The NoSleep Podcast - S20 Ep2: NoSleep Podcast S20E02

Episode Date: October 8, 2023

It's Episode 02 of Season 20. Come join us around the campfire for tales about unexpected encounters."The Rats Have Unionized" written by Charlie Maliha (Story starts around 00:03:45)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Nat - Sarah Thomas, RatUnion - Graham Rowat, Jocelyn - Mary Murphy"Something Went Wrong in My Float Session" written by C. Rose (Story starts around 00:20:05)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: C - Wafiyyah White, Tia - Nikolle Doolin, Receptionist - Danielle McRae, EMT - Atticus Jackson"27" written by David Quantick (Story starts around 00:47:25)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced & scored by: David CummingsCast: Narrator - David Ault, Sally - Ash Millman, Daryl - Jake Benson"Grandma's Funeral" written by René Rehn (Story starts around 01:02:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Mark - Jeff Clement, Dad - Dan Zappulla, Uncle Thomas - Atticus Jackson, Grandma - Mary Murphy"Locked in Its Gaze" written by Isaac Menuza (Story starts around 01:10:20)Produced & scored by: David CummingsCast: Narrator - Linsay Rousseau, Ches - Elie Hirschman, Devlin's Mother - Nikolle Doolin"Eye Blood" written by Marcus Damanda (Story starts around 01:18:40)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Leo - Mike DelGaudio, Dad - Jesse Cornett, Grandpa - David Cummings, Brent Fisher - Dan Zappulla, Jodi Wilcox - Nichole Goodnight, The Phantom Operator - Jessica McEvoyThis episode is sponsored by: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.ZocDoc - Zocdoc is a free app that shows you doctors who are patient-reviewed, take your insurance, and are available when you need them. Go to Zocdoc.com/nosleep and download the Zocdoc app for free. Then start your search for a top-rated doctor today.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about the Malevolent podcast.Click here to learn more about the Deviser podcast.Click here to learn more about Isaac MenuzaClick here to learn more about Marcus DamandaExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"27" 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.

From our earliest days, we've gathered around the fire for warmth and comfort. But beyond the light of the dying embers, there is the darkness. And it's in the darkness of the night where we find ourselves, waiting, yearning for the dawn to banish our fears. But our campfire holds more than firelight. for with us you will hear the tales that make the nightmares engulf you and you dare not close your eyes brace yourself for the no sleep podcast welcome to the no sleep podcast i'm your host david cummings with the halloween month of october upon us i hope you'll be making the no sleep podcast your home base for audio horror thrills and chills. It's also the perfect time of year to share our show with the people in your life who might be looking to enhance their Halloween horrors. Letting people know about our show is always

appreciated and it helps us a lot. And speaking of sharing audio horror with others, I thought I would share with you some other podcasts which might make your podcast line up even more frightening. There are two shows created by Friend of the Show and Frequent Story contributor, author Harlan Guthrie. The first podcast is called Malevolent. Arkham, private investigator, Arthur Lester, wakes up with no memory of who he is or what has happened, only a nameless, eerie voice guiding him through the darkness. Blind, terrified, and confused,

his journey will lead him towards a series of mysteries in the hopes of understanding the truth of what has transpired. As cosmic horrors seep into the world around, Arthur must ask himself whether this entity truly seeks to help him, or are its intentions more malevolent. The second podcast is a short, seven-part limited series called Diviser. This series features dark space horror in the same vein as Event Horizon. It's about the horrors of AI told in a weird, cryptic way.

Think of it like a movie, just over two hours in total. It's complex and thought-provoking while being terrifying, horrific and bloody, and just good old gruesome fun. And all the writing, voices, and music are created solely by Harlan. Check the show notes for links to these two great series. They're available wherever you find your podcasts. Make malevolent and divisor part of your horror listening this month. This week around the campfire, we have tales for you about unexpected. encounters. And no, it's not the horror of running into someone and having to talk with them

when you really just want to get home. No, these encounters are decidedly more intense. Now, the sun has set. The fire glows bright. Brace yourself for the darkness of the night. In our first tale, we visit the New York subway. And if you know anything about those tunnels, you'll know that there are some rats down there. A lot of them. And in this tale, shared with us by author Charlie Malia, a woman sees a strange tweet one day from a mysterious person who seems unnervingly obsessed with these rodents

and his message isn't as frivolous as you might think. Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas, Graham Rowett, and Mary Murphy. So it was all fun and games when that rat was seen eating pizza in the subway. But beware. Because now the rats have unionized. I first saw the tweet on June 6th, 2022. It was sandwiched between an ad for the newest summer blockbuster and a dismal anti-work-from-home news article.

But it made me laugh. The rats have unionized. I clicked, as many did, hoping to find out more. The account the tweet came from was dodgy at best. It was created June 2nd, 2022, and touted the year. username Rat Union. It had no followers and was not following anyone. The profile photo wasn't special either, just a blurry picture of a sidewalk in the rain. The rats have unionized was a pinned tweet, and it was currently gaining numbers. The comments section seemed just as intrigued as I was.

Welcome, Rat Comrades. I would like to be their union rep. I have a suitcase full of cheese cubes. Why the hell is this so funny? As I scrolled through Countless rat memes, I started to notice some people already doing detective work. One Twitter user by the name of Thunderman said it best. I think this guy is seriously fucked. Take a look at his feed. He was right. Rat Union was seriously fucked.

Most of his tweets consisted of photos of rats. Not pet rats or lab rats. Subway rats. Big, nasty rats that made your skin crawl to look at them. Some were alone, but most were photographed in riding piles. It didn't escape Twitter onlookers that all of these pictures seemed very up close and personal. Is he taking these photos on his cell? One commenter posited.

I shuddered at the thought. I had never been the type of person to kill a bug or trap a mouse, so the idea of crawling down into a rat's nest turned my stomach. Even as a native New Yorker, the sight of a rat made me recall. in disgust. But the observation seemed correct. Rat Union was indeed taking these on his cell phone, and he was doing it a lot. How do we contact Twitter to report this? This guy is going to get hurt. Yeah, dude, that's the Chambers Street station by the J. This guy is in the tunnels. The confirmation that Rat Union was stalking the MTA tunnels of New York City stoked a fire in

the belly of Twitter. In a mere six hours, Rat Union and the rats are unionizing, shot up to the top of the trending tags. Subsequent Rat Union memes trickled in from TikTok and Tumblr, as well as the front page of Reddit. All in all, just another day on the internet. I slept that night confident that Rat Union was just another internet phenomenon, a flash in the pan, and gone before you know it. June 21, 2022. I can't hold them any longer.

I'm sorry. It was Rat Union's first thing. tweet in weeks. But despite the viral stranglehold his previous tweet had on the internet, this one went relatively unnoticed. With only a few hundred likes and a dozen or so comments, it felt wholly underwhelming. A man was scurrying around the NYC subways taking paparazzi-style photos of rats' nests, and no one wanted to follow up? Glancing through the comments, however, I saw that a small pocket of Reddors had looked into Rat Union's account and had begun to draw their own theories.

I'm pretty sure this is an alternate reality game. I found Rat Union on Reddit and also YouTube. I wouldn't even call them breadcrumbs. His stuff isn't like other ARGs, though. There aren't a lot of mysteries, or a plot. It's kind of bad. That's because it isn't. This man is just really, really weird.

You sure? Take it to R slash rat union. I started posting my findings there. I clicked one of the links list. in the comments thread, finding myself in the newly created R-slash Rat Union subreddit. As promised, rat union's other internet activity had been posted, attracting an intensely curious band of internet sleuths. One post led to a YouTube video entitled, I found a huge rat nests in an MTA tunnel, 642.

It was 12 minutes long and mostly consisted of footage of the filthy concrete that lay below the tracks of NYC's subway system. Rat Union stumbled in the darting and puffing as the flashlight on his phone darted around the tunnel. It was a disorienting and nauseating video, but I found myself unable to tear my eyes away from the screen as Rat Union grumbled into the mic. I will not disclose my location because I've already had other urban exploration sites closed off to my carelessness. But you should know I'm in the tunnels that somewhere, In Manhattan. Saw some nasty critters up at street level and followed them down here.

I'll bet good money there's a huge nest here somewhere. The shaky footage continued, catching only the mud-crusted tips of Rat Union's scuffed workboots as he tracked through the tunnel. I held my breath as he turned a corner, glimpsing the bright headlights of an oncoming train. Rat Union groaned, and in what sounded like hurried shuffling, he wedged himself on the sidewall of the tunnel. From his tiny hiding spot, Rat Union steadied his camera,

pointing it directly across the tracks towards the opposite wall. I stared, fixated on the spot as the rumbling of the train approached. As it raced forward, light growing in the tunnel, I began to realize that the opposite wall had a large chunk of it missing. The concrete looked eroded,

the edges rough and unfocused as if butchered by the world's dullest knife. The light intensified, sharpening the details in Rat Union's view. Something was writhing inside the hole. The train rumbled closer, shaking the tunnel and unfocusing Rat Union's camera once again. The light was becoming too bright to look at,

but through squinted eyes I could see what Rat Union saw. That hole wasn't man-made. It looked gnawed, and the culprits were the dead. Dozens, if not hundreds of rats pouring out of this wall. Their beady eyes caught the light of the train. Teeth bared as they saw Rat Union for the first time just beyond the tracks. Rat Union screamed.

His terror cut off by the roar of the train as it cut through the frame. What followed was a grueling 30 seconds of screeching metal. As both Rat Union and viewer were aware that the only thing separating him from a pit of rats was the speeding train. Unaware commuters zipped by, their faces blurred and distorted as they were whisked out of frame. The light dimmed, car after car, until only the red glow of the taillights illuminated the tunnel. Across the tracks stood the unholy pit, now empty. Rat Union lowered his camera, and I saw only the piss on his boots as he fumbled to stop the recording. I clicked back to R-slash-R-R-R-R-R-R-union, thoroughly disturbed by what I had seen, but not scared enough.

to look away. I succumbed to my voyeuristic urge almost instantly. I needed to know more. The next most upvoted post that crossed my screen was titled, I think I found Rat Union's Reddit account. Clicking through, I found a series of screencaps from R slash advice. It read as follows. Can I exterminate rats, not on my property? Is this legal? Hello, Reddit. I'm an urban explorer who has some genuine questions about pest control. Recently, I've noticed an alarming uptick in the rat population and abandoned MTA tunnels around NYC. I see posters plastered around stating there's poison around, but the rats are thriving.

It's more than I've ever seen before than they're different, not scared of people at all. Really hungry. Narrowly got out with one taking a chunk out of my finger last week. I plan on going back this Tuesday to take out as many rats as I can. Is this legal? They're multiplying. They're going to hurt people. T.L.D.R.

Is it legal for me to exterminate potentially harmful rats I found inside MTA tunnels? I stared at the screen, perplexed. It certainly lined up with Rat Union's previous posts, though I had no idea why he would ask Reddit about it. The top comments were thankfully screencapped, each detailing how those tunnels most certainly were not abandoned, and that Rat Union placed himself in huge danger by wandering around the subway without any high visibility gear.

Some people listed the stats of MTA employees struck by trains every year, pleading with him not to follow through with his plan. Rat Union never edited or responded to his post, yet those on R-slash-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-Uon had begun to fit the pieces together. Tuesday, that's today, isn't it? Cold dread trickled through my veins. It was today. It seemed that Rat Union had followed through with his plan and failed. June 23rd, 2022. Sheltered under the slated roof of an outdoor dining shack, I felt cautiously optimistic. I hadn't seen my friend Jocelyn since before the pandemic, and we were overdue for a lunch date in Soho. So what have you been up to?

you, Nat. Jocelyn's chipped manicured fingers tapped on the side of her gin and tonic. I sighed, leaning my head back to feel the warm sun on my face. Rat Union had it posted in days, and my curiosity had turned to apathy. I, uh, mostly scroll through Reddit since my job is slow. Anything interesting? Nothing I'm trying to remember right now. The conversation paused as the waiter approached with our meals balanced in each hand.

I sat up. eager to tuck in when Jocelyn's napkin slipped from her fingers. She ducked below the table briefly before sitting up again. Her posture was rigid, complexion pale with fright. There's a rat under our table. What? I pushed my chair out, glancing beneath the tablecloth and confirmed Jocelyn's fears. There was a fat fucking rat sitting on top of her napkin.

I felt my blood run cold. Let's ask if we can sit inside. I tried to push the memory of rat union's video out of my mind. Jocelyn nodded. She picked up her tote, only to find that it wriggled as she swung it over her shoulder. She shrieked, letting the tote drop to the table as two more rats scurried out of it.

They descended on our lunch, wasting no time tearing my pinini to shreds. I felt bile burning my throat. I was going to be sick. Other tables had begun to take notice, now scooching and calling for waiters as more and more rats dotted the sidewalk. Only when the lady next to us screamed in terror did I look up and find the source of this plague. A man in a long coat was stumbling down the sidewalk.

His skin was mottled red and purple, the tip of his nose and ears roughly shaped from thousands of teeth marks. A vacant-eyed, putrid-smelling man who dropped rats with every uneasy step he took. They fell from a wriggling lump in his face. coat and scurried towards the diners with fury. I stared at the man's tattered workboots the way one might identify a loved one in the morgue. It was rat union in the flesh, though flesh was something he was lacking. Big chunks of his face had been gnawed off.

His fingers blistered and bleeding as he opened up his coat and showed all of us what he was so desperately trying to stop. The rats weren't unionized so much as Unified. A hideous rat king had formed in the semi-hollow center of Rat Union's stomach, a never-ending knot of rat tails, fur, and viscera that swirled like a dark cancerous mass. My lunch, what little I ate, was now all over my shoes. In the panic, I saw the flash of bones as bystanders recorded this moment for eternity. To finish Rat Union's final saga for him, my own hand was limp around my cell phone,

subconsciously unlocking it. But as rat union stumbled, finally collapsing to the pavement as rats poured from every nook and cranny of his blood-soaked coat, I did the only human thing I could. I dropped my phone and ran like hell. Whether you're dealing with intense anxiety

or just needing to unwind, many people are using float tanks, or as some people call them, sensory deprivation tanks, as a form of therapy. You get in the body temperature, water and effortlessly float without any sights or sounds to distract you. Seems positively blissful, no? Well, in this tale, shared with us by author C. Rose, we meet a woman who was hoping for

that blissful experience, but her senses were anything but deprived. Performing this tale are Wafia White, Nicole Doolin, Danielle McCray, and Atticus Jackson. So let's hear what happened. as she tells us, something went wrong in my float session. Actually, I don't want any of this trace back to me. I'll just go by C here. I have anxiety. I've been an anxious human being since before I knew what the word anxious meant. I'm talking sweating, insomnia,

catastrophizing, anxiety attacks, the whole nine yards. It's not quite severe enough that me or my therapy, feel like I need meds, but, but it is bad enough that I see the Afro-Mentioned therapist for it regularly. Anyway, the whole point I bring this up is because, well, I'm in therapy. And I follow a bunch of mental health-related stuff on social media. And I was feeling particularly anxious in my therapy session last week, due to a number of things going on in my personal life that I won't bore you with here. It was near the end of my session, and I was feeling exhausted with it all and hoping for some practical suggestions to get me through the following week.

It definitely sounds like you have a lot going on, and most of it is for or about other people. What have you been doing for just you? Tia spoke with that earnest look that therapists have. I paused and thought through the past couple of weeks. Nothing, I responded after a moment. She nodded. Well, what's something you think you could do? Well, going for a walk is out of the question, unless I go really early or really late.

The recent heat wave combined with the notorious humidity of the Chesapeake Bay area made the idea of taking a walk outside feel like torture. That's fair. Maybe I could try out a new restaurant or go see a movie? Those are good ideas. I encourage you to try to find something over the next week that's just for you. Something you enjoy that won't cause additional stress. I think it would be good for you.

You know how important it is for you to take care of yourself. Yeah, I know. I'll think of something. She and I spent a few more minutes wrapping up our session. Then I left her office. It was really sweltering out. In the short distance from the door of the building to my car, I was already sweating.

driving home, I tried to think of some fun and relaxing things I could do for myself, but I kept coming up with only the basic massager movie. Both of those were fine, but I wanted to try something out of the ordinary. Later that day, after a meal of crappy fast food because I was too stressed out to figure out something to cook for dinner, I was scrolling through social media. I came upon a post from a therapist I follow about their experience and a float tank. They talked about their own anxiety and how helpful their experience in the float tank was for them.

I was intrigued and decided to read through the comments. Hmm. I've been thinking about trying this, but I feel like it's a 50-50 chance of it freaking me out instead of being relaxing, ha-ha, one commenter said. Ha-ha, I felt that way too, but it ended up being great.

I usually have a lot of trouble relaxing, but being in the tank actually. actually helped me relax a lot, the therapist replied. I read through a few more comments before remembering that there was actually a float spot nearby and that my partner had bought me a gift certificate for a while ago that I completely forgot about. After a search through my cluttered email inbox for the one with the promo code, I navigated to the website and poked around a bit. The one the therapist on social media had tried out had an option for lights and music,

and she wore her bikini to her session. While the one my partner had picked out would be a full sensory deprivation experience, and I'd be nude. I initially sighed at the idea of being left alone with my thoughts for an hour without even some soothing music, but ultimately decided to go for it. I mean, it was already paid for, right?

I wanted to try something new, and it could be helpful. Minutes later, I was booked for an appointment that Saturday. The rest of the week passed much like the beginning of the week had. Work was stressful. My family was stressful. My pets were stressful. Our financial situation at the moment was stressful. By the time Saturday rolled around, I was exhausted and beyond ready to have some time for myself.

I read through the pre-float instructions and saw that I needed to wash my hair before floating. Sighing heavily, I headed into the bathroom to wash my hair. Their website said that they provided. soap and shampoo because everyone was expected to shower pre-float. But these type of places never had the products that were appropriate for my hair type. So I prefer to minimize the uncertainty and do it at home with my own products. Once I finished my quick wash, I sat down to quickly style my thick, coily hair into two flat twist, then threw on a beanie.

It was going to be getting wet and washed again later, so I didn't care too much about it looking nice. Finally, it was time to head to the spa. The drive was nice, with most of it being quiet back roads rather than on the highway. Since it was relatively early in the day, it was still cool enough to have my windows down instead of using the air conditioner. I even scoped out a spot for lunch and coffee afterwards. As I drove, I noticed that I was starting to feel a bit less overwhelmed. When I arrived at the spa, everything seemed lovely. I won't name it. I won't name it. because, like I said, I don't want any of this link back to me. But the inside was clean and tastefully decorated.

The receptionist was kind and welcoming and even complimented my shirt. She showed me around, then led me to my room where she walked me through what to do and what to expect once I got into the tank. It all seemed pretty straightforward, and after undressing and quickly showering, I was climbing inside the tank. My initial thought was that the water was more shallow than I expected, but if you're going to be floating in it, I guess it doesn't need to be particularly deep.

After a few minutes of trying to figure out what to do with my lens, I got comfortable and started to settle in mentally. Well, this is interesting, I thought. The tank had some sort of noise dampening, and I was wearing the provided sets of earplugs, so the sounds of the rest of the spa were muted, and all I could hear was the sound of my own breathing and my pulse in my ears.

It was completely dark inside, and it was a bit jarring to have no difference at all between having my eyes open or closed. I let my attention drift to the sensation of floating and noticed the sensation of gentle swaying, likely caused by my effort to get comfortable. I took some deep breaths, and tried to quiet my mind of the thoughts that had begun to drift through of all my stresses

and responsibilities. I imagine a broom sweeping those thoughts away and lie floating in the tank, finally beginning to feel relaxed. Minutes pass, though I have no way of knowing how many, I noticed a sensation in my limbs. They had acclimated to the temperature of the water, which was meant to be the same as the external skin temperature. And I could no longer tell where the water was touching me and where it wasn't. It was a very odd sensation, and I focused my attention on it, feeling as if I was totally weightless. Again, it was hard to tell how much time had passed,

and I think I may have dozed off a bit, but at some point I noticed that the air in the tank had felt a bit warmer, and it began to faintly smell strange. As my brain tried to process this information, I started to feel water dripping onto my face. Nothing crazy, just a few drops every couple of seconds. These things must be temperature controlled. The controls are probably on a timer or something. It's probably just condensation, I reasoned. The sensation of water dripping was a bit annoying, though. so I shifted a bit, placing a hand on the ground to help me drift a bit to the left. I got comfortable and my thoughts started to drift again.

Only a short time later, I noticed the water dripping onto my face again. Feeling irritated and wanting to see what was causing the dripping, I sat up and reached to my right and the direction of the door. I felt along the wall, pushing, trying to open the door. Nothing. I kept moving my hands along the smooth wall, pushing harder and harder, and still nothing. My breathing started to quicken and my hands started to shake. It has to be here somewhere, I thought, sliding my hands faster and pushing harder against the wall.

Time ticked by and I became more frantic the longer I wasn't able to find and open the door. Panic began to rise in my throat and I forced myself to stop and try to. calm down. Okay, just calm down and think. It has to be here somewhere. There's no way it just vanished. Just breathe. Stand up and try again, I told myself. I took a few deep breaths and steadied myself, then slowly began to rise to my feet. I moved my hands along the wall, pushing, trying to find the door. I was methodical at first, sliding my hands over at the even intervals, then experimenting with placing them higher or lower on the wall to see if maybe I was just pushing

from the wrong angle. Within a few moments, though, I was becoming frantic again, and I was pressing my shoulder into the wall in a desperate attempt to get out. I couldn't even feel the scene. What the fuck? I said out loud, my voice sounding muffled to my still-plugged ears. I forced myself to pause again and tried to regain my composure. As I tried to think rationally about my situation, I began to notice warmth in my left cheek.

I froze, my brain struggling to process this new sensation. As I stood there perfectly still, I realized that I was feeling warm air blowing at regular intervals. It was almost like breathing. I could taste the sharp tang of panic in the back of my throat as I tried to think of something else, anything else that could be causing that sensation. Maybe a fan? No, I'd have noticed it before now, and it probably would have made a sound, some sort of hole or leak in the tank that was letting an air from outside the chamber. No, I'd have noticed the light. As I tried to keep calm, I began to notice a low growling sound coming from my left.

I squeezed my eyes shut and fought back tears as I inched to my right, my fingertips reaching out desperately for the wall. My heart was pounding in my ears, and I was starting to hyperventilate as I reached the wall and placed my back firmly against it. This must be a dream. Please, please be a dream. Several moments passed and nothing happened. Just when I was starting to gather the courage to try to find the door again, I felt breaths on my face. It had to be breath. It came deeply and evenly. A stark contrast to my own shallow breathing and smelled rotten. I wanted to scream but was only able to let out a pathetic whimper. The sound seemed to hang in the air for a moment. I felt a splash, and I was pulled off my feet back into the water.

The sudden movement and blow to the back of my head left me breathless and seeing stars. As I tried to fight through the disorientation, I felt a weight on my chest, followed by the feeling of dry, papery skin on my face. I tried to get up, to push away whoever or whatever was sitting on my chest. But they were heavy, pinning my arms to the floor of the chamber and compressing my chest to the point that I was struggling to breathe. I desperately wanted to see, Anne was simultaneously grateful that I couldn't witness whatever was attacking me. The person or thing explored my face with what felt like tissue paper stretched over knobby bones, and I could do nothing but lie there, frozen in terror and barely able to breathe.

My feet slid, trying to find the purchase on the chamber floor, and my arms were starting to go numb from the pressure on them. The hands, if you could call them that, found my nose and started to probe into my nostrils. I turned my head sharply, throwing my face partially underwater in the process, trying to shake off the hand. The person, creature, grabbed my jaw and held it firmly, pressing the best of the body. back of my head, which was still sore for my fall against the floor of the tank. Apparently satisfied that I was immobile. The creature once again found my nose and felt around my nostrils a bit before grabbing the tip of my nose and pressing it upwards, exposing my nostrils to it. I tried again to scream, but all that came out was a painful

wheeze. I was beginning to lose consciousness from having my breathing constricted for so long. The feeling of something snaking inside my nose suddenly brought me back into full consciousness. I kicked my feet frantically and struggled again to try to get the creature off me as it probed into my nose and down past the back of my throat. I gagged and coughed violently at the sensation as whatever it was continued to snake down deeper and deeper. My throat felt like it was tearing. My stomach ached and my eyes burned and all I could think was, I'm going to die here. I must have blacked out because the next thing I remembered was hearing a faint low sound. I flailed my sudden unrestricted arms and legs and started to scream, thrashing in the water, trying to fight off my still unseen

attacker. I scrambled to my feet and threw myself against the wall, trying to find the door. I found it on the first try and tumbled out of the chamber onto the hard floor of the room. The fall knocked the wind out of me, and I laid on the floor, dazed, panting, and trying to make sense of my surroundings. As I started to process what was going on, I realized that the low sound I heard was the muffled sound of the gentle music that signal that my time was up through my earplugs. A moment later, a knock sounded at the door. Five sharp quick wraps, followed by a frightening voice asking if I was all right. I broke down into sobs, and suddenly she was in the room, cover me with a towel and trying to calm me down. She murmured soothing words, and I babbled

incoherently, unable to put my thoughts together to form anything meaningful. I heard her call into the hallway for help with me, just as my stomach heaved, and I lurched forward to vomit all over the floor. My vision swirled and began to fade as I watched a pool of pitch black sludge oozed down the drain. I awoke, wrapped in a cocoon of towels and blankets, lying on a couch in what looked like the staff break room. The receptionist who checked me in was seated across the room watching me. She seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when she saw that I didn't immediately start screaming. Oh, thank God. I'm so glad you're awake. Are you all right? I managed to nod weakly. She inched closer to me and helped me sit up.

I did so slowly the movement making my head hound. The woman handed me a cup of water, which I sip slowly, filling my throat burn with each swallow. After I'd finished the second cup, she crouched down in front of me. Do you think you could tell me what happened? My memory, though foggy, went immediately to the creature in the tank. My eyes started to well up with tears. There was something in there with me. It breathed on me.

It held me down and it did something to me. my nose. Her face twisted in confusion. Miss, I don't understand. You were in the chamber alone. No one came or went from your room during your session. No! The force in my voice caused my throat to ache. I know what happened to me. Something was in there and it attacked me. She gave me a sympathetic look that made me want to slap her. But it's just not possible. The chambers are inspected before each year.

We even looked inside yours together at the beginning of your appointment. You know, for some, the sensory deprivation chamber can cause troubling thoughts and even hallucinations. I think that could be what happened here. I felt rage rising and clenched my teeth together to keep from shouting. I didn't hallucinate. I didn't make this up. Fucking attacked me in there.

You saw what came out of me when I threw up. That's not normal. I called the paramedics. She rose to get the door. I glared at her as they entered. Asked for my name and asked me what happened. I relayed my story again to the EMT, watching out of the corner of my eye

as the receptionist spoke quietly to the cop who had accompanied them. She stole glances at me as she spoke, and I see. All right, ma'am, you seem to have a concussion from your head injuries. I'd like to take you to the hospital to be evaluated and treated before we let you go home. No, we couldn't afford an ambulance ride and a hospital visit. Ma'am, I strongly suggest you go to the hospital and get evaluated. Concussions can cause long-term problems.

I know all that. You're not putting me in. in an ambulance. I'll have my partner come pick me up and take me. He sighed and presented me with a waiver, stating that I refused treatment as I called my partner to come get me. The paramedics and cop left suddenly, and I was alone in the room again with the receptionist. She looked awkwardly around the room before moving towards the door again. If you're feeling up to it, I can't help you to the bathroom so you can get dressed. I waved her hand away. and shakantly got to my feet.

After a moment to steady myself, I slowly followed behind her into the bathroom, where she had neatly folded my clothes. She assured me that she would be right outside the door if I needed anything. Then closed the door and left me to get dressed. I moved slowly, feeling a pounding pain in my head if I moved too quickly or abruptly.

When I was finally finished, I went over to the sink to splash water on my face. As I waited for the water to warm up, I looked in the mirror, and I was taken aback by my reflection. My eyes were bloodshot, and there was a dry trinkle of blood coming from my left nostril. My teeth were stained black and red, and there were bits of black stuck to my lips. I found my phone in my bag and snapped a quick picture of my face. Even if no one else believed me, I could prove to myself that something had happened that day in the float chamber. It's been about a week since that day.

I told my partner and medical staff, the owner of the float spa, my best friend, and my therapist about what happened to me in the float tank. None of them believe me. They all offered up some useless explanation. Sensory deprivation can cause anxiety, troubling thoughts and hallucination for some people, blah, blah, blah, blah. A hallucination wouldn't leave my nose bloody and raw. A hallucination wouldn't make me vomit black sludge. And a hallucination wouldn't explain why I haven't been able to keep any solid foods down. Or why my skin feels dry, no matter.

how much lotion or cream I put on. Or why? I feel like my stomach is constantly churning. I don't know what that thing did to me in that float chamber, but I do know that what happened to me was real. Something was in that chamber with me. And it's changed me somehow. And it definitely didn't help with my anxiety.

These float spas are becoming more and more popular and are popping up all over the place. A word of advice. Think twice about visiting one. And if you do choose to try it out, choose your experience wisely. Maybe a tank with lights would have helped me to escape my attacker. Maybe not using the air plugs could have alerted me to its presence sooner

so I could get away. Who knows? Just beware of float tanks. You never know what your experience will be like. They say life is short and then you die. They say you never know when you're going to go. But imagine being like the man in this tale, shared with us by author David Quantick. The man's friend tells him they will only see each other a precise number of times before one of them is dead. And the man is unnerved by the thought of that number being right. Performing this tale are David Alt, Ash Millman and Jake Benson. So if your encounters are limited, you might want to hope you'll have more than just 27.

That's right. We'll only see each other 27 more times. Then what? Then nothing. One of us will be dead and we won't be able to see each other. Wow, that's kind of harsh. She shrugged. It's just true. And 27 times is a lot. Are these long times or, you know, a couple of minutes?

I don't know. I don't have the details. But 27 times is pretty detailed. No, it's precise. Detail and precision aren't the same kind. I bow to your superior... I began, but couldn't think of a way out of the sentence. I'm sure you're right.

She got up to go. I stood up as well. I guess this was one of the shorter times. Like I said, I have no way of knowing. That was when I asked the question I should have begun with. How do you know we're going to meet 27 more times? She looked at her watch. Oh, I've got to go. I watched her leave the cafe and hail a cab to the airport.

Her plane crashed shortly after takeoff, killing everyone on board. Nobody ever really worked out why. There were a lot of theories from terrorist activity, but no one claimed responsibility, to a freak electrical storm. The weather was fine. But there it was, a plane that hit the ground for no apparent reason. I had a bad feeling as soon as I saw the news report, and a few days later, the passenger list was posted online,

and I saw her name and her photograph. Her name was Sally, and she had worked for a travel agency based in Paris, whose clientele were mostly old people looking for a sunset vacation, whatever that was. Sally got a few free holidays and a lot of free flights, which no doubt increased the likelihood of her being involved in a plane crash. I read that the laws of probability don't actually work that way,

but it still feels wrong to me. She had reddish-brown hair, and was always carrying books that seemed slightly too large because she bought them at airport bookstores, which carry a lot of special edition paperbacks, which are all slightly too large, perhaps so the people who buy them can heft them around and let everyone know they're the kind of person who flies a lot.

I once knew a man who left all the business class tags on his luggage for similar reasons. But Sally didn't buy airport editions to show off. She bought them because she spent too much time in airports. You could tell, it wasn't just the big books. It was her whole look. She wore coats and shoes that would have cost a fortune if she hadn't bought them at airports where the duty was lower.

She always had bottles of expensive whiskey and brandy in her flat, and her bed was covered in stuffed toys, nearly all of which were wearing some kind of uniform like a pilots or a guardsman's. And she had things that nobody ever bought who wasn't in an airport, like blue leather lettercases or little tins of sand. in fact, now I come to think of it, I even met her in an airport. It was like a rom-com. We were standing at the airport taxi rank and we both put our hands out for the same cab. Except neither of us offered to let the other one share our taxi. It was the driver who,

unable to bear our squabbling another moment, said, listen, I'll take both of you and you can have it out on the way. And unlike a rom-com, we never fell in love or kissed or even slept together. Sally and I were just friends who met whenever we were both in town and had fun, inconsequential conversations over coffee, or whiskey. Like on the day when she said we'd see each other 27 more times. Social media makes you do weird things, or I suppose, it brings out the weird in you. Before Facebook and Twitter, if a friend of mine had died, I wouldn't have dreamt of, say, putting an ad in the newspaper to tell everyone. I wouldn't have run to everyone I knew, close friend or slight acquaintance, and given them a brief summary of my friendship with the deceased.

Yet, here I was, copying Sally's picture from the website and pasting it into my social media accounts with a few words about how it was devastated to learn that my friend Sally had been one of the casualties of Flight 106. Without a thought, I might add, for how her family and her real loved ones would feel if they stumbled across this little piece of glibness. I knew Sally wouldn't have minded. Might in fact have been flattered that I hadn't forgotten her. I got a few comments below the line,

most of them the sorry for your loss type, and thought no more about it. Then about a month later, someone sent me a message. I was a friend of Sally's too. Did she do the thing with you as well? Darry. I sent back, Hi, Darrell, what's the thing?

P.S. I'm sorry for your loss. Darrell replied, The thing where she told you how many more times you'd meet. Daryl was a tall man in his 20s, and he was reading a comic when I arrived at the cafe. Sorry, I'm late. He stood up and offered me his hand. Any good? I asked him, nodding at the comic.

It was on the table when I got here. I'm the kind of person who reads the ingredients on ketchup bottles, so... We sat down. Tell me what she said to you. Darrell was clearly not one for small talk. I told him. 27 times. She told me we'd meet six more times.

I don't know what to say to that. I guess maybe she liked you more. Maybe you would have dated or just been friends. You believe her then? You think she really knew how many times she was going to see people? I believe she believed that. And if you believe that, it would probably affect how you were with people. I nodded.

Like if you thought you were going to see someone, I don't know, 200 more times, you'd be super friendly with them. Or if you thought you were never going to see them again. Then you'd never bother getting in touch. He sighed. We're never going to know, though, if she was right or not. She was... I stopped. Nuts. She didn't seem their way to me.

Did she to you? No. But she had to be, didn't she? It would be like I glanced down at the comic on the table. It was a preschooler's comic designed to sell some TV show or other to little kids. There was a tear on the cover where some eager toddler had ripped out the dumb toy on the front. It would be like me looking at this comic and being able to tell you what was in it. Sorry, that's a terrible analogy.

Six pages of story, nine puzzles, two of which are mazes, and a board game where you have to cut out all the counters, and three full pages for time. toys. Yeah, but you've read it. You know what's in it. Darrell looked me in the eye. Exactly. Okay, I said after we'd ordered coffees. What you're saying is she didn't just think she knew how often she'd see people. She did know. Because I raised my hands. How? Darrell shook his head. I don't know that, but it makes sense.

How else can you be confident of something happening? You can plan it? Like, I can plan, I don't know, how many times I'll come to this cafe, or how many times I'll have this particular drink. No, you're forgetting that the coffee shop might close down, or they might stop selling whatever weird latte that is. It's a hazel chino. Oh, wait, wait, that analogy works,

because Sally didn't know she was going to die. I mean, she might have, but it's unlikely. Nobody gets on a plane knowing it's going to crash unless they're suicidal, and she wasn't suicidal. She certainly wasn't. There was a smile on his face that didn't need much unpacking. You and Sally... An item?

He nodded. But it wasn't going well. I mean, the sex, yes, but we wanted different things. We fought a lot. That's why she took that flight. She was going to France for a few days to think about us. Six times. That's how often she said she'd see you.

Sounds about right for someone who's thinking about a breakup. For the first time, I could imagine being like Sally, ending a relationship with someone, but knowing you're going to see that person a few more times after it's over, wondering if some of those times would be friendly or hostile, knowing there's nothing you can do about it. I felt jealous, too, of Daryl's intimacy. I'd had vague feelings of desire for Sally as well as liking her company,

but seeing her 27 times. That was the kind of figure that said to me that we'd always be just friends, not close ones either. Darrell's six times would no doubt have been intense, good or bad. I didn't mention any of this. Instead, I said, is that what we're saying? That Sally had this weird gift but she wasn't able to see the bigger picture? One way of saying it. Another is thinking of it like rock paper scissors.

And plane crash beats knowing when you're going to see people again. I frowned. I can see why she didn't want to see you again. Ouch. But he didn't seem offended. I went home and tried not to think about Sally. Then I felt callous and really made the effort to think about her to conjure her up in my mind again. It was strange, the things I could recall and the things I couldn't. Like, I could remember the colour of her eyes, but not the colour of her hair.

I remembered some of the phrases she used a lot like, got to say and truth be told, but hardly anything that she actually said. I knew she liked movies, but couldn't recall the names of any of them. In the end, I decided I was making a kind of false shrine to her memory. I said a small prayer in her name, which is as close as I get to religion, and I got on with my life, which meant working on my computer, pitching ideas to clients, and occasionally getting paid work. I made myself go to the gym, and when that got dull, pretty fast, I went for walks instead. One day I found myself in the part of town where I'd met Daryl in the coffee shop. The coffee shop had closed down. There was a note in the window about

unforeseen circumstances which nearly made me laugh. I thought about calling Daryl to tell him, but didn't. Maybe one meeting was enough for us. That night I had a particularly thorny issue with a project. Nothing was going right, no matter how I approached it, and in a fit of peak, I deleted the whole thing, childishly gave my computer the finger, and opened a bottle of bourbon I'd been given for my birthday. I sat down and put the TV on. I was channel hopping in a kind of sulk at life when my phone rang. Hello? There was a kind of chunk noise at the end and a distant voice said shit, and then it went dead. I went back to my sulky viewing, but a minute later, it rang again. Hello? What's up? He sounded.

upset. I am listening. It's just you're not saying anything. The bourbon was not making me less irritable. Who is? Sally. What are you talking about? He actually gulped. Look, I don't know what you've taken. Have you taken something? Just calm down and it'll wear off in a bit. I really have to go now. The phone receiver almost blew my ear out with distortion as Darrell shouted. Maybe it was nerves, or maybe I found it funny this whole weird act, because I laughed. Daryl was quiet for a long time, and I thought he'd rung off when he said, in a quiet voice. Daryl, you really need to go to bed. Five times after this one.

Do I see what? I can't take it more times. This time, the phone did go dead. I drank the rest of the bourbon and went to bed. The coroner's verdict was suicide. Not that I went to the inquest. I didn't even know Daryl was dead until I read the paper. The report said he had a sister and both parents were living. I wondered what I could have said to him, just some rubbish about how he had so much to live for.

I don't know. I didn't get in touch with his family or anything because, well, I only met him once, not counting the phone call. Maybe I should have told someone about that, but if I had, it might have caused people to say he was crazy, and I didn't see how that would help anyone. So I tried not to think about Daryl's call and what he had said to me. About a month later, I was getting into my car when I saw something in the rearview mirror. A second later, I jumped so suddenly that I bashed my head against the window. There was someone in the back seat. I turned my head to tell him to get the fuck out of my car, but the words just stuck in my throat.

The person sitting in the back seat was more like a collection of charred sticks than a human being. They were bones and rags and there was, I swear, wear some seaweed on their shoulders. Oh, and they had no face, which was how I knew who it was. Sally? I said, and immediately wished I hadn't, because the thing in the backseat nodded the wreck of its head and tried to speak. No words came out of where its mouth should be, just some grey water. At which point I lost it, I put my foot down and drove, hardly looking to see if there was anything in front of it. When I looked in the rearview mirror again, having somehow managed to drive for ten minutes without crashing into a wall or a school bus, Sally was gone. There was just a faint odour of brine.

I turned around and drove home again and tried to put the whole thing out of my mind. She's not how she was. No kidding, Daryl. The second time, I was in McDonald's, and she sat right opposite me. I swear she was drooling. The third time, I woke up, and she was in. bed with me, her burned, soaked arm across my chest. 27 times, she said.

The fourth time, she stood behind me in the bathroom, her reflection immobile in the mirror. The fifth time I ran at her screaming, but by the time I slammed into the wall, she was gone. 27. Darrell managed one time, but I'm made of sterner stuff. Still, 27. I've stopped going to work. I've stopped doing anything. I don't eat. I can't. This morning I looked in the mirror and I wasn't sure if I was looking at me or her.

27. I pulled a bit of skin off my arm today. It didn't hurt. The muscle underneath was red for a while. 27. I haven't pissed for a week. Still, that's a week I haven't seen her in. 27. I'm lonely. 27. One of my eyes has gone white. I might get it out with a pencil and see if I can work out why. 27. Why isn't she here?

The light of dawn approaches. Our tales must come to an end until the next time we gather. We'll keep the fire burning until you return. That is, if you dare to run, remain sleepless. 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.

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