The NoSleep Podcast - S19 Ep6: NoSleep Podcast S19E06

Episode Date: March 12, 2023

It’s Episode 06 of Season 19. We ponder weak and weary with tales about pesky pests.“Heralds of the Beast” written by Constantine E. Kiousis (Story starts around 00:04:10)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Jacob – Peter Lewis, Layla – Jessica McEvoy,Maddie – Mary Murphy, Father-in-Law – Mike DelGaudio“Higher” written by Kevin Wallace (Story starts around 00:33:25)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Hank – Jesse Cornett, Stephanie – Sarah Thomas, 911 Operator – Kyle Akers“Buzzkill” written by P.L. McMillan (Story starts around 00:56:30)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Atticus Jackson, Anthony – Kyle Akers, Anthony’s Wife – Sarah Ruth Thomas“Stasis” written by TJ Price (Story starts around 01:03:20)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Graham Rowat“Rat Girl” written by Gemma Amor (Story starts around 01:17:55)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator – Kristen DiMercurio, Timmy – Dan Zappulla, Lee – Jeff Clement, Timmy’s Dad – Mike DelGaudioThis episode is sponsored by:Green Chef - Green Chef makes eating well easy with plans to fit every lifestyle. Whether youíre Keto, Paleo, Vegan, Vegetarian, Gluten-Free, or just looking to eat more balanced meals, Green Chef offers a range of recipes to suit your preferences. Go to greenchef.com/nosleep60 and use code nosleep60 to get 60% off plus free shipping!Betterhelp - This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. Give online therapy a try at betterhelp.com/nosleep and get on your way to being your best self.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Edgar Allan Poe from author Rene RehnClick here to learn more about Constantine E. KiousisClick here to learn more about P.L. McMillanClick here to learn more about TJ PriceClick here to learn more about Gemma AmorExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Buzzkill” illustration courtesy of Kelly TurnbullAudio program ©2023 – 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. The works of Edgar Allan Poe reside in the public domain. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The No Sleep Podcast is swarming with creepy, crawly insects, pests, and vermin. So grab the frying pan because this one's going to be delicious. Wait, what? No, not delicious because we're eating bugs. It's delicious because it's brought to you by Green Chef. Green Chef is a CCOF certified meal kit company. Green Chef makes eating well easy with plans to fit every lifestyle. Whether you're keto, paleo, vegan, vegetarian, gluten-free,

or just looking to eat more balanced meals. Green Chef offers a range of recipes to suit your preferences. In fact, we love Green Chef and Hello Fresh, and I love switching between the brands. And now you sleepless listeners can enjoy both brands at a discount with me. With Green Chef, you can get everything you need at Green Market, the one-stop shop for quick breakfasts, brunch kits, wholesome lunches, and more you can easily add on to your weekly order.

If you're craving more servings of a favorite recipe, you can now double the portions in your weekly order with just one click. So even if you hate spiders, you can go to the web and head to greenchef.com slash no sleep 60. That's 60 and use code no sleep 60 to get 60% off plus free shipping. You heard me my busy little bees. Go to greenchef.com slash no sleep 60 and use code no sleep 60 to get 60% off plus free shipping. And now, the hive mind is telling you to prep for some pesky pests. In the dark shadows of the Rue Morg, to the rhythm of the stolen telltale heart,

as the black cat swings upon the pendulum, and the cask offers its sherry deep and dry. As you knock at our chamber door, we open our sleepless tales for you in store. And the terror shall be lifted for the no sleep. Welcome to the No Sleep podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. It might bug you to know that Edgar Allan Poe was not just a writer of dark macabre stories. He's also credited with being one of the first to write detective stories. His famous crime-solving character was known as Auguste Dupin,

and he predates Doyle's Sherlock Holmes and Christy's Hercule Poirot by many years. But Poe wrote many mystery stories which involved logic and cryptography to solve the mystery. One of these stories is titled The Gold Bug. And yes, the eponymous bug, or beetle in this case, certainly is the source of much consternation and madness. I think it's safe to say that the creepy-crawly creatures we encounter in our life are, have been and likely always will be, a source of powerful, horrific imagery. Whether they sting, bite, claw, or just consume, we must always be on guard against those creatures' nature inflicts upon us. And in this episode, we feature tales which will crawl and slither their way inside your ears to infest you with horror. And now our tales come to

you upon a midnight dreary. Best not to ponder them while weak and weary. In our first tale, we meet a man prepared to face a monster. This fact is not overstated. He musters all his bravery and faces down a nightmarish situation in hopes of saving himself and his family. And in this tale, shared with us by author Constantine E. Kiosis, we learn that the man has a long history with this monster and it's time to settle the score.

Performing this tale are Peter Lewis, Jessica McAvoy, Mary Murphy and Mike Delgadoo. So when you're forced to confront your greatest fears, be brave, stay strong and be bold when facing the heralds of the beast. In front of the doorway, it played in hand. A chill creeps down my spine as I stare down the beaten steps, descending into complete darkness. I know what awaits me down there.

To some extent I've always known. I firmly believe that every choice I ever made, every decision taken, led me to this very moment, getting me ready to face what lurks down there in the dark. My fingers clench the hilt. I'm ashamed to admit that despite years of mental preparation, uncertainty gnaws at me. I've had several close calls with that monstrosity and its kind before, but never alone. Someone has always been by my side. This is the first time in my 33 years that I need to confront it on my own.

Recollections flood my mind unbidden. I see myself as a young child running behind my father in the woods during our morning stroll, back when he still drew breath. I see the monster's black eyes first witnessed during one such excursion, glaring at me from the shadows, and experience again the horrible first realization that no soul nests behind those glass-like beads, nothing but the promise of death. I hear my father laugh at my horror, himself a renowned monster slayer that knew no fear,

having felled countless creatures of its ilk as they attempted to invade our home. I see my mother as she holds me close, telling me stories of the beast and why its terror should hold no sway over me, having claimed a few of the abominations herself, telling me that it fears me more than I fear it. But I knew, even back then, that her words were not truthful, but only said to put my mind at ease as I have stared into the bottomless abyss lying behind that monster's glare and I have seen oblivion. Fear could not survive that place. I close my eyes and shake away thoughts of the past. I can't afford to dwell on it right now. There's too much at stake. Failure is not an option. I have been given a quest, and I'll be damned if I do not see it through. I take a step closer to the

dark gates, threshold and feel the rise of my heartbeat, pounding in my ears like a war drum. I swallow drops of sweat forming thin lines as they trickle down from my temples. I fight back another shiver. I know it's watching me through the blackness flooding the room below. That thick, empty blackness. It is there, ready, expecting me. I think it knows as well as I that this confrontation is unavoidable, almost as if our fates were intertwined at birth, as if life itself couldn't tolerate the existence of us both and weaved our paths together so only one of us survive. And now, here we stand. In a few moments, the dark room at the bottom of the stairs will serve as a tomb, either for me or it. But I cannot allow doubt to taint my resolve.

This isn't my journey's end. I won't be the one lying dead and cold on the stone floor. I cannot be. I am what stands between that thing and, God, the very thought is unbearable. Memories assault me once again, distracting me. I see my lady, the very first time I laid eyes upon her beauty, her crimson hair cascading down the sides of her kind face like fiery waterfalls as she graced me with the most magnificent of smiles. Her eyes a shade of honey gold. And me, a stuttering fool, not older than 18, as I approached after endless internal deliberation, seeking permission to court her and against all expectation, her granting it to me. Even as a fragment of what has already come to pass, it fills my soul with warmth. I see and feel our first touch, our first kiss,

the first time we shared a bed together. I see us plan a life to be traveled side by side, and the first time we walked into our home. The home we'd spend the rest of our years in, I see see our newborn girl cradled in my arms and feel her small hand wrap around my finger ever so tightly, her sleepy eyes scrutinizing my face. I see her growing up into the most beautiful child, almost in a flash, the eight years since her birth having gone by like an angry river. No, I cannot die here. If I do, there will be nothing to stop that monster from emerging from the abyss. and it will seek vengeance. I know it will. My kind is slain countless of its own. It only makes sense for it to wish the same for mine. But I won't let it feast on the flesh of my kin. This is it. I am ready.

It is time for me to descend into the darkness and face the horror lurking within. I have been preparing for this my whole life, I will emerge victorious, dragging its lifeless carcass behind me a trophy to prove I deserve a spot among the hallowed halls of monster slayers that have come before me, having proven their worth in mortal combat with its ilk. I raise the blade close to my chest and take a deep breath. This is for all those tormented by the very thought of this nightmarish creature. This is for my parents who are no longer with me, but are most certainly standing by my side right now. This is for my wife, this is for my little girl, onward. Her sweet voice pulls me from my trance.

I turn to see my offspring standing at the kitchen entrance frowning at me, her brown pigtails dangling at the sides of her head. Is everything all right? Terror swarms me. She shouldn't be here. I rush to her my abrupt motion making her small body jolt, her eyes widening. I kneel in front of her and grasp her shoulder. His blade is still in hand. What are you doing here, little one? flee this place. It is not safe, not until I'm done. A few moments of silence pass before her brow furrows, her lips pouting.

She turns her head towards the dimly lit corridor of our abode. I hear, footsteps coming from the room at the end of the corridor before the slim figure of a woman appears walking briskly towards us. The amber light of the hallway graces her with a warm tint, her crimson hair falling on her shoulders, even more magnificent than the first time I saw her. Her black dress granting her an air of elegance, my lady, a smile breaks across my lips, despite how close to danger we all are right now. going on? She reaches us, her attention drifting from our daughter to me. Her lips tighten as she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, her arms folding over her chest. Jacob, sweetheart,

why are you holding a kitchen knife? That's what I said. Maddie, shush. Go back in the living room and keep your grandma and grandpa company. I need to speak with your father. Ha, ha, dad is the intro. Maddie, go, and not a word of this to them. But, ma... One, two... Fine, geez. My Madeline slogs defeatedly towards the end of the passage. I never get to have fun around here.

I am left with my wife towering above me, tapping one foot against the floor. I slowly rise. Her hooded eyes burrow into mine. So, why the knife, hun? My fingers play around the handle. Well, how else was I to slay the beast and bring my quest to completion? She rolls her eyes and huffs as she pulls me into the kitchen, away from the corridor. Sweetie, we've talked about this.

About what? About you talking as if you're from a different time whenever you're scared? I am taken aback. How dare you cast aspersions upon the integrity of my valor, madam. I do not. Yes, you do. You know it. I know it.

Maddie knows it. My parents, who, by the way, are sitting in the living room right now, know it. You are literally doing it right now. My lips part, wounded pride, coating my next words. I will not stand for this disparagement of my... Jacob, you promised. You said the exercise. as Dr. Lane recommended we're helping.

Do you really think this is the best time for you'd be speaking like a guy straight from the Middle Ages with my dad around? He's giving us enough trouble as it is, without you having to wave a red flag whenever you're terrified. And you're terrified of him a lot. Her eyes narrow. And what do you mean by beast? What beast?

And what quest? I just asked you to go down to the cellar and get a bottle of wine. I arch my head forward, my attention wandering towards the open door. Yes. I return my gaze to her. But our wine cellar is now lair to a monstrosity most foul, which needs to be dealt with before I can retrieve the bottle. She frowns. A monster.

She stops mid-sentence abruptly, her lips pursing as her eyes close. She rubs her temples and in hands. deeply. Jacob, is this spider-related? The abomination. Is it the spiders? It's a beast. It's the spiders, isn't it?

Yes. Honey, we've talked about this, too. I mean, I can kill them whenever I'm around, but you'll need to eventually do it yourself. You're a grown man. Her eyes widen. Oh, my God. Is that why you got the knife? I stare down at my trusty blade, it's glint, reassuring against the warm light.

It is my weapon of choice for dispatching the... What the hell, Jacob? How big are those spiders? Because the ones I saw down there a week ago were the size of a bottle cap. Were! I took care of them while you cheered for me from the top of the stairs like a troubadour, remember? I even cleaned up the cobwebs. And my weapon of choice was a broom.

Not a goddamn knife. Well, some of them escaped your onslaught by retreating into the dark corners of the cellar and have infested it once more. I saw them crawling across the damp walls when I descended to obtain the wine, which is why I hurried to arm myself, and weapon-wise, nothing beats the nobility of the blade, hmm? Or, you know, the folded newspaper, a shoe, or ignoring the spider? since they can't do anything to you? I purse my lips and lower my eyes. Sweetheart, you're scared. I get it.

I mean, hey, we all have something we're scared of, right? I mean, I'm terrified of sharks. Maddie's scared of the dark. My dad is scared of my mom. Everyone has their weakness. My attention returns to her as she continues. Granted, sharks are aquatic killing machines. Maddie is eight, and my mom is Satan personified,

while the worst thing a spider can do is creep you out, but who am I to judge? We could get caught in their web. Their webs are the size of small plates, Jacob. I've seen flies pierce right through them, which means our spiders are not that capable anyway. I highly doubt they can eat a groan. Oh my God, why the hell am I entertaining this? She extends her hand.

Give me the knife. I take a step back. My lady, I cannot let you bear the burden of slaying those things alone. Well, one, I'm not going to slay anything. Two, stop talking like that. And three, you were fine with me slaying them a week ago. Layla, is everything okay in there? The sonorous voice of my father-in-law reaches us,

More akin to an animal's growl than human speech. Everything's fine, Dad. We'll be right out. Her forced mirth disappears the moment our attention returns to me. All right, listen up. Put the knife back in its rack and go sit with my parents in the living room. I'll go get the wine. Deal? But my task, I...

Jacob! But how can I allow as delicate a creature as you? She hug. And laughs and rolls her eyes. Delve into the darkness of that dungeon. Great, now it's a dungeon. Unarmed. You'll be completely at the mercy of those things.

And then there's... You know, our cellar has a light switch, right? The one we've used a million times before. You can make the darkness go away with it. My attention drifts back towards the open cellar door. My lips quiver. But, well, a darkness so... I mean, this blackness.

The light, Jacob. Just turn on the light. Here. She trots to the dark entrance, reaching inside. You just flip the switch and voila. Nothing happens. No light. My lady frowns as she stares down the steps into the creeping darkness.

She flips the unseen switch up and down a few times before returning her attention to me. Honey, did you change the busted light bulb? She cocks her head. You know, the one I've been asking you to change for the past four days? I avert my gaze like a scolded child. With you saying, I'll get right on it every time I did? So, how on it did you get? My next words are barely a whisper.

I forgot. Oh, come on, really? How many times do I have to ask? Her eyes narrow. Hold on. You went down there without a light? Yes. How the hell were you able to see the beasts crawling across the damp walls in pitch black darkness?

Ah, I... I raise my free hand and rubbed the nape of my neck as I walk to my lady and halt right next to her before the entrance. I swallow hard. Well, I have developed a keen sense when it comes... Jacob! Her mouth tightens to a thin white line as she scowls at me. I bow my head, my gaze falling on the blade. There is nothing noble about it.

Just a kitchen knife. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, half my face reflected on the stainless steel. My cheeks have turned crimson. And then I start to feel it. This strange, familiar creeping sensation across my skin, like a swarm of tiny spiderlings crawling all over me, causing an itch that takes all my will to resist scratching.

Every single hair on my body stands on end. My mouth dries my throat catching as I try to swallow. Beads of sweat dot my forehead and trickle down my face. There sting burning my eyes, forcing me to close. close them. My breathing gradually becomes irregular as my heartbeat quickens, and all the while those things are still crawling all over me, burrowing into my skin, swarming in my head through my ears and nose, going from my brain, and that's when I hear it. A faint clicking sound. It's here. I open my eyes, but my lady is no longer next to me. All I see is the darkness from

the cellar bubbling up the stairs like hot sludge, sizzling as it slowly eats away the light reaching the steps from the kitchen. Huge ebony spindly legs emerge from it, black sludge dripping from their gangly forms. Their pointy ends forming thin ridges across the wood as they try to pull the monstrous creature from beneath the mucky surface. I try to turn and run, but can't. I am paralyzed, caught like a fly in a web, unable to make a single move as I watch its a to beady black eyes, each the size of a child's fist rising from the depths, a set of crooked fangs hungrily tap-tap together as the beast's hairless head breaks the surface, drenched in muck, its fat abdomen emerging behind, a red hourglass-shaped mark barely visible through the smears on its

back. My heart drums wildly in my chest. My eyes wide as I helplessly watch the thing crawl slowly up the staircase, sadistically savoring every moment. My mind drifts back to the past in a desperate attempt to escape the present, and it always picks the worst destination in my true time of need. I follow my father's back through the woods before wandering from the beaten path. A budding explorer, hungry for discovery. I feel the damp air on my skin and the slick, muddy ground beneath my shoes. I push through thick foliage observing and investigating anything catching my eye. And then I slip and experience every second of my fall as I land back first, right into a rotten tree trunk,

the foul, spongy wood giving way beneath me. I feel them, crawl all over me, hundreds, thousands, millions of those things, scuttling and jumping and biting, their webs sticking around my body and my face as I desperately thrash around, tossing and turning in an effort to get them off me, screaming and spitting as I try to keep the abominations from flooding my mouth. I hear my father's laugh over my screams, and I see him looking at me from above, his hand extending. I grab it and pull with all my might, raising myself from their nest, countless arachnids tumbling off me and crawling frantically back inside their putrid den. My father is still laughing.

They are only spiders, he says, as I fall to my hands and knees and stare in horror inside that terrible Pandora's box. And I know he cannot see it because he wouldn't still be laughing if he could. It's right there. Its soulless eyes shining in the darkness glaring at me. Its fangs clicking, its children's swarming all around it. It always sends its young ones first. That's how it instills terror in its prey. I know, because it's haunted me ever since, and I've learned how it hunts. The smaller creatures heralded its arrival. Admitting my fear is like a punch in my God, it always is. It was right then as I lay crouched next to that rotten trunk that I learned to dread its messengers because this creature would always be close behind, and worst of all, only I could see it. It stalks me through the darkness under my bed and in the shadows of my wardrobe, the lightless attic of my childhood home, and every nook and cranny of my old neighborhood

where silvery webs were weaved. Back then, my parents did their best to keep it at bay. They'd follow my cries and turn the lights on and kill its kin and tell me it was all in my head that this monster was only part of my fantasies. But as I grew up, it stayed with me, following me, always announcing itself through its brood, those little things spying on me, making sure it constant. kindly knows where I am. I relied on the kindness of others to eradicate its children and throw the creature off my trail,

but deep down I knew that at some point I'd have to face it alone. I could only ask others to fight my battles for me for so long. I couldn't run forever. And today, at long last, I stand against the beast as I stare at it approaching, Its black eyes and endless void, all my tall words of valor seem meaningless. The plates of courage, Dr. Lane and my lady, so painstakingly helped me armor myself with fracturing. Years of effort shattered. Within a few moments, it's almost upon me. My breathing is hectic, my heart now pumping so fast and hard I can feel it in my ribs. The knife falls from,

from my hand. I close my eyes, unwilling to see what's coming. Its putrid stench grows stronger, the clicking of its fangs, drawing ever closer. I, I whimper. Jacob! I flinch and open my eyes. There is no beast coming for me, no clicking fangs, no black eyes. Only the honey-gold of my lady, as she stands between me and the entrance, shielding me from the dark. Concern carved upon her face. My attention drifts to the darkness, expecting the attack, but there is nothing there. No beast, no sizzling sludge. Yet my heart still beats fast, my breathing labored, my knees give, and I stoop, grasping at my chest.

Jacob, look at me. She gently cups my cheeks with her hands, drawing me back to those hypnotic preyses. precious stones of honey gold, as I struggle to draw breath. You're having a panic attack. Just look at me. She tries to sound calm, but I recognize the cracks in her tone. I look fearfully towards the open entrance. The darkness begins to sizzle, and I hear that ominous clicking. She extends an arm and slams the door shut, then pulls me into her arms, her chin resting on my shoulder.

Just breathe, Jacob. Breathe with me. I struggle, but slowly I do. With her body against mine, my heart slows and my lungs allow air to pass through once more as my breathing matches hers. It's all right. Arms arch around her back. I feel my eyes fill with tears. I'm sorry. She pulls away gently. and I rush to wipe my eyes. She looks at me, her features soft.

I avert my gaze in shame, bowing my head. I'm sorry. I just, there is this thing. I believe you. I raise my head. You do. Jacob, I never doubted that you see something, whatever it is. I know it's hard for you.

you to talk about, so I don't push. Even if it's just in your mind, it's real to you, and that's enough. But you can't let it haunt you forever. You can't live in constant fear. She hesitates. I know you have said it's not an option, but maybe you could reconsider what Dr. Lane proposed about... No pills. My response is instant. No, no pills. I swallow hard. I... I can do this.

I whisper those words in repetition. I meet her face again and force a smile. I can do this, I promise. She stares at me for a moment, and smiles softly as she caresses my cheek. I believe you. I don't know if she means it, but I nod in gratitude.

All right, then. How about you go to the bathroom and throw some water on your face, and go sit with my parents and leave the quest to me? I laugh. An eerie echo of my father's laugh that day. Shame and guilt rise, and I do my best to push them back. I find it difficult to maintain eye contact with her. I just nod as I turn around and start walking.

away from her. Jacob? I stop and turn. It's all right. I smile through tightened lips. As I continue walking, I hear the creak of the cellar door and curse myself for exposing her to this danger. And as the sound of her footsteps on the wooden stairs reach my ears, I hear the clicking of its fangs. That damned clicking, I try to make it quiet, but.

I can't, and I find myself back in that forest, lying in that rotten trunk, wondering if I'll ever leave that place. It can be wonderful to get outside into the great outdoors, hiking trails, climbing up those tall hills, it's good for your body and your mind. But in this tale, shared with us by author Kevin Wallace, we meet a man who finds himself compelled to climb up a nearby peak. He usually isn't much of a climber, so what could be making him strive to reach the summit?

Performing this tale are Jesse Cornett, Sarah Thomas, and Kyle Acres. So when you hit the trails and hills, know your limits, and ask yourself why you always need to go higher. The crisp cool air nipped at my face as I ascended. It was almost certainly still above freezing, but I couldn't be sure. My breath fanned out into a thin, wispy fog. I was surrounded by trembling aspen and spruce trees. The aspens were just beginning to shed their orange yellow leaves to be naked for the winter. My legs ached now, almost as much as my arms, but it didn't matter. The

climbing made it feel better. I just had to keep getting higher. The word surprised me, coming out breathy like a breeze, and I wasn't sure if I'd said it out loud on purpose, or if it had escaped in a sigh that I hadn't meant a voice. The sky was crystal clear, with not a single cloud between the horizons that I could see through the thinning forest canopy. The azure blue was surreal, beautiful, and pure in a way that I usually neglect to notice. Today, I would appreciate this, though. I just needed to get to the peak, a place where that blue surrounded me and took me in like the child of nature that I was. The trees were less dense here, and I was off the lightly worn deer path that I had started on. Nothing was labeled here, and I thought I might get lost,

but I figured it would be easier to spot the road from up higher. I felt beads of sweat beginning to form on my forehead. a normal day on a cold hike, that would mean that a rest is in order. The last thing I wanted was to lose heat sweating inside my warm clothes. I already ached so much. I felt my mind go fuzzy for a minute. I couldn't remember where I was going and barely remembered parking the truck off the interstate. Did I lock it? Did I leave my blinkers on so people could see it? It was okay, I thought, and I let the worry fade off. I felt really good. I was warm and I was going higher. I listened and found pleasure in the sounds of distant birds and the soft rhythmic crunching

of the leaves and twigs underneath my feet. I lost myself in the beauty of the day and the vivid slivers of the magnificent sky above me, and I indulged in some daydreaming. It was Wednesday. yesterday, but it felt like so long ago. I was finally getting around to thinning out a woodpile in my backyard. I'd borrowed the smaller of two mulchers from my landscaping company. It was already hitched to my pickup, so I figured I might as well just tow at home and take care of a chore with while the weather's good. The temperature was in the mid-60s, unseasonably warm for a November in Colorado. I didn't need that much of an excuse to spend more time outside, though.

I had ten acres out here to play in, but I wasn't doing a whole lot with it yet. Wind and thunderstorms and felled an old dying sugar maple in the backyard. I'd sought it apart and dragged it in pieces to the woodshed, so now it could be mulch for clients and firewood for the coming winter. I fetched the wedge and the splitter and stood the longest length of the trunk, atop some old cinder blocks. The old maple had been just over a foot across, so splitting it into two halves ought to make for a nice long fire to get me through a snowstorm. One solid blow in the center with the axe was enough, and then I mounted the wedge in the top. Two strikes

with the sledge side, and the two halves fell off the blocks with satisfying thuds. There was an art to it that made me smile. I fetched another piece and stood it up. One strike with the axe and I mounted the wedge in the crevice. I wound up and gave the wedge a solid strike that would have wrung the bell at the carnival. The wedge nearly disappeared into the wood, but the log didn't split. The old tree must have been dying and rotting for a good while. I didn't have another wedge to split the log, so I wound up for another prize-winning swing. Glint of metallic purple in the sun caught my eye, and a low hum sung out into the air.

Blurs emerged from the trunk, and before I could realize they were hostile, one of the wasps had attached to my left forearm. It was at least two inches long, had wings like a dragonfly in huge black eyes. A long, skinny waist was attached to a venomous-looking abdomen shaped like a bowie knife. The purple glints came from thin pearlescent stripes down its sides.

Its feet dug into my arm, and it didn't seem to be in any hurry to get away. Panic set in, and I smashed it with my gloved hand. Then more blurs haunted my peripheral. They were everywhere. Were there a dozen? A hundred? I ran for the back door of my house, arms flailing and slapping at anything that moved. Pain blossomed in several places.

I had to grab and swat at every single one of them to get free. In front of the bathroom mirror, heart still thumping rhythmically and ruthlessly in my ears, I assessed the damage. Three stings on my left arm. Two on the right. One each on my neck, right ankle, and the back of my right hand. Every one of them burned like a tiny piece of molten metal had been injected into me and refused to cool. I fetched the tweezers and started pulling barbed stingers from the wounds.

There were only a couple of stings without them, and the one on my ankle had an entire abdomen protruding from it. I kept that one in a plastic bag for later examination. I didn't know who I was saving it for, but some evidence wouldn't hurt. How else would anyone believe this ridiculous story? In the come down from the excitement, I was. dragging. The truck was locked and the mulcher wasn't started. I didn't like leaving tools out in the elements, but there was some daylight left. I thought I could stand to have a rest before I went back out to finish the job. I lay my head down on my overstuffed couch in the living room,

reclining and raising my feet. I slept on this couch more often than I should have, but today my exhaustion made it especially inviting. I usually need a noise to occupy my thoughts as I drifted off, talk radio or the TV. Today, I didn't have the energy to hunt down the remote and didn't think I'd even be able to find something to watch before sleep took me. The pictures that were soon dancing and playing in my head were far removed from wasps and stings. I felt my consciousness slip away into a pleasant, soupy fog. And smiling, I let it go. The phone rang and I jolted awake.

My eyes opened and I was on the couch. The house was eerily quiet. I found my phone and pushed the green button. Hello? My throat was so dry. It was Stephanie, my office manager. That got my attention. Something wasn't right.

I checked the time. 8.24 a.m. Thursday morning. That couldn't be. I never oversleep. My hand rubbed my face, trying to wake it up. A stabbing pain in my arm put a quick stop to that, though, and I winced. It all came back to me, the wasps, the stings. Had I really slept all night?

I realized I was holding my breath. Was I okay? I honestly didn't know. I'm sorry, Stephanie. Look, and I'll handle the mulch. I'm a little under the weather, but I'll try to get there as quick as I can. Thank you, Stephanie.

You're the best. I hung up the phone, and it had been two years since I'd, took the day off, and I spent that one nearly hospitalized with pneumonia. For her to seriously suggest the idea, I must have sounded bad. Sitting up and moving around showed me just how bad of shape I was in. Every sting felt like it was swollen to the size of a golf ball, although they didn't look that bad. I took what was supposed to be a quick shower, but I just wasn't moving that fast.

I did feel like I needed to get moving, though. I brushed my teeth and put on the loosest button-down shirt I could find. It still hid the stings but didn't bother them as much. Then I grabbed my keys and was out the door. Now, I'm not a coffee drinker, but that morning I could have used about half a pot. As I turned onto the main road, it led downhill and a light wave of non-a-lawful. Georgia passed me. Going up the next hill, I pushed the gas pedal a little harder than normal, and it just felt good.

Each time was a little better. The higher I got, the more euphoric I felt. When I came to Interstate 70, my finger was on the signal, ready to push it downward to signal a left turn. And then, I thought of all the upward hills going west. I changed lanes, mulchers still in tow behind me and pushed the engine to a heady growl climbing the on-ramp, heading toward the mountains. The climb was starting to flatten out, and I felt like my pace was beginning to slow. The pain in my arms was heating up again, where it had been a dull ache. Each sting had swollen into a knot, and each knot burned like a hot coal.

My legs were nearing exhaustion, but they just kept going like they had brains of their own, and I couldn't imagine stomping now. I kept my eyes toward the ground watching for roots and holes hidden by the leaf litter. It was thick enough in this part of the forest that I didn't stay on top of the detritus. My feet could have plunged into piles a foot deep that I would have to dig out of or kick out of the way. My boot started to irritate the sting on my ankle. Even though the sun was dipping lower in the sky, I felt warm. A bead of sweat dripped down my temple, and I watched the drop fall to the ground below me,

disappearing into the rest of the organic cast off. My jacket was open, but I needed it off. I pulled it off my left shoulder and tried not to snag the stings on my arms. But in the act of pulling off the right sleeve, I lost the jacket and dropped it. The bright red looked so out of place there and the various shades of brown, but I just left it and went on. I reached up to undo a button on my shirt and realized that my hand was quivering. The clumsy thing couldn't undo the button, so I reached up with the other hand and just tore the shirt open. Sweat made it cling to me, but I finally wiggled.

out of the sleeves and hung it on a branch as I walked past. I couldn't bear the thought of stopping. I needed to get higher. Soon, I got a sense that the trees would clear out up ahead, and it renewed my resolve. My legs kept working slowly, but surely, to lead me upwards. There was more and more skies showing up between the thinning trees. And then, far too soon, the climb was no more. The clearing opened up to the west, but it was the high point of this foothill. There were higher peaks far off in the distance, but I would have to go downhill to get to them, and the thought of that was simply too much. At the highest point, there was a large maple tree that had dropped most of its leaves.

The scene would have been a great postcard a month ago, a majestic thing with orange leaves like wildfire, leaning out over the expanse and longing for the setting sun. I felt like it was taunting me. This couldn't be the end. Disbelief gave way to desperation. I reached the old maple, and I didn't know what else to do. So I kept climbing.

Only a few feet up, though. I reached my end. I sat in a crook between the tree's trunk and two branches with my arms hugging it. Since I wasn't climbing anymore, I felt like I was sinking. My phone vibrated in my pants pocket, startling me so I nearly fell. I had forgotten I had that. I pulled it out of its pocket and swiped up to unlock it.

I shook my frazzled head, tried to focus, and pressed buttons. Phone, 9, 1,1, green button, speaker. The call rang out, and by the time it connected, I'd forgotten what to do. It took me a second to realize it was a person on the other end of the line. I thought hard and spoke, but the words I tried to say weren't the ones that came out. The operator on the other end didn't speak for a second. I didn't know what to say. but more words came out anyway.

I tried any... Fatigue and frustration fell over me like a heavy blanket. Racking, tearless sobs came out of me now. The pressure holding them in was released all at once at the sudden end of a long, unexpected journey. I fell limp, leaning on my tree, and the tree seemed to cradle me, as if the perch was made in waiting for me in this moment. My heart sank, and my eyes closed.

I couldn't tell if I'd fallen asleep or not, but the sun was in my eyes. It looked like I had maybe an hour before it set, and I realized very suddenly how beautiful the scene before me was. There were taller hills and peaks in the sun. in the distance to my right, an expanse of countless thousands of trees leading downward to my left, and an orange autumn sun coming down to set directly ahead of me. I couldn't see the interstate anymore. There was hardly a sign of humanity at all.

I picked my head up and looked around a bit, but I couldn't hear or see any sign of my phone. That was okay. I just wanted to sit here for a while. The movement made me woozy anyway. I felt a little drunk. Then, I noticed that I didn't hurt. I wasn't hot or cold. My arms didn't ache and my legs weren't burned and tired from the climb.

I breathed out long and fast to see if I could see my breath still. I could, just barely. There was a muscle twitch in my left arm. I noticed it, but I noticed it. I couldn't exactly feel it. I looked at the spot where it came from, and it was the highest angry red sting on my forearm. It was a larger spot than was there the last time I looked. Observing closer, there was a tiny black head on it, like the largest, strangest pimple I'd ever seen. I felt like I should be revolted or afraid, but I was just so tired. Another twitch.

This time, I even saw it move. The black head grew and pulsated, wiggled, and chewed. It was trying to come out. I watched, paralyzed in anticipation of what was coming next. I knew I should be afraid, but I just couldn't be. A few seconds later, the black head emerged slowly. and rhythmically to reveal beige and yellow, tiny legs, and segments. Then, I noticed those thin, iridescent purple stripes that I remembered all along its back.

The tiny thing looked like a caterpillar, maybe a half inch long. Somehow, I found myself smiling. Hey, buddy. I watched it make a long, slow journey across my arm, on to the trunk of the tree, where it settled into a crevice in the bark and turned to make an even longer journey. Upward, I even felt pride for the little guy, wondering where he was getting off to. He just kept going, undulating, expanding and contracting over and over, working hard to get

where he needed to go, now that I couldn't carry him any further. Was it a he? I decided it was. It didn't bleed or hurt where the little guy came out. There were two more further down with black heads just beginning to show. That easy smile cemented itself on my face, and I decided I'd just wait a while here in my tree. I'd been so silly living in this place for so long not to spend more time up in

the scenery, admiring what this place had to offer. The sunset really was beautiful. Well, that story shows how it's better to really know what your true motivations are. Best not to let others control you, right? But when it comes to getting to know ourselves, well, that's a lifelong process worth exploring. And that's why we're thankful that this show is sponsored by BetterHelp. As I get older and older and older, I realize.

how different I am today than I was even five or ten years ago. Getting to know yourself can be a lifelong process, especially because we're always growing and changing. Therapy is all about deepening your self-awareness and understanding, because sometimes we don't know what we want or why we react the way we do until we talk through things. Better help connects you with a licensed therapist who can take you on that journey of self-discovery from wherever you are. Therapy has helped me realize that certain things about me aren't.

just in the, well, that's who I am, can't teach an old dog new tricks category. I've learned I can change. I can set boundaries and develop better coping skills. You're never too old or too set in your ways to affect positive change. If you're thinking of starting therapy, give better help a try. It's entirely online, designed to be convenient, flexible, and suited to your schedule. Just fill out a brief questionnaire to get matched with a licensed therapist and switch therapists at any time for no additional charge, so discover your potential with BetterHelp. Visit BetterHelp.com slash no sleep today to get 10% off your first month. That's Betterhelp.com slash no sleep. Thanks to BetterHelp for sponsoring this episode. Now, have you heard the buzz? This next one is

unbelievable. If you followed the news in recent years, you'll have heard the rather dire reports about the bees, be it climate change or the overuse of pesticides, bee populations have been declining, and that's not a good sign. But in this tale, shared with us by author P. L. McMill. McMill, we learn about attempts to make bees more resilient to their environmental changes and what could go wrong with genetically modified bees. Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson, Kyle Acres, and Sarah Thomas. So be kind to our little honey, making friends. Be grateful they're here. If you want to get rid of

them, well, you're just being a buzz kill. The head of an axe makes a strange, slick sound when it slices through the skull of a hive mind. The genetic modification was supposed to save the bees, make them more

resistant to disease and pests, boost their procreation, and increase their honey production. It did that. And more, and more. Honey oozes over the axe blade, chunky with what brains remain in the skull of the thing that was once conscious. Hive minds used to be people. All it takes is one moment, one second outside without a suit. The bees are busy little things. It only takes a few seconds for their stings to overwhelm an average-sized

person. Only a few minutes for them to make their way into the skull through the ear canals and set up shop, carving out tunnels and rooms in the soft brain tissue. With a yank, Anthony pulls the axe-free and globs of hot amber liquid land with splats on the grass. He's glad for the suit that protects him from the bees and the smell. Honey from the infesting bees preserves the flesh surrounding the victim's face, allowing it to remain untouched, while the rest of the body slowly decays. The hive mind's face droops. The one eye not bursting with honeycombs rolls back into its skull. Bees swarm out of the gaping wound, buzzing with rage as they throw themselves against the man's bulky helmet. Their fuzzy bodies bounce off with dull taps.

Now free of the insects that were keeping it mobile. The body drops to the ground, twitching. Pulling a grenade from his belt, Anthony pulls the pin and drops it at his feet. Yellow smoke envelops him, and the bees that surround him fall to the ground. Their wings fluttering weakly. Now, the hard part. Pesticides don't work on the bees anymore. So Anthony grinds each one to smears a vicar with the butt of his axe.

His body aches. This is Anthony's second hive mind kill of the day. Each infected human can have dozens of bees in their skull, and each one has to be stomped out of existence, or the bee will rise again on armored wings and with an insatiable need to pollinate the soft, gray folds of the flower that make up a person's mind. Anthony slips his axe back into its loop on his belt. His arms sing with pain, but his heart finally settles once the adrenaline wears off.

Kneeling by the quickly cooling corpse, he lays out a scraper, an oiled leather pouch, and a sharp knife. With these tools, he slices away the skin on the dead man's skull and locates the fat queen. Dropping her on the ground, he then slices her to bits with his knife. After that, he begins to scoop out the rich honey from inside, depositing it into the pouch. The metal scoop scrapes at the inside of the bony hive until Anthony harvests all the honey. Bits of brain matter pepper the otherwise perfect amber elixir. Finished, Anthony puts away all his tools and sets off at a jog. The sun is setting.

It's time for him to go home. Careful not to get snagged on branches of thorns. Anthony weaves through the trunks until he reaches the edge of the small copse of trees. Before him spreads a magnificent field of grass and wildflow. At a distance, he spots a hive mind crouching on her hands and knees over a vibrant bunch of cornflowers. In slow, trembling movements, the woman lowers her head down and rubs her face against the flowers, inhaling all the pollen she can. Keeping low, Anthony sticks to the edge of the field, making his way east.

The hive mind stands, her face powdered and nostrils flaring, her mouth drops. Even from where he hides, Anthony can see the squirming insects between her jaws. Her cheeks vibrate with their dance. He can hear them buzzing, even over the birdsong. Shivering, Anthony makes his way past the meadow, down to the river, and across. He's dripping with sweat when he reaches the metal door set into the side of an abandoned house. It leads down to the cellar, the cool, dark place he shares with the love of his life.

She is weeping when he descends the short set of wooden stairs. Her cries hurt his heart. Anthony finds the lantern by the last step and lights it. It's buttery illumination painting the stone. walls, the dusty wooden shelves, and the few cans of food that remain. Standing on the thin, dirty mattress in the corner, she strains against the chains on her wrists, desperate to reach the light, drawn to it. The bees in her mouth rage over her tongue.

Their faceted eyes catching the faint light like gemstones. He pulls the pouch from his belt and opens the pouch. It opens it, tossing it to the dirt floor by her feet. The cellar is filled with the sound of buzzing hunger. It takes a moment for her to smell the fresh honey. Then she drops to her knees so hard, Anthony flinches for her. She stuffs the brain chunked honey into her mouth with her grubby hands. The bees calm when the honey is gone, and she slumps on her mattress.

Exhausted. All it had taken was one errant branch. One cursed moment for a bee to find its way in. But he had learned that the honey from another hive mine keeps the queen from laying eggs, keeps the number of bees down. The damage to the brain, minimal. Pulling a can of beans from a shelf, Anthony sits on the floor near her and rests a hand on her head. stroking her beautiful blonde hair. He feels her head vibrating with the contented hum of the honey-sated bees. Taking his helmet off and setting it to the floor, Anthony eats his dinner. It almost sounds like she's purring as she slowly falls asleep. She'd begged him to kill her when she'd felt that first telltale itch of a burrowing bee. But he couldn't.

Not her. not his beautiful wife. So, Anthony had chained her down here, and, in the end, chained himself to her. She stirs and turns her head. Her blue eyes still have a semblance of who she used to be. Around the bees sleeping in her mouth, she struggles to form words. But, my love. Anthony strokes her hair.

and swallows back tears. Me. Anthony only shakes his head. Shakes his head so hard, his brain buzzes, as if the bees are in him too. She trembles, and honeyed tears run down her cheeks. Both of them preserved in a sweet, buzzing limbo. First this night, poetic works,

from darkness alight. We leave you with this a question on a theme. Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream? 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 Olly White. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. Please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com for show notes and more details about the people who bring you this show.

On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for being a supportive season past member and for joining us within the exquisite horror of our reality. This audio program is copyrighted, 2023 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.