The NoSleep Podcast - S20 Ep22: NoSleep Podcast S20E22

Episode Date: March 10, 2024

It's Episode 22 of Season 20. Come join us around the campfire with tales about experimental horrors."Anderson's Body" written by Alexander Garr (Story starts around 00:03:15)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Mike DelGaudio, Anderson Pryce - Kyle Akers, Doctor - Jesse Cornett"Maddy Long-Legs" written by Oli A. White (Story starts around 00:17:05)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Lexa - Erika Sanderson, Maddy - Ash Millman, Carlo - David Ault, Seb - Andy Cresswell"The Resonance" written by Rhea Roy (Story starts around 00:53:15)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Vivian Lu, Mia - Sarah Thomas, Tyler - Jeff Clement"The Anopticon" written by One Faraday and Ronin Ellis (Story starts around 01:08:15)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Cece - Nikolle Doolin, Brown-Eyed Man - David Cummings, Jenson - Jesse Cornett, Interviewer - Matthew Bradford, Maya - Mary Murphy, Recorded Voice - Erin Lillis"Regarding the Diagnosis and Treatment of Changeling Disorder(Marquardt's Disease)" written by Larry Allen Tyler (Story starts around 01:39:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced & scored by: David CummingsCast: Narrator - Kristen DiMercurio, Roger Hoag - Peter Lewis, Dr. Marquardt - Graham Rowat, Young Man - Atticus JacksonThis 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.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Vivian LuExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"Regarding the Diagnosis and Treatment of Changeling Disorder (Marquardt's Disease)" illustration courtesy of Alia SynesthesiaAudio program ©2024 - 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 fireless. 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 when it comes to the horror genre you can't help but notice how often science plays into

horrifying stories. Ask someone to name a classic horror story, and I'll bet you'll hear the answer Frankenstein more than any other. And think of that clip from the classic film version. Yes, the motif of a mad scientist, often well-meaning, trying to help the human race, who ends up causing more harm than good, well, that's a theme found in many horror stories. Scientific experiments, especially those done on humans, can really resonate with many people. I haven't gone under the knife, as it were, for any kind of surgery, but I can imagine that if you've been preparing to be wheeled into the operating room, put under anesthetic with your life in the hands of the surgical team, I wouldn't blame anyone

for being a bit frightened at that thought. Let's face it, can we even ponder what goes through the mind of a crazy scientist trying to do bizarre experiments? What's in their lab notes? What's that strange liquid in all those test tubes and beakers. Right, and what is it that motivates the madness? Well, on this episode, we're going to learn about science and experiments that push the boundaries of ethics and morals. So hold on for the scientific method gone mad. And if you're lucky, at the end of this, someone will be able to look at you and proclaim, It's Alive!

And now the sun has set. The fire glows bright. Brace yourself for the darkness of the night. In our first tale, we meet Anderson Price, lying on the operating table. We can only trust that he's being looked after by competent doctors who are seeking to help Anderson. But in this tale, shared with us by author Alexander Gar, we learn that the patient is undergoing a procedure that will, well, let's just say, test his self-esteem. Performing this tale are Mike Delgadoo, Kyle Acres, and Jesse Cornett. So the equipment and staff are ready. It's time to operate on Anderson's body.

They started with his hair, trimming, then buzzing, then shaving the curling locks. The hair was swept into a bin and put aside. Who are you? I am Anderson Price. He watched the machine approach and slice a bit of skin from his finger. Who are you? I am Anderson Price. Scalples and saws, wires and tubes, forecepts, scissors, gels and clamps,

those and more were strung to a mutated mechanical octopus and the whole contraption whizzed and word above Anderson's supine and conscious body. Pieces were taken that Anderson couldn't feel the anesthesia more than effective. The robotic arms twisted and something else was taken away and placed on an adjacent sterile table. Who are you? I am Anderson Price. A small platoon of white coats stood behind glass above. of the scene. Some had clipboards on which they furiously scribbled, others tablets, still others

little handheld devices that they spoke to. One or two white coats watched without recording their observations. Buzz went the saw, and Anderson saw in his peripherals a hand gliding away. Hiss went the laser, and something somewhere was cauterized. The metal table next to Anderson's was beginning to resemble a Frankensteinian attempt at creation. Who are you? I am Anderson Price. There was a light shining behind the robotic monstrosity. It was pure white and blinding.

Anderson imagined it to be the sun, or the moon, during a supernova. He imagined himself beneath that light, which erased shadows. He imagined a young man, Bald and flayed, his exposed muscles wet with here and there an ivory bone gasping for air. There went his kneecap. A calf hardened from years of running peeled back. His penis was snipped off, the testicles following one at a time, like eggs from a nest. Who are you? I am Anderson Price. A second machine came to life and worked to keep Anderson alive, and, more importantly, conscious,

while the first performed its vivisection. Vains and arteries were extracted, wound, and placed in a special container. Intestines, like rubber snakes, a stomach empty, except for its fluids. His chest cavity was opened like a lobster, and its contents emptied. each organ getting its own container. He was a pharaoh, a god among mortals, and his loyal servants were preparing his tomb with his organ-filled canopic jars.

He hoped they would remember all of the other items he would need for the afterlife, his phone and laptop, his cat, his video games, and music. A benefit of the modern era was that everything was so tiny. The treasure room wouldn't need to take up much, space in the overall tomb. Who are you? I am Anderson, Price. A blinding light heralded the awakening of a third and fourth machine.

They began to hover over Anderson's discarded bits, seeming to discuss between themselves something secretive and exclusive. Anderson watched a scalpel approach his face. Slow and methodical were its movements. Its edge thin and sharp. It excised his eyelids before a needle slid into the jelly of his sclera and popped the eye from its socket. The nerve delicately removed.

Blind, Anderson was left with smell and sound, neither of which he had much interest in focusing on. He knew the robots were on his face. He sensed them at his ears and mouth and nose, probing and prodding. There was a pressure atop his head. Who are you?

I am Anderson Price. He found himself asking who Anderson Price was. He felt the same as when he was first laid upon the operating table. The removal of his limbs

wouldn't change that. He hadn't noticed when his heart was taken from him or his throat. He wondered if any singular piece of him could be pointed to and called Anderson Price. He knew his skull had been unscrewed and the robotic arms were lapping up his brain fluid. It could have been the brain that made him who he was. But even after the machine was satiated and began to slice pieces of brain matter

away, Anderson thought he remained Anderson. They started with his brain, scooping, then molding, then fitting the wrinkled mass together like a puzzle. Neurons linked. Blood vessels, mile after thousand mile of them, were reconnected. Heart here, liver there, lungs arranged just so. Spine slotted into the foramen magnum. Intestines were recoiled and muscles were stitched into a tapestry. Who are you?

I... Am Anderson Price. How do you know? Who else would I be? A simulacrum. A facsimile. A man-shaped meat bag. Unaware of its purpose?

I don't have a purpose. That's why I volunteered. Prove to me that you are Anderson Price. When I was eight, my dad built a ramp from a two-by-five. and a piece of plywood. I rode my bike off of it and fell hard, skinning my hands and feet. I had been wearing sandals. I was crying in the driveway, and my parents ran out to help me.

The next day was my birthday party. It was at an indoor swimming pool, and the chlorine hurt too much for me to swim. The doctor harumphed. That singular memory. encompasses what it means to be Anderson Price? It's a memory only I would have. But it isn't who you are. I don't know if it's possible to prove it any other way.

He gave me a new body, but I'm not that. I'm here. He lifted a finger to his sutured temple. I realized it during the surgery. Without my memories, I can't be me. If you had withheld a part of my brain, then I couldn't be me. How do you know we didn't? What?

A piece of your brain. How do you know we didn't keep a part of you while the rest was being reassembled? I guess I wouldn't. Describe Anderson Price. socially, culturally. I'm young, according to people like you, but old according to my brother's kids. I see the world around me and admire its natural beauty. I love the mystery of the ocean and the starkness of nature's outer wilds.

I have an interest in animals, but am too uninterested to own anything besides a cat, because cats are easy to care for. I don't have a favorite genre of music and instead listen to anything that I think sounds good. I'm socially awkward and crave social interactions. I'm poor because I haven't been able to hold down a job, and I've been too proud to move back in with my parents. I dream of becoming an ultra-billionaire while shunning the economic system out of a sense of unfounded decorum. Every relationship I've been in has ended an unrequited heartache or mutual rage.

I yearn to see the distant future, but some days I am afraid I won't live to see tomorrow. All these things, are they what make you, Anderson Price? I suppose. How about we play a word association game? I'll give you a word. and do you tell me the role it's played in your life? Okay. Apple.

I'm allergic. Paintbrush. I wanted to be an artist when I was little. Christy. My teacher in fifth grade. The next word sounded garbled, and Anderson asked the doctor to repeat it. He did, but Anderson still couldn't understand it. Um, sorry.

What language is that? The doctor said it a third time, a smile tugging at his lips. They started with his brain, scooping and scraping until every morsel was gone. In its place was another brain, newer and sleeker than the old one. Wires were unplugged, the upload completed. A mostly synthetic spinal cord was inserted into the foramen magnum and into a module on the underside of the new brain. Who are you? When it comes to insects, most people prefer to observe from afar, if at all.

But if you're like Lexa, working at her university's entomology lab, your fascination with insects goes much, much deeper. And in this tale, shared with us by author, Olly A. White, we learned that the new species of insect she's studying has a way of inspiring her to learn more. Performing this tale are Erica Sanderson, Ash Millman, David Alt, and Andy Cresswell. So don't fear those creepy crawlies too badly. Give them cute names like Maddie Long Legs. The beep.

The sound of compressed air being released. The satisfying swish of recently upgraded laboratory doors opening, then closing. Madeline's soles clicking across the sterile. piled floor. Late again. Sorry. Maddie's voice was chirpy as usual. The younger woman's keen demeanor and sustained pepiness never seemed to falter. Carlo spun around in his chair, sending it and him rattling across the lab floor.

Don't worry, you haven't miss much. The kids are skittish, but Mama's hanging on and the debut time to show no signs of presenting herself yet. I saw Maddie Beam as she walked over to the large tank. that took up the centre of the lab. I stood from my desk and joined her, furtively glancing over at Carlo, who turned back to his workstation.

How's the lovesick puppy been today? Ha! Managed to avoid mentioning you this morning. For once. Despite her words, I could hear the disappointment in her voice. Ever since Carlo had joined our team six months ago, he'd had a wildly passionate crush on Maddie. A crush he'd confessed to me about halfway into his tenure,

which I'd made the bad decision of allowing him to talk about with me. I assumed he'd discuss it with me, and that would be the push he needed to ask Maddie out on a date. Back then, she rather liked him. She would have said yes. I encouraged him to go for it. He didn't. Instead, he spent the next three months pining for her,

always saying how impossible it was, how he couldn't see how to make it work, how to raise it with Maddie, all sorts of nonsensical, cowardly stalling tactics that made it obvious that he and Maddie would not go well together. I quickly got sick of telling him what he needed to hear and decided to warn Maddie. She normally appreciated guys with confidence,

who took control. Carlo was none of these things. None of this put Maddie off, something I couldn't even begin to fathes them. I took to reminding her that it was the 21st century, and if Carlo was too much of a man-baby to ask Maddie out, she could ask him. But in typical, infuriatingly maddy way, she wouldn't do that either now that she knew the situation, said that he needed to learn to ask her. The whole thing drove me mad, which amused Maddie further. Not in any mean-spirited or spiteful way.

This was just Maddie. Mischievous, teasing. infuriating in a way that somehow made me like her more. I turned my attention back to her. Maybe today will be the day he finally opens up. We can but hope. Maybe today will be the day she finally opens up. It had become an in-joke between Maddie and I. Who would open up first?

Carlo or the debutante? Inside the tank, the debutante was cocooned in webs that gave the appearance of a flowing white gown, a partial reason for the nickname. The other being that when she came out, she would be crowned the new queen of our hive. I was a post-grad student working on a master's in forensic entomology. Both to aid my studies and the financial necessities required to study,

I juggled this with a full-time job working as a junior lab manager for the university. Shortly after I took the role, a professor and a group of students on an expedition, had discovered a new species of insect. It was a very big deal. It caused a stir for much the same reasons that any dramatic new arrival to the kingdom animalia does. Similar but different to an existing creature.

Biological and sociological rules that could turn our understanding of nature on its head. Really unusual looking. In honesty, that's the thing that garners the most funding. The visual, whoa factor. In this case, the woes stemmed from how damn creepy this little thing was. At first glance, it looked like your average harvestman, and it was first believed to be yet another species in the Opiland's order, of which there were already nearly 7,000.

A neat find, but nothing life-changing. And then study began, and the differences became clear. The official designation was Arak-287B31, but given what a mouthful that was, we at the university had nicknamed the creature the cock dancer. There is at least partially immature explanation for this, but I think we can all be honest and admit that this was simply post-naming justification,

using legendary arachnologists Carl Koch and his son Ludwig Spider-cock as scapegoats. Once you saw the cock dancer, though, it wasn't hard to see what had inspired the nickname. A harvestman like had a protrusion from their ears, where a spider's abdomen would be. Compared to the cock dancer's body, though, the protrusion was smaller, flexible,

and did unfortunately look like a penis. We were still not sure what functioned the cock on these insects served, but we did know that they used them partially for traversal alongside their eight lengthy legs. The penis allowed them to flip and catapult as they moved, making for a strange and sometimes frankly terrifying form of acrobatics compared to the already alien movements of most arachnids. The job of our lab was to study a hugely fortunate development

in one of the nests the bigger labs have been cultivating, a development that was possibly the most remarkable thing about our little cock dancers. They were us social arachnids that had a queen. And in the colony in question, the one that filled the tank in the centre of our lab, we were observing a community in which the old queen was seemingly dying and a new queen was about to take her place.

That was the debutante. The silk-en-cased yet unseen beauty who Maddie was once again studying with longing. Here's another thing about epilones. They don't produce silk. Spiders do. Our cock dancers weren't spiders. If they lost legs, they wouldn't grow back. Again, like opylons.

But our female apilons could produce silk from their mouths. Nobody had seen the creation of the debutanteau. but it was caught on camera. At some point one night, a number of cock dancers had stopped and all turned on one unremarkable sibling. Then, as hive-minded creatures tend to do, they all began to work together

to string this single dancer up into her cocoon. After using several imaging techniques over a few days to confirm that, yes, the dancer inside was evolving and changing shape, the hive was transported to our lab, where we were requested to drop all work we were doing and dedicate our entire time to the study and observation of this particular colony. Maddie, Carlo and I were currently working the day shift,

but were to switch with the night shift after a short break. For all of us, but especially Maddie, this had become an increasing source of anxiety. If she comes out today, then that would be just swell. I'd be devastated if I don't get to see or emerge. I squeezed Maddie's shoulder. On the other hand, What if she comes out this evening at the end of our shift? We'll see her emerge, but then we'll miss the next two days of her new life.

Maddie brushed away my concerns, but let my hand linger. That's easy. I'll just work unpaid overtime and join today's night shift. Stick it out as long as I can. Girl, you can't keep putting in unpaid overtime like this. You know, unpaid means they're not paying you, yeah? Yes, mommy, I know. But come on. I want to be there.

I've just got her. If Lexa's mummy, does that make me, daddy? Hidden by Maddie's body, my eyes widened in horror. Then I was fighting back laughter as turned away from Carlo, Maddie began to make gagging motions with her fingers down her throat. She accidentally went too far, choking, which broke the floodgates. Carlo clearly thought I was laughing with him and continued, chuckling as if it was the best joke in the world.

Mummy, daddy and Maddie. So you and Lexa in this scenario were what? Married? Maddie gave me a mischievous mocking look. Or I'm the bastard offspring of a trist, one dark and stormy night shift. The horny romantic setting of an entomology lab got the better of you. I shot her a withering glance, then tried to fight back more laughter as Carlo's expression made it clear he'd caught onto the very unintended dynamic he'd created. Actually, I don't think I'm ready for fatherhood. The dancers can be daddy. They're as good as daddy long legs after. Carlo trailed off. His face cracked into a wide smile.

What is it, bro? Maddie long legs. That's what we should call them. Cock dancer isn't going to fly. with the president of insect nicknames or whatever, but Maddie Longlegs, named after the iconic lab assistant who played an integral role in studying them, it's perfect. The public will eat it up. Maddie stared at me, silently pleading for my support. I think it's a wonderful name. What about you? Maddie Longlegs? Switching to nights fucked the usually punctual Carlo. He was a full hour late for our first grave. yard shift that Thursday evening. Of course, I was happy to cover for him. Perhaps if I went out of my way to do so, he'd always be late, and I could make sure I was always early, thus avoiding more time alone with him

where he'd inevitably whined to me about the vague reasons that he simply couldn't ask Maddie on a date. Furthermore, I was happy to see Maddie show right up on time, 6pm. Preparing for the night shift meant we hadn't really had time to hang outside of work, so the alone time together was nice. We had a strange setup at the lab. Due to a number of protocols, we didn't directly switch with the previous shift team. Instead, one team would leave,

and then an hour later, the next team would be allowed in to take over. If someone tried to use their security card outside the allotted shift time, it simply wouldn't allow you in. It was an unusual arrangement, but one that made a certain degree of sense to those of us who worked there.

to do with space and sterility and security. But it meant the anxiety of an hour during which the dancers were observed only by the cameras in and around their tank. It was a nice change to have Maddie at my side as I rushed towards the tank. Of course, nothing had happened during the day shift. The junior lab manager from that team, Leo,

was a good friend of mine, and they would have texted me if anything had happened. But there was still that missing hour. Oh, nothing. Fuck, yes. I let out a breath. I hadn't realised how much the extended time away from the lab had been bothering me until I could confirm the debutante was still firmly wrapped in her cocoon.

If you told me a few years ago that I would have dreaded being away from school and work, then I would have laughed in your face. I've got a feeling. A funny feeling. I cocked my eyebrow. Try Tinder Ew, no, not like that This is something actually sexy

Like bugs Who's a sexy bug? And sorry for being late Carlo stood in the doorway Looking sheepish and clutching apology coffees under one arm He was dripping wet And only then did I notice the rain battering the lab's sole window It had been a balmy night when I arrived

I am silly Muddy long legs I snorted. Maddie was barely over five feet tall. But no, listen, I've just got a feeling that she is coming real soon. I think I'm like part of their hive mind now. One of them. Carlo's eyes widened, as usual, taking Maddie's nonsense seriously.

Whoa, that's so cool. Maddie gave a sagely nod. It's like I can speak to them in a language. only they and I know. Again, I huffed out laughter. Hopefully you still understand the human language of your supervising lab manager, though. By which I mean,

settle down and get to work, Cockwhisperer. The next two hours of our first night shift passed without incident. Once the Cockwhisperer jokes had died out, all three of us busied ourselves with work. Around 8.30pm, I excused myself to use the bathroom, which meant swiping out the lab with my access card. Slinging my bag over my shoulder,

I walked the two corridors that led to the facilities, giving the security guard at the nearest station warm smile and nod. Inside the bathroom, I'd barely finished peeing and made it to the sink when there was a knock at the bathroom door. Since whoever it was hadn't simply entered, I assumed it must be a man. Oh, Miss Livingstone! It was Seb, the security guard.

Quick. I rinsed the soap off my hands and exited the bathroom. Seb looked wide-eyed and panicked. My heart gave a single, harder thud before I calmed myself. Carlo called up to me on the internal line to set to get you out of the bathroom. You need it back at the lab immediately. I was momentarily confused. Our job was observation and record-keeping.

What could possibly require such urgency right now? Unless... Back at the lab. seconds later, I swiped my card and entered. Immediately I could see what was going on, and gratitude towards Carlo flooded through me. My colleagues were standing, facing the tank, staring, breathing heavily.

The debutante was emerging. I hadn't expected that much in terms of actual visual action. It was more about the thrill of being the first to see the birth of a new queen among the dancers. But holy fuck, none of us were prepared for what we saw that night. At first, the silk cocoon began to dissolve, like it was rotting. As this happened, the dancers present in the birthing chamber split into two groups. One group hurried to the dying queen, whose twitching in apparent distress had increased tenfold

the moment the debutante began to emerge. The other group scuttled to the debutante's cocoon and began to aid in stripping the silk away. They've broken into groups of male and female. Carlo was right. The distinction between the genders in the dancers was hard to make out, but by looking at one of the screens attached to the tank, broadcasting a zoomed-in view of the royal chamber, we could see that the dancers who were aiding the debutante all had the telltale double dot marks on their round spiky carapace

that indicated the female of the species. The bugs tending to the queen were dot-free. Interesting. The males are trying to calm the queen, I think? I shook my head. No. Look, they're starting to climb on her. She's freaking out even more, and...

What the shit! The male dancers had begun to swarm over the queen, their phallic protrusion suddenly extending, rising high above their heads as if they were now scorpion tails, and from the end of each began to extend a long, sharp fang. They don't always have a fang, right? I asked, even though I knew the answer. No, this rear fang seems to have developed in response to the changing ruler.

My guess is it's formed and hardened from the same substance they create that functions as their silk. Oh, the dissection buffins are going to love their shit. We watched silently as the now armed male dancers' tails began to extend further, reaching over their bodies. Their tail fangs too seemed to grow before our eyes And soon the dancers were flexing their tails And causing their fangs to pump back and forth It reminded me of the needle in my mum's sewing machine When the poverty of my childhood meant that mum would forever be converting old garments into new

Rather than throwing them out and replacing them This comparison, it turned out, wasn't far off accurate On the other side of the rural chamber the debutante was being undressed by her handmaidens. The silk continued to rot away, the process expedited by the female dancers pulling at it, and the means with which they did this was no less surprising than their male counterpart's sudden weaponisation.

No fang had grown from the female dancer's tales. Instead, it seemed that theirs had developed a suction ability, which they were using to vacuum away the rotting silk from the debutante. A dancer would suck at the material for a moment. then turn away and spit it out onto the pile of shredded decaying matter that would steadily growing beside the group. Finally, the debutante was stripped clean and her handmaidens withdrew, allowing us a first-time view of our future queen. Beside me, Maddie sucked in air. We had been expecting, well, a creature essentially identical to the existing queen, who was truly a shocking

an alien-looking thing. But the debutante, while shocking, looked nothing like the queen. Our dying queen had giant multi-jointed legs, the thickness of matchsticks. She had a carapace like a regular dancer, but adorned with even more spikes. She had five small eyes,

arranged in an upwards-pointing arrow, and a sixth larger eyeball, yellow with a pupil shaped like a goat's, sitting dead centre. She had a single, unusable, wing that draped over her back like a large cloak. And unlike the other dancers, the queen had an abdomen from which she could lay eggs. The debutante was a squishy sphere, around the size of a large marble, pale and pink like raw flesh. She quivered in place for a moment before unseen

muscles allowed her to propel forward, rolling slowly and awkwardly into the centre of the royal chamber. None of us said a word, but I knew we were all thinking, the same thing. Had something gone wrong? Was there another phase? How could this disgusting mound of meat become a queen? All hardness and spikes and sharp edges. We didn't have to wait long to discover. Over at the struggling queen, the male dancers were going to town, stabbing and prodding her with their newfound spikes. The sudden group attack was so violent and rapid that I was shocked despite the regular cruelty I'd experienced in the insect world. The queen was clearly distressed too. She was chittering and shrieking at a volume that was

just about audible to human ears. Between direct viewing and looking at the internal camera feeds, we caught glimpses of what was going on. The male dancers were stripping the queen, skinning her. This was being done with breathtakingly surgical precision. Her carapace had been cracked and was being gently prized open by a number of dancers, while others still performed a series of excisions down her birthing abdomen. As they peeled away the outer shell of the abdomen like one might shuck a roasted chestnut, we saw what looked alarmingly like a miniature human womb encased in jelly. Six of the dancers gathered around the skinned abdomen and gently pulled backwards in time to the escalating volume of the Queen's screams. Those who were operating on her

upper torso held firm, and soon the queen split in two parts. Pale, pussy liquid dripped from the separation wound, as slowly a huge spike with the same appearance as the male dancer's bang slid free. The six dancers held the birthing abdomen aloft, and while nothing was audible, I could imagine a cheer of triumph rising from the rest of the temporary surgical team. The rest of what happened all occurred in one seamlessly organized motion. exacted with military precision. All but the six abdomen dancers withdrew from the twitching queen. This allowed us to see what lay beneath her torso carapace,

a quivering, fleshy blob that had clearly started life as the same thing as the debutante. Only this one was shrivelled and withered, and leaking filthy green bodily fluid where it had been torn. The tears I saw had come from numerous tiny spikes inside the torso carapace. Whatever the carapace's biological origins, it functioned as a costume that much was clear. A costume, or armour. Some of the male dancers took up the queen's garb and moved it to a safe distance. Others scuttled over to the debutante's handmaidens.

There's no word to describe what they did to them other than restrain. Then the remaining surgeons took hold of the debutante, who throughout the whole process had just sat there. twitching and occasionally rolling back and forth. The costume bearers headed in next, and with lightning quick accuracy, folded the former Queen's garb around the debutante. Their fanged tails still extended,

they poked and prodded, until as one they withdrew, satisfied with the dress-up job they'd done. Next, the six dancers that held the birthing abdomen moved in. They lined the organ spike up with the opening at the base of the Queen armour and slowly inserted it into the debutante. I realised that the spike must function as a spine. How all the pieces came together I didn't know, nor was it my job to.

The scientists would work all this out, no doubt by dissecting queens with reckless abandon once we'd fostered enough dancer hives. But one thing I did know, echoed by the wincing gasps from Carlo and Maddie to the left and right of me, was that should the creature have nerves, the insertion process would be excruciatingly painful for the debutante. I felt a rush of protective concern over the fleshy lump,

former fleshy lump. Now she was pieces of a queen, being built alarmingly fast by her hive. So the new hive mother was mostly constructed. The only thing that was missing was the shell over the birthing organs that the old queen had sported until it was shredded. We soon discovered where this material came from. A few of the male dancers began slicing at some of the female handmaidens

in what felt like an alarmingly brief amount of time, a number of slain and hollowed-out handmaidens had been constructed into strips of brittle skin and placed over the debutante's new abdomen. Then the same handmaidens' legs were used to connect each strip. The six surgeons who had performed the insertion then traced their tail fangs down the connecting lines. As they did so, their fangs melted into the same type of silk

that had formed the debutante's cocoon. Within seconds, this had hardened into dark lines. The debutante rolled over onto her belly, but her legs were part of the queen armour. How would she be able to use them? And yet, with a trembling effort, the debutante, the new queen, rose to her feet. A few unsteady steps,

and then the queen flexed her new body and strode over to the raised dais in the royal chamber that had served as the previous queen's throne. Rome. Her remaining handmaidens followed, settling at her feet in what looked almost like prayer. And then, as if to close the ceremony, the surgeons all scuttled over to the twitching, fleshy remains of the old queen. Using their tail fangs, they eviscerated all that remained of their former matriarch. Hours later, shortly before our shift ended, Maddie, Carlo and I finally had the lab to ourselves again. Many senior scientists and even non-scientific university personnel had disregarded the late

hour and came in to see the new queen, watch the footage, interrogate us on what we'd seen. Everything that had happened that evening was groundbreaking and earth-shattering. As an entomology post-grad, I'd been pretty aware of this, but not quite to the extent I was informed. It was possible that we'd discovered the most intelligent species of insect on living record, intelligent by a colossal margin no less. It was a whirlwind, a breathless, exciting, terrifying whirlwind. By the time we were alone again, any of my annoyances at Maddie and Carlo drama felt inconsequential compared to the closeness,

even love that I felt for both of them. Well, that was fucked up, I said finally. You think so? Maddie's voice was small. bored. I thought it was... I thought it was beautiful. They loved their queen so much

that they all make sure they live on through each other. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Her interpretation had been nothing like mine. Nothing at all. But it was such a lovely way of looking at it, but I couldn't bring myself to suggest anything else. It was my turn to be late for work the next day. Something had gone severely wrong.

wrong with my car, it seemed, and by the time I'd worked this out and arranged another ride, I was over an hour late. As soon as I exited the elevator onto our floor, I knew something was wrong. There was no security guard at the desk, which was unprecedented by itself, but especially given the events of the night before. I rushed around the corner and down our corridor. There was nothing glaring, but there was a small scratch on the wall here, a tiny smear there. Enough. Our lab door was closed like it should be. I swiped my card. Entered. Inside, I saw the central tank was covered by a huge black sheet.

Carlo was pacing back and forth between it and me. As soon as he saw me, a grin split his face. Lexa, I'm glad you're here. I wanted you to be the first to know. I sold it. I sold it, all thanks to the dancers. "'Solved what, buddy?' "'Something felt so off. "'Why was the tank covered? "'What was that strange chemical smell in the air?'

"'Maddie!' "'I rolled my eyes. "'Really? Maddie things again? "'Now? "'But shouldn't Maddie be here? "'Surely she couldn't be even later than I was. "'No, seriously, all thanks to the dancers. You never got it. You never understood. You kept telling me to just ask Maddie out, and I kept telling you I couldn't.

That's what was tearing me apart. I fell in love with Maddie, like the moment I first saw her, but I still love my wife, too. We've only been together a few years, married for one. That's not long enough to leave her for Maddie. And I didn't stop loving her just because I saw Maddie, so how could I ask Maddie out without screwing her? things up with my wife. Wait, wait. You're married. I'd never seen rings on his hand. But of course,

I wouldn't have. Lab policy meant absolutely zero jewelry. And Carlo was pale enough and newly wet enough that a removed ring wouldn't likely be evident. Yeah.

So I couldn't just ask Maddie out. I needed a solution. I'd never cheat on my wife or cheat on. Maddie and then last night. The smell was getting stronger. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Something small skittering across the floor.

Like a spider, but not. What have you done, Carlo? My heart was beating faster. Faster. Like I said, I worked out the perfect solution. Why is the dancer's tank covered, Carlo? Without waiting for a reply, I strode to the centre of the lab and pulled the black sheet away. I don't know what I was expecting to find underneath, but it certainly wasn't what I saw.

The opposite side of the tank had been shattered. From what I could see of the hive, almost all the dancers were gone, the Queen included. My eyes would have darted around the lab, were it not for what I saw on the other side of the tank, lying on the couch in the rec corner. Not even considering my safety, I rushed around to where the bloody shape lay. I took it all in. The metal staples holding parts together. The proportions.

One arm longer than the other. Darker skinned. And the face. The faces. Half I didn't recognise. Half my good friend. What the hell have you done, Carlo? What have you done to me?

But I knew. I already knew. He'd built himself one partner out of two. His two loves, his two queens. Carlo had come around to join me. I was too numb to feel fear. He touched a cut that seemed to stretch around his queen's entire body. Just below a belly whose skin I didn't recognize, attached to hips I did. Best part, my wife was Barron. Couldn't have kids. We really wanted kids, but Maddie, Maddie isn't. And I would have never even thought of any of this if it wasn't for the dancers. Buffins were right. They really are world-changing. I swayed. The threat of fainting washed over me. But even then, even after everything,

I think I could have held it together. I think I could have stayed sane, stayed conscious. If it hadn't been for what happened next, Carlo's queen opened her eyes and stared at me through two women's eyeballs. Shifted her patchwork torso, stretched her pale thighs attached to smooth, darker calves at the knees. I collapsed at the queen's feet as she stood. And I gazed at the queen's feet as she stood.

up with her long, long legs. There are few areas of science more impactful than that of neuroscience, trying to discover how that gooey mass between our ears actually works and makes us conscious human beings. And in this tale, shared with us by author Rea Roy, we meet a woman who is trying to understand what makes our brains push us to destroy itself. Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas, Jeff Clement, and introducing our newest voice actor, Vivian Liu.

So listen to learn about our most inner workings. Listen for The Resonance. I would consider me my closest friend, but I would never admit that aloud because it is embarrassing to have spent four semesters in college and only have a girl I met a couple months ago to show for it. Plus, I was certainly not her closest friend, and the power imbalance in terms of investment in this relationship discomfited me. She had too many eggs in other baskets while my risk portfolio was concentrated heavily in her. I got quite a lot out of knowing her regardless. She was charismatic and had this way of laughing through every story she told that left you hanging on to every word.

She made friends effortlessly. Unlike me, I was, to put it politely, somewhat intense, which is a circuitous way of saying, frigid bitch. A boy once said I had an inscrutable face, a comment I would have gladly ascribed to racism if it weren't for the fact that I have spent my entire life in various neighborhoods of the United States where Chinese Americans outnumbered the white kids. However, and luckily for me, I was also in the same neuroscience major as Mia and unusually good at neurochemistry. She liked my sense of black humor and running commentary well enough, but what she really liked was that I was willing to do her problem sets for her in exchange for getting to sit at the kitchen table of her apartment

with a rotating cast of her friends, as she made us all dinner and talked about working with low-income, twice-disabled veterans with single moms or whatever hippie granola shit was her post-grad plan. Yeah, Mia was all about helping people. That's what made it so much more startling when on our third conversation into knowing each other, she easily admitted to being suicidally depressed for most of her teenage years. She told me so, because at the time, I'd recently landed a research position at a neuroscience clinic, studying the brains of young adults suffering clinical depression. See, it used to be that I'd tell people that I was a neuroscience major because I enjoyed the study of human behavior. And then I admit to myself in private that it was

mostly because I wasn't quite good enough at discrete mathematics to pull off a CS degree and cash in at Silicon Valley. But over time, I'd grown fascinated with how little we knew about the very things we relied on to study anything. It struck me as a person who prided herself on her self-awareness as a shocking blindness for a species to have. Every month, my PI, a mildly distinguished and very tenured professor who, as a result, didn't give a fuck about anything, but maybe his research and sometimes his wife, would, as far as I could tell, throw a dart at a board full of JAMA articles and take a new tech. Then I and the other undergraduate conscript would spend weeks processing intake for volunteers paid 20 an hour to answer survey questions, or if the PI wrote a very good grant proposal,

hooking up 40 an hour volunteers with electrodes. Luckily, the neuroscience division at the school was always flush with funding because professors like David Whitaker worked harder and were in the news more. We did everything. Phones, exercise, drinking orange juice in the mornings, talking to your mom on the phone in the evenings, working more, working less, drinking more red wines, smoking more exotic substances, and even on one notable occasion, querying people recovering from debilitating viral illnesses

on their levels of anxiety or depression while wearing university-issue hazmat suits. But nothing broke new ground. In the itch in my brain, the same thing that propelled explorers to the Arctic Circle and the Curies to their laboratories remained unsated. David Whitaker, two doors down,

was discovering that the mind-body dualism was real and that consciousness could be divorced from the brain. We were trying to see if a lemon juice cleanse could fix anxiety. The great work was, to put it lightly, beginning to get unfulfilling. For the most part, the school just grudgingly kicked our lab money and ignored us when they weren't featuring on their website whatever bullshit discoveries we could pee hack into significance in a paper. Then, Simon Grant hung himself from the main gates. Could you imagine? Mia nearly had to shout over the honk of traffic on the bridge.

Beyond the horns, I could hear Siegel's harmonizing with her squawking. Like, you put in however many years it is to do a PhD? Usually six. Six years into this lab, with this professor, and then they don't graduate you, I'd lose it. I'd be like, NASA, and science doesn't deserve me. And then probably never get a job because there's a six-year gap in my work experience. She laughed the specific laugh of a college student who knew she was. wasn't brilliant enough for grad school anyways, staring down the barrel of graduating into a social

work career. I hummed as supportively as I could, as my gaze strayed to the back of her boyfriend's head. Her flavor of the months looked a lot like the one she'd had four breakups ago, but Mia's taste was just specific enough that I'd spent the whole ride trying to work out if she got back together with an ex, or just picked another loser with a dirty blonde man run out of a discount bin at Walmart. In all the time I'd known Mia, I'd only been demoted to the backseat for a car. of her half-dozen flings. She was really compromising standards if this was the third. Kind of depressing, though.

Your only options are to work at some bullshit job and get exploited to death or work at a real job and still get exploited to death. Oh, you're really hyping me up for a social worker career, huh? Talk about thankless exploitation. You know how in the 50s they'd give you a watch or something when you retired so you can, I don't know, count down the day. the minutes you got left. Merge here.

Mia flicked her turn signal on and rocketed us to the leftmost lane, but forgot to turn it off. The steady ticking kept metronome time. Count down the minutes you have left on life or something. You know what I bet they give social workers nowadays when they retire? An earn for all that burnout. What are the suicide rates for social workers? Can you lighten up back there? Seriously, Jesus, I'm sorry I said whatever I did to stop.

this conversation. No, Tyler, it's fine. I think it's interesting. Plus, she's a neuroscience researcher, so she spends all her time thinking about this anyways. Oh, do you work on the, uh, that mind-reading thing? No, that's David Whitaker's lab,

and his preliminary consciousness detection isn't really mind-reading. It's more like skimming the surface of thoughts to see if they exist at all, independent of neural firings. I'm a neuroscience researcher who specializes in suicide, or technically we're not really supposed to study suicide itself, just depression.

It's unethical to follow suicides. You sound like you're mad about that. Just depression? Tyler sounded too supercilious for my taste, considering that in the time we'd spent together, he hadn't said one thing to indicate any higher intelligence than that a dolphin could aspire to. Tyler, do you know what Unit 731 was?

No. Yeah, you wouldn't. See, during World War II, the Japanese engaged in human experimentation. They pushed their Chinese prisoners to their absolute limits, dipped their arms in water, and stood them outside in the winter until their limbs broke off, drew up resistance indexes to frostbite using the time it took for three-day-old infants to freeze to death, performed vivisections on prisoners without anesthetics, raped women to study STIs, and then again for fun.

Do you know, Tyler? What the United States did? when Japan eventually surrendered. They granted those scientists' immunity. Know why? I didn't wait for Tyler to answer. The ticking of the turn signal kept on in the background as Mia stayed silent.

She knew where I was going. Because we wanted to know, too. Whatever Tyler was about to say in response to that, which I had been hoping would be as inadequate as I anticipated, was cut off when a body fell in front of our car. Mia slammed the brakes, throwing us all forward with such intensity and speed that I jarred my wrist catching myself against Tyler's headrest.

Someone screamed. We quickly got out of the car, finally putting the ticking turn signal to rest with the slams of the car doors and gathered around the hood of the car where not more than a foot from the front tires lay the splattered remains of a person. His skull had cracked open like a smashed pumpkin,

brains carpeting the road with a thick sludge. Eyes bugged out of the road. of his head dislodge from their sockets. His body, pancaked by the fall, almost had him twisted in supplication. We should call 911. Mia's voice was curiously calm, if high and tight. I glanced over. Her lips were pressed together, eyes open wide, fists at her side. Tyler didn't move, so I did. The cops came and found us lined up on the curb like children, knees around our ears. Statements took hours of waiting,

then minutes of talking, then we all piled into the car and rode home in silence. Do you think it's like a serial killer or something? What? Two in as many days. It's like there's a serial killer on campus or something. There's CCTV footage of Simon hanging himself.

It's more likely a suicide cluster. When a depressed person sees one person commits, suicide, it becomes more real as an option to them, and they do it too. Mia hummed, staring into the distance. What do you think was going through their heads when they did it? If you hooked them up to the Whitaker machine, what would you see? Nobody knows. I pulled up the chair across from her.

No ethics committee in the world would be okay with that. She was silent again for a while, her eyes bouncing around the room as she worked through something in her head. Finally, she looked back at me. What do you think is the killing argument? The killing argument? What do you think is the argument they make to themselves? That's so persuasive they kill themselves over it. I turned a spare mug over and over again in my hands. My fingernails rasped against a ceramic, an ugly noise. What did you say to yourself when you were in high school. Maybe it's just that. Maybe it's just knowing you were right back then. Mia stared into the distance. Finally, she swallowed and said what she must have been mulling over for months.

If I was right, that means it really never does get better. I'll feel like this forever. Maybe. Later that evening, I will stare listlessly at my reflection, washing. my hands with the fancy foamy soap Mia stocked her bathroom with. Then, drying my hands, I will swing the mirror open to examine the little orange bottles lined up like soldiers in the medicine cabinet. I'll make my selection carefully. I'll place it on the sink countertop. I knew what I was doing. I will spare you the details of the midnight phone call. Mia deserves more dignity than a dispassionate retelling of her snod in tears and terrified confessions of too many pills in a moment of weakness. For all my bitterness, I really did like her.

I think I might have loved her in moments. Neither of those facts changed what I did. We drove to the neuroscience clinic. My badge led us in after hours, though by then Mia had already begun gurgling through slowed breathing. Her skin slick with cold sweat. Her oxygen-starved brain was stuttering its way to the end, a ticking clock of maybe three minutes. I was propping her up by the time we got to the elevators, our frames leaning into each other such that our stretched shadows cast a ghoulish pall, and slowly we shambled together. A two-headed monster on a single-minded path for David Whitaker's lab.

It's the eternal question for humanity, isn't it? I wanted to know, oh, I wanted to know so badly that I was willing to be able to, to sacrifice the only girl who'd ever extended her hand to me. I was willing to take whatever murder charge they'd stick to me just to be the first to see. Of course, I wasn't thinking about the future consequences as I hooked Mia up to the miracle mind-reading machine. I wasn't thinking much of anything. It was wrote hooking her up to the electrodes, covering lobes, registering the readings.

The machine hummed like an angelic wire as it turned on. The gentle, percussive tap of Mia's faltering brain readings providing the backing beat. She was dying, but it was slow. I've admitted to what comes next dozens of times, in deposition and in testimony, to cops and to my PI, looking my parents in the eyes,

and Mia's too even. It's a uniquely awful admission each time around. Even now, stranger. But Mia wasn't dying fast enough on that neural lab bed. Her golden hair fanned out around her like a halo, so I grabbed the pillow from behind her head and held it to her face and I wasn't even looking at her as she died. I was looking at the machine. Whitaker should have fucking known, shouldn't he?

The temptation it presented? The eternal damn question? Unit 731 never managed to get further than the flesh of it. The how and where and why a body died, but me, I know what happens to your soul now. The real you. Mia's consciousness didn't flutter and wink out of existence like her brain. It persisted. Undimmed, unrelenting.

I can only imagine it would be as if you were suddenly suspended in sensory deprivation, unable to see, hear, taste, or touch anything new ever again as your body rots around you at the scale of centuries. Mia's consciousness showed no signs of degradation over the course of nearly five weeks. The implication, of course, is that it likely never will. None of us will. Death is a trap, leaving us unable to do anything but rifle through the memories of our lives ad nauseum, relitigating each regret and combing through each fault we had, and even when we're done with that, we'll still have eternity to reckon with. It's a purgatory, one that I've consigned

me to, and one that, when I am consigned in turn, I will spend eternity in, reconnationation. Reconnor with those two decisions that my life will now forever hinge on. But I only sat there watching her readings for 14 hours before anyone found me. It was after I was taken into custody that I heard they kept her hooked up to the machine for over a month before returning her body to the family, bloated to unrecognizability, her teeth falling out of her head, her skin waxy with ruptured blisters and anointed with bodily fluid. They kept me a rigor mortis on the bed, for 33 more days, because they wanted to know too. And 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 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. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us,

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