The NoSleep Podcast - S20 Ep24: NoSleep Podcast S20E24

Episode Date: March 24, 2024

It’s Episode 24 of Season 20. Come join us around the campfire with tales about the end of days.“Dispossessed” written by Michael Picco (Story starts around 00:03:55)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – David Ault“Die For Her” written by Elle Turpitt (Story starts around 00:21:55)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Rhi – Penny Scott-Andrews, Chloe – Ash Millman, Victim #1 – Andy Cresswell, Victim #2 – Erika Sanderson, Victim #3 – David Ault“Sweet Death” written by Anthony Neil Smith (Story starts around 00:46:05)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced & scored by: David CummingsCast: Narrator – Erin Lillis, Harriet – Sarah Thomas, Dave – Mike DelGaudio, Leigh – Kristen DiMercurio, Doctor – Atticus Jackson“Prêt-a-Porter” written by Chris Allinotte (Story starts around 01:11:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced & scored by: David CummingsCast: Narrator – Jeff Clement“The Porter Smiled” written by Jack Nicholls (Story starts around 01:18:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Erika Sanderson“Mad Dog” written by Robert Mammone (Story starts around 01:40:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Driver – Dan Zappulla, Morgan – Jesse Cornett, Turtle – Danielle McRae, Newcomer – Jeff Clement, Sycophant – 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.Surfshark – Take your online security to new heights by using Surfshark VPN. Surf the web without tracking, secure your devices from malware, guard your accountsí security, and take personal data off the market by going to surfshark.deals/NOSLEEPPODClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“The Porter Smiled” illustration courtesy of MiggeaAudio 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 where does the time go this is the penultimate episode of our 20th season we're hoping you've enjoyed our time spent telling scary stories around the campfire.

Next week is the season finale. We hope you're braced for that. In April, we'll be presenting some hiatus episodes, along with some sleepless decomposition's episodes. Our premium members will be getting bonus content, like suddenly shocking and the old-time radio shows, and season 21 is on track to kick off the weekend of May 4th. That's right.

May the 4th, is the start of season 21. And a quick message to anyone who is still accessing season past content on the old Nanakast system. It seems Nanakast may be giving up the ghost, as it were. So if your content is offline, please be patient. We're figuring out ways to get you access to our new system so you can download the season past content you paid for before we completely leave Nanakast. We're on it and we'll send out email soon.

Now, let's talk about the end of the world as we know it. If the song is correct, I guess we should feel fine about that. Of course, most of the time, save for some sort of catastrophic asteroid strike or the sun exploding, the concept of the end of the world really means the end of human existence, or at least the end of our civilization, our society, our way of life, that kind of thing. And isn't it funny, and by funny, I mean hilarious, that so many of the major reasons why our existence might be going the way of the dodo

are basically staring us right in the face these days. Nuclear war, pandemics, climate change, which will make the earth all but uninhabitable, hard to get away from those threats, right? Well, then, it's a good thing we have stories for you this week, which will get you to think of the other ways we humans are doomed. Hey, listen, you come here to be scared. not to be cheered up, right? So whether it's disease, the environment, or, yeah, even demons,

it seems we humans have our days numbered, and the clock is getting close to striking midnight. Ah, well, if we're going out, it's nice to share our final moments together around the campfire. And now, the sun has set, the fire glows bright, grace yourself for the darkness of the night. In our first tale, we meet a man who had something taken from him. Ah, but don't worry, that's a good thing.

You see, he's no longer possessed by a demon. That's good news, right? Well, as we'll hear in this tale, shared with us by author Michael Pico, the man tells us that he's now at greater risk for another possession, just like everyone else in his position. Performing this tale is David Alt. So it can suck to lose your home or your possessions, but when it comes to demons,

you'd think it would be good to be dispossessed. You've all heard the stories by now. The sad and frightening tale of Lancaster Merrin, Regan MacNeil, and the exploits of that oh-so-noughty demon prince, Pazoozu. Yes, you've all seen the movie, the parodies and the remakes, and all the derivative Drek that followed. I'm old enough to remember the scandal when the Exorcist was released. And how the fundamentalists howled.

They frothed and gnashed their teeth, condemning the movie en masse, especially in the UK. Christian task forces were mobilised to save the souls of moviegoers. The Festival of Light, I think one of the groups was called. There's footage of them harassing and picketing the theatres that dared to show such a decadent and ungodly film, but remarkably less footage of them offering the viewers' spiritual support after the show. I suppose they were only doing what they thought was right, and at least they didn't sit on their divans at home and offer their thoughts and prayers like the so-called Christians do today. What was it that James the Apostle said? Something about

faith without works. What nobody ever mentions is what happens to the possesses. after the demons are removed and are consigned back to hell, back to their foul and unclean niches in the nether world. It's all a happy ending in Hollywood once the priest wipes the green vomitors from his brow and limps off into the sunset. All hail Max von Siddow, the conquering hero. But for the recently possessed, the dispossessed, as I like to call us, the ordeal is far from over.

After all, by all appearances, we seem to be the same. And for the most part, we look and act like the people we were before. There is no other peering out into the world from behind our eyes, no squirming and writhing across the ceiling, no more boils and screaming obscenities and blasphemies. But the truth is, deep down inside, where it counts, you see, we are not the same. After the exorcism, you are no longer you, at least not the same you as before.

You may not be possessed any longer, but you are far from rejoining God's lily white flock. What nobody ever tells you, what nobody ever admits to, is that there is still some residual darkness left over inside you. It's a darkness that taints you. It's a stain on your soul that will never quite be pristine again. The priests or movie producers or the sanctimonious festival of light protesters never tell you about that. But really, how would they know? To them, exorcism is not unlike putting out a house fire. Once the flames are extinguished, the firemen are done, right?

It's seen as a happy ending except for a charred room or two. But that's just it, isn't it? It's the damage to the house that remains, smoke and water damage ashes and soot to scour away. Sometimes you can save the home, and sometimes you can't. Some places just have to be leveled. The same applies to the dispossessed, or it should, for humanity's sake. And naturally, the dispossessed can be pretty tight-lipped after all that we've been. through. It's not like we want to draw any more attention to us, spiritual or otherwise.

But we are a rather small community, and we do talk amongst ourselves, especially now with the internet. It's the devil's highway, you know. There in the privacy of our own homes away from prying eyes, we can compare notes, swap theories, and if the mood is right, share our nightmares, too. This is what passes for a support group among the spirituals. spiritually compromised. Besides, it's not like you can find a forum like ours on just any social media site. At least, not a real one. It never ceases to amaze any of us why someone would want to fake a possession. It's like pretending you had polio just so that you could spend the rest of your life in an iron lung. But voyeurs take many forms. It doesn't take us long to

flush the pretenders out. There are things you should not know, you see. things which we know intimately. The pretenders don't even have the slightest clue. For those like me who were possessed for about a week before our exorcism, the physiological changes are subtle and eventually fate. Direct sunlight still makes me flinch a bit, but now going on three years since my exorcism, I am getting more and more acclimated.

As one poor fellow in our group from Africa who suffered his possession for several years, and he's a mess, even after being demon-free for nearly 20 years. He has constant night terrors and suffers from some rare and dreadful form of arthritis now. He can't stand going outside unless it's during the day, and then he just seizes up, staring into the shadows. That's one symptom we all share. We are, each and every one of us, wary of the shadows.

The unpossessed never consider the true, nature of light, or more to the point, light's absence. All that the dispossessed sea are shadows, or rather those are what we noticed first and foremost. Much like an oil painting, our perceptions are laid down dark to light. Some say that our fixation is on the gloom, but that's not entirely accurate. And it's not some clever euphemism either. The shadows define our world, the deeper the darkness, the more we see and the less we want to see. All of us take great pains to avoid the darkness. I have high wattage lights throughout my home which burn 24-7. The electric bills are insane, but it's well worth the cost. Those people who I let into my life these days remark on

how bright and cheery my place feels, but quite honestly I don't think living on the surface of the sun would provide enough illumination for me. We had a South American woman in a little group for a while. She lived in Venezuela. The rolling electrical blackouts eventually took their toll on her, and she threw herself from a bridge one dark night. Like other dispossessed from the first world, I have ample generator backup if my power ever fails or falters.

But even then, when the lights flicker, my heart flutters in my chest like a trapped bird. Most of the dispossessed will tell you that they experienced a loss of their sense of smell after their possession. That's not entirely accurate, but it is a common enough white lie that we all tell at one point or another. It's not that we can't smell anything anymore. It's just that nothing seems to overcome the scent of sulfur and excrement seared into our sinuses. It's one of the first things that you experience during the position. and one of the after-effects that lingers the longest.

Remember, the dispossessed man in South Africa that I mentioned, he solved this particular problem by cutting off his nose entirely. He just said that he was olfactory neutered. He was disfigured, of course, but he told us he just couldn't take the stench any longer. I can't say that I blame him. The smell absolutely ruins your sense of taste, even the most gluttonous of us prior to our possession become rail thin afterwards. It's not like we're not absolutely ravenous, mind you.

It's just that everything we eat tastes like ashes in our mouths, everything. From the sweetest candy to the strongest whiskey to the most pungent of cheeses. All ashes. Not that that's an entirely bad thing. For a lot of us, the boils in our throats never fully heal, and it can be quite painful for us to swallow just about anything. One saving grace is a potent numbing agent that dentists use. It's expensive but medically necessary for some of us.

I find that it kills most of the ashen taste too. Possession can be one hell of a diet plan. Did you know that once you have pneumonia, you are more susceptible to it? The same is true for possession. The potential for repossession is higher among the dispossessed than it is for. the general population. I theorise that it's the residual darkness inside of us that lowers our spiritual resistance to possession by demonic entities, but that theory is widely debatable. Most of us have a deeply religious conversion after our possession, and given our experiences,

that's an understandable response. I liken religion to taking antibiotics during an illness. The antibiotics keep the infections away, just as religion does the... demonium. But like a virus, some of the Legion are becoming resilient. They are evolving, adapting, they are getting stronger, more virulent and aggressive. A former priest-turned-a-thias illustrates this theory nicely. A priest should be utterly immune to possession, right? He's spiritually inoculated by the nature of his profession. But shortly after leaving the priesthood, Father Zanche fell prey to one of Leviathan's many minions. His exorcism, I'm told, was quite rigorous.

Nevertheless, he was possessed again shortly thereafter, and by the same demonic entity too. The demon was dispelled a second time by employing the less common but highly effective Benedictine formulae, Varday Retro-Satana. The former priest once again recovered, only to be possessed a third time. Unfortunately, that time,

he succumbed to the privations of the demon and immolated himself in front of the Archdiocese. The possession, much less the suicide of a former priest, was undoubtedly considered quite the conquest by Legion. I've researched the priest's case myself. The testimony of his possession is disturbing, but not all that surprising. Following each possession, he was debriefed by the Archdiocese. His account makes for interesting, if not disturbing, reading. During his interviews, he described in gruesome detail his spiritual displacement as the demon laid claim to his corporeal body. Zanche claimed that his soul was transported to the sewers beneath the city of Diss. He describes this place as a low and broad cavern, dark except for the dull red radiant glow from the city above it. Boiling sewage

spilled from a thousand rank holes bored into the ceiling there and pulled in a vast black lake of excrement and blood. A species of dreadful flies flourished in the sewers endlessly searching for someone to feed upon and to host their hellish brood. These flies made their nests among the eroded pylons and stalactites which arced down from the ceiling, forming tiny strands in foul waste waters there. Beneath the waves, horrible serpents stirred. He describes their blackened snouts cresting the black waves, sniffing the air, eager to find some lost soul to consume. Twice his soul was sent to this dreadful place while the servants of the Leviathan ravaged his body. Twice he navigated the fetid waters beyond the sewers to gaze out at the endless bog surrounding dis, only to have his soul drawn

back into his writhing and aching body. I pray that he found some respite from this torment, but the diocese claims that suicides are consigned to the Bosco dee suicidi, the woods of the suicides, a place far removed from the sewers of dis, admittedly, but quite nightmarish just the same. The Bosco de Suicidi lies in the seventh bulger of hell. It's a vast forest of souls, the dam. the suicides, transformed into gnarled and twisted trees, and is populated by harpsies and ferocious giant ticks.

At least, that is, if Dante is to be believed. And take it from one of the dispossessed, there are just too many specifics in Dante's inferno for it not to be true. The dispossessed's tendency toward repossession has led myself and other, others in our group to believe that there is a greater stratagem at play than the church may suspect. The priests may battle individual possessions, but they are losing sight of the larger picture. Not only are the demonium becoming more resilient to the standardized exorcism protocols, but they are also cultivating an ever-growing segment of the population for repossession.

We believe that these incursions are designed to weaken key members of our society in preparation of a larger assault. Once a critical mass is achieved, the spiritually compromised will become the first wave of shock troops in Lucifer's world domination. I've only shared this information with a select number of the dispossessed. All of them, each and everyone, have ended up dead. I am writing this in hopes that my theory, my warning will prompt the necessary action from the church to prevent this terrible occurrence. I do not expect to deliver this warning while I am alive. The devil's minions are legion, and already I fear that my life may soon be forfeit. Am I mad? Perhaps. But the recent deaths of my friends and colleagues among the dispossessed has strengthened my resolve

and galvanized my conviction that my theory is true. I ask that you publish this statement in whatever manner or by whatever means you have available to... Damn it. The electricity has gone out. Again. Strange? My backup generators should have automatically kicked on by now. Have you ever been minding your own business when all of a sudden your phone erupts with a screeching noise and the screen lights up with an emergency alert warning. Jarring, isn't it? Fortunately, there are often things that aren't really going to affect you that much. But in this tale, shared with us by author L. Turpitt, we meet a woman who gets an alert and this one is serious. and where the heck is her husband when she needs him?

Performing this tale are Penny Scott Andrews, Ash Millman, Andy Cresswell, Erica Sanderson, and David Alt. So when faced with calamity, do what it takes to keep your loved ones alive, even if you have to die for her. Was Luke, the trick in any relationship. Never give or take too much. strike a balance. There were things I didn't need anyone for, and things where it was simply nice to have my partner at my side. Equally, some stuff I absolutely could not, would not ever do without my husband.

This definitely seemed like one of the latter. He'd gone outside for a fag and couldn't have picked a worse time. The sound came from seemingly nowhere, layering over the pop music blaring from every speaker. Sirens, ringing in my ears. Chloe stared at me, searching for someone who could tell her what to do. I understood I wanted an adult too. But as I stared at my stepdaughter, I realized there was no one else to help me.

Point blank, I was the adult in this situation, and she was relying on me to tell her what was going on. Someone dropped the bowling ball they'd been about to roll. A little kid, about Chloe's age, her lane over. The ball thumped and rolled into the next section, knocking a man's foot. Sirens over the sound of rolling balls and whirring machinery and pins getting knocked down. It was coming from the phones. Rie?

I know, sweetie. I know. I checked my mobile. What the fuck was a UK emergency alert? nationwide, remain indoors until further instructions issued. Chloe stood right against me, and I put my hand between her shoulder blades. It's okay. Your dad will be back now in a minute.

He hadn't come back. And when the screaming started from somewhere out of sight, past the cafe and arcade, we ran through an employee-only door and out the other side of the entertainment center. The opposite side to where Luke would have gone. People streamed out, following us. Some stopped, looking around like they had no clue where to go. Some were on their phones. The grey sky threatened rain, but...

Not quite. I stared up at it. Not sure what was happening. The air felt strange, hazy. Cars raced past and emergency vehicle sirens blared. I held Chloe, looking at the people as they came out, as I gathered near us asking each other what the fuck was happening. Crowey kept staring at my face, but the poor kid didn't say anything.

I pulled her close, put my hand on the back of her head as the stream of people turned into a trickle, the last handful with cuts and bruises, a few looking dazed, staring around like they didn't know where they were. The ground rumbled, and I held tight to her, praying Luke would appear, silently begging him to come round the corner or walk through that door. We needed him. The door swung shut, and we all looked at each other, then around. My heart thumped. I took Chloe's hand.

Stay close to me, okay? She nodded. We never even spent any time one-on-one. Not because I didn't want to. It just never happened. If the kid got so little time with her dad, I wasn't about to take away from that. Rhee, what's going on?

A few people looked our way. I don't know, kiddo. But it's going to be okay. We... The ground shook. The door banged open, smacking into the wall, and with it came the screams from inside the centre. For a second, I thought the man who appeared was Luke. And dread made my blood run cold.

The man leaned on the doorframe, one hand on the side of his stomach. Blood seeping out between his feet. fingers. His face was pale. His hair matted with blood. His gaze roamed over the group as if struggling to focus. A woman moved towards him, reaching out. He shook his head and uttered one word, run, before his eyes rolled up and he sank down. He wasn't Luke, just a man with the same build and in similar clothes, though what man around us wasn't wearing some variation of jeans and shirt. The others took his word as a command, grabbing the children nearest them and legging it. Chloe clung to me, whimpering. I stared at the man in the doorway. My heart thumping

harder than I ever would have thought possible. We couldn't leave. Could we? Without Luke, I didn't know what to do. Luke would be around the other side of the entertainment center, but I had no way of knowing if he'd come back in or been hurt or ended up somewhere else. The ground rumbled again, and I stared down at the tarmac, at the car park to our right, as the tarmac split open. More tremors, and where the centre curved round, glass shattered, smoke billowing out. The few stragglers screamed, and with a strength I didn't know I possessed, I scooped Chloe up, holding the seven-year-old close to me.

She buried her head of my shoulder. The sky darkened. I bit back the swear words I wanted to utter, trying to hold tight to the idea Luke was there somewhere, trying to get to us. What if he'd gone into the centre? What if he was making his way across the bowling alley to get to us? We were too far from home to head there.

To our left was the bay proper. Restaurants in a cinema and a huge theatre we skrimped and saved a go to on the odd occasion. I could wait here, but the air was filling with dust, the building not able to hold out against whatever was happening. How many times had me and Luke strolled around here, killing time before going to the theatre or enjoying a summer evening? He'd proposed to me, down here, down on the boardwalk, near the bridge, when it was quiet

and you could hear the waves lapping against the docks. He wouldn't want us to wait here. I knew, had known all along what he would have wanted. The center shook, and I clung to Chloe. I'm going to put you down. I resisted the urge to cross the car park, to find loop, to join him, whatever that meant. I couldn't. I need you to take my hand, and we're going to run, okay?

You have to stick with me, Chloe. We're going to the water. Okay. Dad. Your father will find us, I promise. Hating myself with the fact I didn't know if it was true or not. God, I hoped it was true. But this was Luke.

And if he was okay, he would have found us by now. Maybe he'd turn up. Nothing in this world could keep him away from us if he had his way. On our first date, he told me, flat out, Chloe came first, always and forever. Without him here, I had to stick to that. I don't know what's going on, but we'll find a boat and we'll be safe. Another rumble, and this time the curved corner collapse. I put Chloe on the ground, took her hand, and we ran.

Scatterings of people ran this way and that, no one knowing exactly where they would or should go. Something drew my eyes to the sky, skidding to a stop near the theatre. In the darkened sky, lights flew. Two circling each other before they charged, clashing together. With the clash came more rumbling, more shuddering buildings and stone and plaster and piles flying off. They squinted, seeing shakes in the lights, hazy figures that came in and out of focus, as if my mind didn't want to quite see what they were.

In the shadow of the huge theatre, I looked around. The basin. We had to get to the base. to the wooden path that led to the docks. There'd be boats there. Rhee, what are we doing? I bit my lip, staring at the huge steel pillars in the basin itself. What if they fell?

More lights in the sky and a deep, dark shadow falling over so much. My heart thumped. My brain blocking out what was happening and focusing only on safety, on getting Chloe to safety. We're getting you to your mind. Mom. But Dad! Would want you to be safe?

I looked down at her, at the tears and her red eyes, and I had to stop my heart from breaking. She looked so, so scared. I wished I could tell her it was all going to be okay. We would be safe. But the words wouldn't come out. Another clash in the sky. Somewhere, the groaning creep of steel no longer holding. Ice gripped my chest, and I...

I yanked Chloe to me, turned and crouched, holding her beneath me, keeping her face against me, closing my eyes as slate fell. Darkness enveloped us. I could feel Chloe's heart beating, could hear her sniffles and choked breaths. Good signs, signs of life. And I hoped that I was keeping whatever was hitting me off her. Once it stopped, I opened my eyes. Still too dark.

Still, I pushed up. keeping her pulled to me. We were just far enough from the theatre. We hadn't been hit with the worst of it. But others weren't so fortunate. Oh, God. Not far away, a woman was sprawled on the ground, the sharp corner of a broken tile sticking out her head.

A man slumped over a table outside a nearby cafe, his eyes wide and mouth open and blood pooling on the table. Similar scenes around me. People dotted here and there, covered in grey and brown, dust and brick, slate and steel pipes. I swallowed my bile, realised I was still holding Chloe's head against me. She coughed again. I forced my body to move. She needed to be safe.

I had to keep her safe, however I could. It was like teaching yourself to walk all over again. Flashes of lights above us threatened to distract me. Siren sounded, distorted, and somewhere, someone wailed, piercing and shrill. I focused on me. I focused on Chloe. I ignored the bodies reaching out to me, begging for my help, ignored the screams of those whose minds had snapped. Mine was on the verge.

I could feel it, threatening to break. A compulsion to just stop. To drop what I carried. Sit and never move again. The air smelled a burning of port. I couldn't stop. If I stopped moving, we were both done for. Rie.

Rie, I'm thirsty. We're almost at the water. I kept my gaze ahead, where the basin angled down and narrowed at the end, going under a footbridge. I couldn't see the water, but I would. We would. Just stay still, sweetie.

Luke would never have asked me to die for her. Chloe, do you remember when me and your father got married? She nodded, still pressed against me. I never understood those women who dated men with children and did everything in their power to push those kids out. I never understood the men who allowed that. How could you claim to love your partner and not love their children? You looked so beautiful.

It came to the decking. It was split in parts, woods sticking up in the air and around the holes. So did you. I smile. That is the blood mixed in was water. Remember when you came and helped me pick out my dress? I bypassed a hole and focused on getting to the boats. There had to be boats there.

Please God let there be boats there. Yeah. You look like a princess. I laugh. She'd said it then, too. In almost every dress I showed her, my mother and my maid of honor. Every time I stepped out, Chloe had gasped, her eyes wide. But do you know what my favorite part of that day was?

Help! I cringed, glancing to where the voice came from. The large concrete blocks that served partly as seating had collapsed. Someone was trapped in there. Oh, God. Please help me. Chloe shuddered in my arms, putting back and looking up at me. When you got to kiss Daddy?

Chloe moved her head. My hands snapped into place, gently pushing her to look at me. It was when I officially became your stepmother. She smiled, but it was uncertain. Weak. My stomach clenched at the dull look in her eyes, the strange pallor of her skin under the dust. Please, do you have some water?

I just need... Is someone there? I need help, I can't see. I... There was wreckage everywhere. Fallen stones and broken wood, and people trapped under the boardwalk. Along the edges.

More cries from the docks just past the wall. Above us, there were sounds of people moving, crying, screaming. I put my hand at the back of Chloe's neck. My throat was dry, my eyes stinging. Sweat covered me. On a normal day, the closer to the water you got, the colder the air became. Now I grew hotter with every step. I came out under the bridge, surveyed the town across the water, the flames dancing on the skyline.

The church still stood, though when there was another thundering rumble, this one accompanied by a flash of light, the bell tower trembled. We really hadn't walked far, but I was exhausted. And when I looked at the water, the urge to cry almost broke me. Almost. I lowered Chloe, but kept her prestigates my leg. Don't look, darling, I said, even as I found myself unable to look away. The water bubble, steam rising from it. Fish floated on the surface, glassy eyes staring upwards, and boats drifted.

bodies hanging over the sides. One, not too far from the docks, with fingers trailing in the water. And the water sizzles. The smell of pork mingled with that of fish, and I swallowed bile. What boats had been tied up here were gone, along with the moorings that had kept them docked. Somewhere out there, I guess. There was no accessing the open sea from here, not without going through the barrage, and who was going to operate it?

I laugh. causing Chloe to look up at me, frowning as blood dripped over the sides of the boats and into the water. The skies sundered, the boom loud enough Chloe jumped. She wimped holding on to me. Rie, I'm thinking. I stroked her hair. Where could we go? With the way things were shaking, the debris littering the ground and the docks and drifting on the air, surrounding us.

Chloe coughed again. We were at the edge of the water, surrounded by restaurants and bars, yet their windows were smashed, entryways crumbled, blocked. Nothing to eat, nothing to drink, nothing to sustain us. And if we walked into the city centre itself, I dreaded to think what state it was all in. Everything seemed so unfair. Not for me. Life hadn't been perfect, but I grown up, set out on my own, graduated from you. University, met the love of my life, had a career and got to have a role in a wonderful,

brilliant kids' life. It was unfair for her. I took her hand, turned her away from the water. A flash of light, and my skin started blistering. I ignored it as Chloe waited for me to speak. How honest to be with her. Her skin was turning red. I'm going to try and get you home. But it'll be a lot of walking. She frown, tilting her head. How long? It was like sunburn sped up, the way the red on her neck darkened,

blisters appearing before my eyes. For a while, I'll carry you much as I can. But if you can walk, you've got to walk, okay? I'll get you back to your mum, and your dad will find us. Her eyes filled with tears. Okay. You hurting, kiddo. We reached the steps, leading up to the row of bars and restaurants.

Chloe nodded. I'd left my bag. My bag containing my purse and pain killers and keys to the house. And only one of those things would have been useful right now. Chloe grabbed hold on me, so decking tremble and Wood Creek. Even now, up here, it felt unstable. We're outside the restaurant where we'd celebrated our engagement, the start of our new life,

the cementing of our love. And now he was gone. And probably everyone else. And suddenly I couldn't breathe. Three weeks after the engagement, our cat, his cat before we met, died. It was a long, weird night of waiting,

waiting to see if she'd make it until morning, to take her to the vet, knowing if she did, we'd be saying our goodbyes anyway. The pain had been unimaginable. Like nothing I'd ever experienced, before. Until now, Luke wasn't coming back, and neither were we, a rumble. And ahead of us, the decking collapsed. Chloe screamed as it all fell into the water, and I got to my knees, holding her tight. From the corner of my eye, I could still see those lights in the sky,

moving back and forth. Even if we could get back to the road, where would we go? Everywhere I looked, buildings were collapsing, and if this really was the end, Well, I wasn't a survivor. I wasn't built for that. Luke had all the plans and ideas and knowledge for surviving the apocalypse. I've probably made things worse for the both of us by dragging her to the water rather than following the cars. Hold tight.

I wrapped my arms around her. We'll see your dad soon. Okay? She nodded against me. Okay. I love you, Chloe. I love you, Rhee. I sobbed then.

squeezing her as tight as I possibly could. Don't let go. I won't. The boards creak. Close your eyes, kiddo. Okay. I wanted to tell her. It would all be fine.

But I couldn't. Did I warn her about the pain? Did I tell her it would be over soon? What would that scare her more? I didn't want to scare her more. I held on to her, looking out over the bay, containing my guard. when I saw the water swirling and rising out past the barrage.

The dark grey sky was lit up with the occasional light appearing from behind the clouds. The strange, ashy haze filled the air. It was eerily beautiful. I took a deep breath. The boardwalk collapsed beneath us, and we fell, wood-scratching skin. Chloe screamed as we hit the water, the sound cutting off as we plunged down. overtaken by sizzling, the rush of water, then silence, the hot pain spread, and Chloe let go of me. But I held her light as we sank and burned.

We all know how terrible the COVID pandemic is. So many deaths, so many people still affected with the aftermath of the virus. Now imagine an even worse pandemic. We'll hear about it in this tale. shared with us by author Anthony Neil Smith. Not only has the disease all but destroyed our civilization, but the way the virus kills, well, let's just say it gives new meaning to going out with a bang.

Performing this tale are Aaron Lillis, Sarah Thomas, Mike Delgado, Kristen DiMecurio, and Atticus Jackson. So be thankful there's an effective method of euthanasia out there, because when you go, you want it to be a sweet death. Preacher Dave's last trip to the ER, Harriet met final, not most recent, was Thursday morning, 3 a.m. She watched the blood-stained and bone-shattered sliding glass doors open to the man alone. His wife Lee had been at his side the other times, her hair less red and more white each visit. He'd been extremely swollen before. His color had improved, no longer bright red, closer to

putty. He was smiling, actually smiling. Was he like cured? It made something flutter in Harriet, made her gasp. You again? My good nurse. I could ask you the same thing, Dave. My lucky night, or morning. Good morning. Will Lee be joining us? She's parking the car. Harriet usually sneered at all things suburban and wholehearted. An atheist who believed in the devil. She'd lost count of her piercings and tattoos. She didn't feel fully dressed unless she was half naked and clothes with holes in them. Something about this precious, dull couple coming to her during the worst moments of their lives. They were church-going Pentecostals who didn't curse. They were super normcore. Cacky pants and flannel shirts for him, modest length dresses for her, pretty floral

patterns. Not a lick of makeup on her, as opposed to Harriet's Halloween mask, one of her old boyfriends called it. Why are we here tonight? He glanced back at the spiderweb doors, then turned to Harriet and put his hand to the side of his mouth, like telling her a secret. I think, my dear, tonight will be my last. Maybe things would have turned out different had a doctor bothered to show up that night. The staff had gotten used to MD-less nights, dockless day, never sure who would be there or not. Not even security guards. All the nurses packed heat.

At least the chopper pilot still showed shift after shift. Chopper Kyle. Even coked up, he was a lifesaver. When not flying patients to the closest, honest-to-fug hospital, this one used to be, Harriet was told. In Sioux Falls, 100 miles away, he sat in the ER lobby with his hunting rifle and a bag of cocaine. All the security this place had left.

The chopper was for anything more serious than a patchable wound or a bacterial infection needing what few antibiotics still worked or a shot of sweet death because, dude, you had the virus and sending you home would only spread the goddamn thing further. Harriet would tell one patient, dude, you're fucked. The dude would nod, cry, make a few calls and say, let's do it. Quick injection, smile on his face, asleep in a handful of minutes, dead in another. She'd tell another patient the same thing. And before it was out of her mouth, the motherfucker was coming for her, and she had to shoot him with her gun instead of the needle. Still not as nasty as what the virus, 26 Scattle FIV, did to its victims. Harriet had been a C nursing student at the local college when a hospital administrator who'd pulled out most of her hair visited their classroom unannounced and offered anyone willing to drop out right then and there an official RN license anyway.

plus a huge bonus. The professor didn't even protest. All nine students took the offer. Harriet was already paying tuition on a stolen credit card, sleeping in a dorm room cramped with five other people, some not even students. She'd never learned to drive, so she stole a rent-a-scooter to get herself around town.

A month later, Harriet was the only nurse of her class left. Three returned their bonuses the next day and left nursing for good. Four lasted a few weeks before disappearing. One jumped off the roof of the hospital, dead. The scattle carnage didn't freak out, Harriet, like it did everyone else. She'd never felt much for anybody anyway. She'd tried to feel something, anything, one single thing. She'd tried to feel for years and years.

She'd taken every drug known for pleasure and a few known for pain. Tattooed every inch of her body, sitting through excruciating sessions. She'd once drowned a cat. She'd cut herself with rusty scissors, risky sex, meth-fueled orgies, bondage, choking. The only reason she signed up for nursing was to steal better drugs from whatever hospital or clinic she found work in. Still felt nothing. Then the virus. 26 Scattle F-I-V.

A real-life apocalypse. Still, nothing. Until preacher Dave. Dave wasn't really a preacher. a layperson with a nice middle management job at the turkey factory in town. In his late 40s, but seemed older, a goofy uncle type. He was clean living, never pushed his religion, but wasn't ashamed of it. Often said, praise the Lord, for no reason at all.

Never ill at ease with Harriet's appearance. Cybergoth slut, most would say. Harriet was clueless about family. Dave was like a proper uncle she'd never had, literally swimming with the Scattle virus, but she couldn't shoot him. Should have. Couldn't.

The rumors for the origins of 26 Scattle FIV were laughable. GMOs carried on coffee beans from Guatemala, the melting of the Greenland ice cap. No, this foul thing had definitely come from a lab. It was hard to deny, like with COVID years before. A highly effective killing machine spraying fully formed from bats in a Chinese wet market? sure.

RJ Fortune Pharma, headquartered in Gary, Indiana. A researcher spilled some on her shoes, open-toed, and went out dancing. The next part was just CDC speculation. Best guess, the researcher got totally wasted, went home with the co-worker she'd flirted with for months, stubbed her toe on the curb, and... The virus made people explode. Not a metaphor. Flat-out explode.

turned your heart into a ticking time bomb. Most victims showed the usual symptoms, fever, trouble breathing, swelling like a blueberry and Willy Wonka except blood red. But some exploded in the middle of a normal conversation, or waiting for an ATM, or standing in line at subway. Didn't even know they had it. Every hospital room in every town and every Midwestern state had at least one scattle victim explode in it.

Even after bleaching, the stains remained. It was spreading. It was the end of America. It was what Dave had. He should have been dead weeks ago. Harriet put on her double-paned glass mask and sprayed all-exposed skin with poly shield, designed near the end of the COVID pandemic,

which most people thought was overkill. Millions of cans ended up in dollar stores until the first people began exploding all over Gary, then Milwaukee, then Chicago, and so on. She had cut her scrubs down to be fashionable. Tight, short shorts, sleeveless, midriff top, but the poly shield kept her safe from even the worst exposure. She asked Dave to come through to the back,

passing all sorts of fancy equipment that had bankrupted the hospital. All of it broken, obsolete, dust caked. If Harriet gave a shit about proper procedure anymore, she would have shackled Dave to the bed in the exam room immediately, then lowered the scattle net over them. Those nets helped save the lives of many maintenance workers, no longer wallowing in guts while cleaning the rooms. If only someone thought of it sooner.

Instead, Harriet pointed to the rolling chair on the floor while she hopped up on the bed. Dave eased himself into the chair, grimacing, but still grinning. No new color tonight. He nodded at her hair. Not anymore. Costs too much. She used to change her hair color all the time,

blue, pink, green, and once a flaming ginger, trying to mimic Lee's natural color. Dave's wife had the prettiest red hair she'd ever seen. Last time, though, the white was winning. Tonight, it was dirty Ditchwater blonde, what she was born with, with the stain of past colors like shadows. The left side was shaved.

I kept waiting for the rainbow. Your wife's hair is gorgeous, like a sunset. Yes, it was. Beautiful. Sad now, though. It's still pretty, white like snow. Like new. You snow? Dave shook his head.

Lee's not coming. Is she... Is she staying with the car? A stupid response. He was asking for the sweet death shot, not a band-aid. She looked at his hands folded in his lap. Hadn't noticed until now. His fingertips, fingernails, all red.

I thought she was immune after all this time she'd spent around me. Never once... I was in the living room, listening to the radio. She was in the kitchen getting us some seven-up. She asked if I wanted ice. Harriet slipped off the crinkly bed paper and slid to her knees before him. She grasped his hands in both hers. No.

She didn't feel a thing. Real tears. They'd been so focused on Dave this whole time. It should be him, splattered all over the kitchen, mixed with Seven Up and floor wax and dish soap. But Dave was a miracle. He pulled a hand away and placed it on top of her head, the way a TV priest might do it.

I can't go on alone. It's not fair to her. Harriet stood, paced. You just can't. I probably could. But you do it better. It's your job. His first trip to the ER was nothing to do with the virus,

back when it was only a few cases of spontaneous combustion near Gary. Cure the jokes. Instead, it was chest pain, left arm pain. It was having a heart attack. They were scared, obviously, but so calm on the outside. They were so nice to Harriet, inviting her to dinner when this was all over. Bring your own salt, David said, in his paper gown and crazy chili pepper socks, before Chopper Kyle rushed him away to Sioux Falls.

Of course, she wasn't going to accept. She returned their cheesiness with her own sarcastic brand. wearing black lipstick then, she was sure, which they were smart enough to pick up on. Didn't matter one bit. You remind me of my own daughter, Lee told her. How so? Is she a thieving adrenaline junkie like me?

She's really smart, too. Melted Harriet's cold, jagged heart. When she heard he'd survived, she went home early and bald or raccoon eyes out. Dave's next trip to the ER, things got weird. Lee had aged a decade in only three weeks, so the pure white ribbon snaking through her sunset bun, told Harriet. Nothing heart-related, pain all over.

He was swollen, unrecognizable. Sweaty, red, weasy. Lee prayed aloud at his bedside, wouldn't leave him. She spoke in tongues. She shouted. She blessed the doctor and the nurses who kept telling her to leave. Harriet arrived late. Dave found her in the room and smiled.

It was hideous. He waved her over. The doctor tried to keep her away, but Lee nearly threw the man across the room. Harriet grasped Dave's hand, still strong, and leaned in to hear what he was saying. If you come over tomorrow night, I'll set you up with my nephew. He's in real estate. She told him, sure, yes. She would love to come have dinner with them and meet this probably imaginary nephew.

It was part of her training. Give the patient hope. Everyone knew by then the scattel. virus had no cure, a death sentence. She gave Dave some hope, pushed out of the way by a blur of scrubs and masks, carried into the hall where Lee had already been exiled. Come here. Lee held her arms wide. They hugged and cried and snuffled. Harriet felt embarrassed later when the dock with the shaved head and scrub top cut down the middle to show off his pecks, passed by and made wah-w-w-w-fist to his eyes.

Cry much, baby. That asshole exploded six nights later. And Dave, he didn't test positive. Neither did Lee. Everyone was convinced he would be receiving the sweet death shot before the end of the night, but whatever it was inside him wasn't the virus. So the foolproof 26 Scattle FIV test said, one of their last foolproof ones.

Another nurse said, fuck, there's no mercy in that. ibuprofen, plenty of fluids, ice packs. They sent him home. Dave's next visit to the ER, in the afternoon this time, Lee's hair now like a photo-negative, one ribbon of sunset orange and a bun of pure snow. He was still a bloated red flag warning,

wheeled in on a chair his wife found abandoned in the parking lot. The glass doors dripped thick blood and guts from two exploders locked outside earlier because they'd waited far too late to come for the sweet death shot. blocked the view. Chopper Kyle still kept watching the lobby with his deer rifle and a bag of cocaine, a bendy straw sticking out of it. He would have shot Dave and Lee if Harriet hadn't caught them in time. Harriet's hair was now black, but her lipstick and eye shadow were silver glitter.

Lee, bags under her eyes, tried to smile. You look like the future. In exam room four, only installed with the nets a couple of days before, Harriet covered Dave on the bed and gave him the quick time. test. None of their lab techs were left alive to do real blood work and they'd run out of foolproof tests weeks ago. These weak press-on tattoo tests were the next best option. They were awful. The first quick test said Dave had the virus. The second quick test said Dave did not have the virus. The third, fourth, seventh, eleventh, and fourteenth tests all said Dave had the virus. Lee pulled a small bottle of olive oil

from her purse. Let me pray for him. You keep olive oil in your purse? Always. To pray with? You rub a little dab of it on his head, like they did in the Bible. Harriet didn't know enough about the Bible to doubt her.

She knew Jesus was a thing, and Noah was a boat thing, and Pisseth was in the Old Testament. Would you like to pray with us? Lee held out her hand, oil on her fingertips. These weird people, The closest thing to family Harriet had.

If they had been her real aunt and uncle, she would have done everything possible to shock and horrify them. Instead, she yearned to make Dave and Lee happy. She tapped her fingers against the oil on Lee's, and the older woman beckoned her to raise the net from Dave and stand on the other side of his bed. Place your oil on his forehead right next to mine. Hold your fingers there, and pray he will be healed.

Harriet touched. Dave's white, hot, fevered skin. He turned his eyes towards her. Forget my nephew. You can do better. Lee began shouting and wailing like some crazy person, shaking her fingers on Dave's forehead. He moaned the whole time.

Harriet wanted to say, nope, and run far, far away, but shit, this was intense. She thought about her orgies, her oxy and fentanyl highs, her goddamn rusty scissors infections, her daredeveling, and thought at least this sort of crazy gave her hope. Not that she believed Jesus or God or spirits or ghosts were going to heal Dave because two women were acting like loons. But acting like loons to save someone made some awful goddamn sense right about then.

Later, as they heard and felt several explosions from farther away in the hospital, Lee said, test him again. His color had settled to a less angry pink. His fever subsided. he was breathing normally. Test him again. The first, fifth, and sixth test said he had the virus.

But the second, third, fourth, seventh, and eighth said he did not. Harriet glanced at the table where another nurse had placed a small plastic tray with a loaded syringe of the sweet death shot while she and Lee were praying. Lee saw her looking. Please.

Harriet shrugged. I mean, no. You know what will happen. One more test. Almost called her mom. One more. The ninth test said, positive for 26 Scattle FIV. Harriet let out the breath she'd been holding,

then smudged the tattoo away to nothing so Lee couldn't see the result. You guys should go home. Dave rose from the bed as if he had no worries in the world. How long had they been there? Nine hours. Harriet slept the rest of her shift in the same exam room. No one complained. Dave rustled Harriet's hair.

It's the most peaceful way to go, I hear. It's a very sweet death. Harriet sniffled and nodded. It is. I've seen it. It's very sweet. Sweet is what I'd like. At least let me test you first.

Will it matter? Harriet rose to her feet and rifled through the drawers trying to find some remaining tests. She found nickels, yellowed band-aids, Taco Bell fire sauce packets, and three scat-toe tests. She turned to Dave. Hold your arm out.

Harriet? That's an order, Buster. He held out his arm, not like a hot sausage this time. Harriet placed the test on his skin and rubbed her thumbnail across until the picture of the smiley-faced virus wearing a cowboy hat appeared in white.

She pulled off the backing and counted a ten. Staying white was good. Turning green was not. You know, my pastor was amazed you sent me home, said the Lord must have touched your heart and known I'd be okay. The tattoo stayed white, barely visible against Dave's dry skin. A feeling, that's all.

All good? Looks like it. Try again. He tightened his fist, let go, tightened, let go. She rubbed the second test on Dave's skin next to the first one. Dave, listen, have you thought maybe you've got immunity? You mean I was healed? I mean, something in your blood.

What if you can stop this whole thing before it goes nationwide? My dear, don't you know, it already is? What? Nationwide, worldwide. Airplanes and fornication. It's in every country on earth. You don't keep up with the news? Harriet wondered if Dave's daughter was still alive,

or the nephew he wanted to set her up with, if he was a real person. She didn't know him at all, did she? Toronto. Dave counted fingers. Paris, Johannesburg, Melbourne, Mexico City, Hong Kong. I didn't know. It's okay.

She lifted her shoulders. Dave looked down at the second tattoo. Is that a tiny bit green? The white virus, this time with an Indiana Jones hat, was spotting a bit green along the outline, but then it faded, all white again. Dave, listen to me. I think you're the cure.

A laugh at a time like this. Praise the Lord, but no. Please, I'd like to go with Lee. You can't tell you. do that. It's so, so selfish. Selfish. Young lady. You survived this virus. Thrived. Why would God make you the only one to live through this shit? Why would it be a gift for you alone? Not even Lee. He shook his head. Not even Chandra. Your daughter? He chewed his bottom lip. What about me, Dave? What if you could help me? Keep me from catching it. Let me. Let me.

me get some of your blood, okay? And I'll get Kyle to flies to Sue Falls. They can run real tests. It won't all have been in vain, right? If it's nothing, then you're a miracle. I'll let you convert me or baptize me or whatever. Thought she might hyperventilate, heart pounding, like really fucking pounding. She held up the last test. Flip a coin for it. Dave lifted his chin. Sorry? Green means I give you the shot. White means. we do the tests before it's too late. My dear. My dear, nothing.

I'm the nurse here. This is bigger than you. This is the whole motherfucking world. Jesus loves the little children, right? Yes, Jesus loves me, right? Dave sighed, but he held out his arm again. Harriet rubbed the third test on his skin next to the other two. A happy virus with a Mohawk this time.

Right outside the door, a man screamed, then an explosion shook the walls. Harriet stumbled. She steadied herself and threw open the door, the hallway dripping blood and guts. In the muck and bones, a broken hunting rifle, a cloud of white powder. Chopper Kyle.

No one to fly the helicopter now. The lights in Harriet's room and the hallway flickered and buzzed loudly. Harriet? She whipped her head around. What? He held up his arm, grinning goofily again. The third tattoo. White.

She fell to her knees before Dave. Oh, my God. Oh, my fucking God. Yeah. Dave laughed. It was infectious. Oh, my fucking God, indeed. He leaned towards her, wrapped his arms around her.

An awkward embrace, but Harriet didn't care. Relief. Each inhalation, a huge relief. She pushed herself up. I need to get some tubes and needles. We need a lot of blood just in case. You said you drove here, right? We're going to need a car.

He rifled in his pants pockets and brought out his fob. It's a Kia, red. I'll be right back. The needles and tubes are all in room one. We need to hurry. It's going to be okay. No rush. He tossed her the keys.

Harriet caught them. No, I can't drive. You need to. you. Praise the Lord. Okay, I'll do that. I hope you've got plenty of gas because... Harriet blinked herself awake, not knowing what happened or how much time had passed. All she saw was blood. It coated her glass face mask, now cracked into shards. Harriet wiped away as much blood as she could. Her ears were ringing, stuffed.

She shook her head and chunks of liver, kidneys, and lungs flew off her like mud off a dirty dog. Same exam room. Dave was... Exploded. The furniture was smashed at pieces or thrown upside down. Harriet was under the exam bed. Her leg busted up, twisted into a weird angle. The pain hadn't hit her yet.

She sat up as best she could. The remaining blood on her skin slid right off, thanks to the poly shield. What was left of Dave? Shreds of khaki, a tibia, half a fibbyber. footbones. How many bodies had she watched explode? How many shots of sweet death had she given? How many people had she shot with her pistol? But this one, this one made her feel like she dropped off a cliff into sheer fucking nothingness. She deflated. The hope so long gone it was like years ago. But she thought for a moment. I can salvage this. I can scoop up some of Dave's blood.

I can catch it in a tube or a bag or something. I can do this. I can cure the world. As if Dave was still sitting across from her with his goofy smile and corny jokes, still saying, praise the Lord for no good reason. As if everything Harriet had begun to believe was still possible. Harriet scooted along the floor towards Dave's chair. Her leg began to throb, most likely broken in several places.

She kept scooting, whincing from electric pit. pain worse than anything she'd chased after before, until she was beside Dave's leg bones, a good thick patch of his bodily fluids pooled in the middle of the seat. Harriet swirled her finger around in it, gathering it like brownie batter in a bowl, until there was enough for her to slide her finger into her mouth, close her lips around it, and suck Dave's blood off, swallowed it down. She gagged. Then choked out.

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, just visit sleepless.com to learn about the sleepless sanctuary. Add free extended episodes each week and lots of bonus content for the dark hours, all for only one low monthly price. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for joining us around the campfire for our 20th season. This audio program is copyright 2023 and 2024 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved.

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