subterfuge on the phone with Chloe's co-workers, and I found myself standing outside of Anson's apartment door. It was late, and the halls were quiet. Before knocking, I placed my ear against the door and listened to make sure that he was inside. It was noisy in there. It sounded like he was unwrapping plastic and using power tools to build something.

New furniture, I assumed. I was surprised that no one had banged on his door to complain, but I gladly accepted the roll and pounded my fist in groups of three. Eventually I stopped knocking to listen again. The apartment had turned silent. Open up, fucker! I banged until an old lady from across the hall cracked her door open and stared at me with silent disgust. I gave up and went home.

Later that night, I sat at our dining room table, waiting for Chloe to return from an overnight business trip. I couldn't stand her face anymore, but I figured I could catch her in the lie and get her to admit what she had done if I pounced on her as soon as she walked in the door. At around 1 a.m., she strolled in with her. a glowing smile and a bottle of wine in her hand. Where have you been? I asked, already knowing the answer. What do you mean, babe? Don't you remember?

I was on a business trip in Chicago. I couldn't believe that she was lying to my face. The flight attendant gave you a complimentary wine bottle to take home. She looked down at the red bottle in her hand and scoffed. I bought it at the airport on the way out. It's for us to share tonight. dumb, dumb. My badge are still out front.

Can you grab them while I run upstairs to change really quick? I nodded in silence and reluctantly stepped outside to pick up her two oversized suitcases. Typical of Chloe

for a 24-hour trip. I threw them down the basement steps, shut the door, and listened to them tumble down the stairs behind me. Then we had wine. She playfully raised an eyebrow,

glass in hand. So, Did you miss me? You were only gone for a day, Chloe. I let the words hang in the air as I sipped the Pino Noir. The acrid flavor stung more than the awkward silence. How much did you pay for this crap anyway? It tastes like rat poison.

Her eyes narrowed, but her smile lingered. I didn't exactly splurge, if that's what you're asking. When were you going to ask me about Anson? My heart jumped. I didn't expect her to bring him up before I did. Well, are you fucking him? Nah, he's a friend. And I'm supposed to believe that you were actually just on an overnight business trip?

A facetious frown creeped over her face. If you don't believe me, just ask him yourself. He's in the basement. I jumped out of my chair, angry, not understanding what she'd meant in that moment. Chloe pulled a white tablet out of her pocket and swallowed it down with one final gulp of her wine. She watched me storm over to our basement door. Anson was waiting for me. In spirit, anyway.

One of the suitcases sat ripped open at the bottom of the stairs, his head peeking out the side. The staircase was splattered with flecks of blood that had leaked out of his plastic wrapped appendages. He wasn't my first, you know. She smiled and put her phone to her ear. I stood motionless, unable to process what was happening. She screamed to the operator on the other end of the line that her husband was trying to kill her.

Later, I'd figure out that the white tablet she took contained flunitrazepam, aka the frat-boy drug. I watched her stumble her way over to the table and grabbed the wine bottle firmly by the neck, before smashing herself in the head with it and falling to the floor. A fountain of blood ran down her face, and she laughed hysterically. You should have stayed out of my business. Those were the last words she ever said to me. Soon after, the red and blue lights showed up, and our front door was kicked in.

The police were not kind to me. Anson's chopped up body, and the old lady who saw me banging on his apartment door were enough to put me away for a long time. Chloe's injuries and her toxicology report were just icing on the cake. The jury never gave me a chance, and the judge was not shy about my sentencing. Every appeal I've requested thus far has been denied. Most nights, I stare at the chipped ceiling of my cell, wondering what Chloe is up to. I imagine her finally slipping up, the police busting down her door while she is cutting her next victim into travel-sized chunks. If that happened, the court would have to revisit my case and set me free.

No doubt about it. Will she ever make a mistake? What if she stops killing for a few months? Or even a few years? What if she never kills again? All I can do now is wait. Why, they say marriage is for better or worse. But sheesh, not that much worse.

Let's take a quick break and focus on some better things. Like how much better things are when we look after our mental health. And that's why now we have a word from our sponsor, better help. Yes, these days especially, we really have to make sure we're looking after our minds. There's so many things out there which can affect us negatively. How we care for our minds affects how we experience life. So it's important to invest time and care into keeping our minds healthy. Supporting our brains to keep them healthy can be as simple as learning a new skill, a language, or doing daily puzzles. And there's also better help online therapy. Personally, therapy has given

me ways to see things in a new light. I often struggle with my mind assuming the worst about my life, negative thoughts, imposter syndrome, stuff like that. Therapy has helped me acknowledge the positive things worth focusing on, and speaking with a BetterHelp therapist can help you in similar ways. Better help 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. some 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 better h-elp.com slash no sleep.

And now, let's get back to the horror so I can tell you about the great neighborhood I live in. Living in a neighborhood can be so much better if each of the residents takes pride in and works hard to maintain their property. That's why some people choose to live in a neighborhood with an HOA, a homeowners association. And in this tale, shared with us by author Jay Christopher, we meet an HOA president who shares with us the ups and downs of dealing with people who aren't keen to always follow the rules.

So join me as I share this tale with you. I'm sure you'll start to empathize. with people like this man in his difficult rule as he deals with the burden of leadership in a very nice neighborhood. Some people hear the words gated community and immediately assume identical cookie-cutter McMansions lining the block and perfectly manicured lawns and, well, frankly, in this case, the assumption is wholly accurate. It's a beautiful neighborhood full of beautifully maintained houses that everyone who resides in works very hard to obtain. A more idyllic site I would openly challenge you to find. If one needed a picture of the term sheer perfection, it could only be

truly depicted by where I live. Yes, it's a beautiful neighborhood, and do you know who that's down to? It's down to me. It's a dirty job being head of the Homeowners Association, but someone has to do it, and frankly, I'm glad it's me. Unanimously elected five years running, and I can't say I blame the other residents. They know I'm the best one suited for the job. No one else has the wherewithal to deal with the things I deal with on a day-to-day basis, nor would they handle it with the care and precision I do.

And this isn't arrogance, it's merely fact, and they all know it. I keep this neighborhood running like a well-oiled machine. Every little detail meticulously looked after, all ticking away like the gears of a perfectly set Swiss watch. It's not a nice neighborhood by chance or accident. It takes effort, real effort, and someone must take the responsibility of making sure it stays that way. Now I'd be lying if I said my position has made me particularly popular amongst the residents of the community. I can't say I don't sympathize with them. No one really likes authority, do they?

I understand that no one likes to be told what to do with their own property, that they have to trim their hedges to a regulation size and shape, which is what is best for uniformity and aesthetics, of course, or that the mailbox they've chosen to install, without even attempting to seek the proper clearance for it beforehand, needs to be replaced with a different model. I fully understand how frustrating it must be to have someone dictating the acceptance,

amount and placement of holiday decorations. I mean, who wants to see gaudy or badly placed decorations on a day one should be happy and celebratory? I can only imagine how they must scoff at the seeming audacity to be levied with fines thereafter should they refuse to comply with the rules. I fully understand and embrace their feelings. I do. But, as stated, someone has to be responsible for keeping this neighborhood in pristine condition. They're all happy to live here, but no one wants to take on the responsibility of maintaining order. Really, they should be thanking me for all that I do. The amount of effort and time I put in on a day-to-day basis just to make this a decent community in which to live.

Besides, I'm not a monster? When the rules are followed to the letter, as they should be, I do my best to show my appreciation and reward them. It's not all finger-wagging and admonishments. There are good things as well. We have had many a monthly community event, fully organized by yours truly, no assistance desired or required,

that they have gotten to enjoy. Why, just in the last six months, I've organized the Christmas White Elephant Exchange, the New Year's Block Party, the Valentine's Day Love Bazaar, the St. Patrick's Day potluck, the Easter egg hunt, the Mother's Day poetry reading, all sorted and organized and overseen by me. And I was happy to do it. I try to be just as much the generous good guy as the perceived bad guy,

but no one ever seems to truly appreciate my efforts. There are still those that seem to think it's okay, no matter what I do, to flout the rules. My mother always used to say, if you give someone an inch, they'll take a mile. And I'm loath to admit that she was absolutely correct. Take this very moment, for example, as I'm attempting to organize the annual Fourth of July barbecue, oh, goodness, it's such a lovely event. We set up a nice big table in the cul-de-sac. All the men get to show off their grilling skills and the ladies their aptitude at side dishes.

There are appropriately tasteful yet patriotic decoration set up, and I create fun, historically educational games for the children. I even lead a pre-dinner saying of the Pledge of Allegiance for everyone. Oh, it's a wonderful time for one and all. I make sure of it. We all get to come together as a community to celebrate our freedoms and privilege, the privilege to live in such a wonderful community, in such a wonderful country. I look forward to it every year.

I truly think it may be my favorite of the yearly events. This year, however, I'm having a hell of a time focusing on my organizing duties, all because Mr. Racine, over in number 419, has yet again ignored the flyers that I'd spent an entire afternoon carefully typing, printing, and distributing to the residents about acceptable decorations. The flyers clearly stated that everyone is allowed a single American flag to be displayed on their lawns, no larger than three feet by five feet on a 20-foot pole. That is the standard for a residential display flag.

Everyone knows that, and even if you don't, the most casual visit to Google will confirm that information. Mr. Racine should know that. he, of all people especially, should know that, having served. Just because he's a veteran, which he's yelled at various neighbors many times at volume when they've tried to warn him of the potential consequences of his actions in the past, he seems to think he's allowed some level of extra special privilege. Now, don't get me wrong, I wholeheartedly and absolutely support our troops, especially at this time of year.

But you would think that if anyone would understand the necessity of rules and order and structure, it would be him. It's not like I made it difficult for him. The flyers even contain the information for a company that would come and install the pole for him, and the exact spot that is the appropriate chosen location. Absolutely no impediment to just doing what is requested should have been present in any of this. But what has he done? Certainly not what was asked of him. Oh, no, not by a long shot. I can see it from my kitchen window as we speak. Clearly, a five-foot by eight-foot flag on a 25-foot pole. I can clearly see it waving higher than the flags on either side of his home, and it is glaringly obviously too large. And if that weren't bad enough, it's in completely the wrong spot. I clearly specified exactly three feet in front of the house, and two feet away from the walkway.

Everyone got the same flyer, the same specifications. Everyone else followed them to the letter. Oh, but oh no, no, no, not Colonel Racine. I know. I just know he did it on purpose, just to vex me. The sheer nerve! It's not as though there's no reason for the rule. His flag and flagpole are completely out of place.

Too tall, too big, misaligned. Oh, they completely destroy the sight line down the entire left side of the block. It's an eyesore, a complete and total eyesore. Honestly, I don't know what his problem is. This is the third time he's blatantly disregarded the regulations. Oh, what a bother. What an absolute annoyance. Am I not busy enough?

Is that what he thinks? Must there be one more thing? One more thing to do on my never-decreasing lists of things to do? Now I'm forced to levy a fine. Again, and a heftier one than last time. I mean, what else can I do? This is his third infraction. Third!

Honestly, I really think he should have learned by now. Rules are rules. H-O-A guidelines are H-O-A guidelines. And I'll have to hire someone to come and replace the flag and the pole as well. How frustratingly annoying! More time out of my day, more expense out of my pocket on top of everything else. I really don't know what I've done to deserve having to constantly put up with this. Honestly, he's just such a stubborn man.

Did they allow such open defiance in the military? Surely not, but here, oh, he treats this neighbor. like a free-for-all. He just doesn't seem to want to learn his lesson. Oh, you'd think he would. I thought he understood the rules after I find him at Christmas. Now, I clearly told everyone that there were to be no wreaths hung that were larger than one and a half feet in diameter. I could see it. I could see it as it hung from his door, even from across the street. Did he really think I wouldn't notice that I wouldn't measure, to be sure? I was as polite as I could be when I knocked on his door and calmly explained the rules to him and that it had to come down immediately, or there

would be a fine, and he would have to pay it. And what did he do? He started shouting at me. Can you believe that? Shouting about how he paid his HOA fees and how it was his fucking house and how he didn't have to put up with all my nitpicky bullshit. Oh, extremely rude. I wasn't being rude. I stood there calmly and took his abuse and gently reminded him that there were fines for violations. And do you know what he did? He laughed.

Full in my face, he laughed and gave me the finger, told me to get the fuck off his property. Oh, the God. I did as he asked. After, I collected the fine, of course. He wasn't laughing quite so hard after the hammer connected with his face and his teeth went flying. Not quite so much foul language coming from him

as he held his bloody jaw and fell to his knees. No, sir. And he didn't even have the decency to thank me for taking such a small fine afterward. I didn't even take all of the teeth, just the ones that clattered across his friends. porch. I thought that was a nice gesture on my part, for a first infraction, despite his poor attitude. But I tried to be optimistic. I tried to believe there wouldn't be any more problems after that.

Most people learn after the first fine. Did he, though? Clearly not, as I had to visit him yet again. His left eye socket has only just healed, you know, after the second fine I took when he put down that ghastly lepricon lawn ornament, or whatever it was, in March. Why he even did that, I'll never know. The Flyers clearly stated, no tasteless lawn decorations. And I'm sorry, but that thing was just hideous. He said something about it being a family heirloom,

the last remnant of his late grandmother, that she made it or some such. I don't know. I wasn't listening when I smashed it. And if I'm being honest, he's absolutely impossible to understand now, without the teeth and with the way his jaw healed all crooked like that. I did manage to make out something about how I can't do this to people. And another assertion that he's a veteran, as if I'd somehow forgotten. And it wasn't right, and that he was going to alert the authorities.

Alert the authorities. He actually said that. It just goes to show how little he pays attention to anyone but himself. Maybe if he did like I did and spent time getting to know his neighbors, finding out who they are, as opposed to sneering at them from his driveway as he did, he would know that the chief of police lives two doors down from me on the left. Maybe if he were more involved in the goings-on of the community,

he would be aware, as everyone else was, that the chief and I are extremely close. He is my uncle, after all. Help me set up the entire HOA and its guidelines in the first place. Not that it really even matters, though. Another violation, another fine. Rules are rules. And again, did he thank me for being so kind as to ask him which of his eyes he preferred to keep? No, no, he didn't. He just blubbered and wailed as I plucked it out and crushed it between my fingers.

I ruined a perfectly good pair of shoes that day. When he pitched forward and landed at my feet, screaming and wailing as his empty eye socket gushed, they were completely soaked in his blood. I had to just throw them away when I got home. Did I ask for reimbursement? I did not. Did I wail and whine and cry about having to get rid of them now? No, I completely ate the cost of those shoes, which were not inexpensive, by the way.

And still, somehow, I'm the villain of the piece. I'm the one that is continually, petulantly disobeyed by near-do-wells like Mr. Racine, and, frankly, I think I blame myself. I was far too lenient and kind-hearted with him. even after his repeated disrespect. No, no, this time I'll have to do something far more severe. Something that will not only definitely get his attention, but possibly put a stop to this wanton disregard for the rules.

Something that will really drive the point home. Maybe an arm, or perhaps a leg. Personally, I'm thinking a leg would be best. That would really make a statement. Oh, yes, yes, a leg would be perfect. I can recycle the meat for the barbecue. I have been trying to push through that green initiative amongst the residents, lowering our carbon footprint and all, creating less waste, pushing everyone toward recycling.

How better to lead by example than this! Two birds, one stone. A meat is so expensive after all, and Mr. Racine has taken rather good care of himself. I'm sure it wouldn't be too fatty or anything. Yes, yes, this is a fantastic idea. Oh, this has put a smile back on my face to be sure. I'm almost not upset that I have to deal with this anymore.

It's actually going to save me a bit of time in the long run. Ah, I know what I'll do. I'll get that lovely gay couple in number 427 to hold him down for me. I do like them, a nice strapping pair of lads. I'm sure the two of them can keep him steady while I collect the fine. Why, I bet they'll even be glad to help. They understand the rules. They at least learn their lesson after the first fine when I took the one's ears.

I didn't necessarily want to, nor did I take any pleasure in it, honestly. I'm not remotely homophobic. I swear, I have a lesbian cousin. I simply wish they would have at least tried to clear that rainbow flag with me last year, that's all. I understand it was Pride Month, and I fully support that. All residents are equal and respected, but the order of the neighborhood must be maintained. If only they had simply just asked first, I would have gladly let them place one of those nice, tasteful little stickers you can get in the bookshops downtown in the corner of their front window.

a perfectly tasteful and guideline-abiding declaration of their pride. Like I said, I'm not a monster. Anyway, I best go call in on them and then go and collect Mr. Racine's fine. There just aren't enough hours in the day, it seems, sometimes, and I still have so much to do before the barbecue. I still have to get the fireworks and dig the coolers out of the garage. Oh, oh, and... I have to pay a visit to the Millers in number 415. Yes, about keeping aware of the noise pollution ordinances.

Honestly, they simply must keep that baby of theirs quiet after 8 p.m. or I'll have to collect another fine as I did with their first child. Oh, that horrid little boy. Always vandalizing the sidewalks with his garish chalk graffiti. It'll wash away in the rain, they said. Yes, and until then it'll be. there baking in the sun, defacing the pavement, like the tagging of an inner city delinquent, and making the neighborhood look like an unsightly mess. I made sure he paid for it, though. If anything, I think it helped, really. Surely the Millers will now pay much more attention to teaching their other child a proper lesson in respect and personal responsibility. His infraction, his fine. Rules are rules, after all.

Everyone must follow the rules, even the children. It's, well, yes, it's unfortunate. He couldn't recover from his fine, but consequences are the natural outcome of disregard, as my mother used to say. Hopefully a quick word from me today might motivate them to nip this problem in the bud before things turn unfortunate again. Oh, and I have to ask Janine about her apple pie recipe while I'm there. Oh, it was positively divine at last year's barbecue, and I simply must know what she does with it.

So much to do, so many things to take care of. Busy, busy, busy. My work is never done. Still, it's worth it to live in such a nice neighborhood. The nightmares may be over, but the darkness will linger on, so long as you reside. in the no sleep zone. 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. 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,

we thank you for joining us in the No Sleep Zone. This program is copyright 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.