The NoSleep Podcast - S20: NoSleep Podcast Waiting for Season 21 - Part 1

Episode Date: April 7, 2024

We’re taking the month of April to get ready for Season 21. We have two tales from Season 20’s Premium episodes to keep you sleepless.“Monsters in the Shadows” written by H. Alt (Story starts around 00:01:40)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Sarah Thomas, Darren – Reagen Tacker, Roce – Nikolle Doolin, David – Kyle Akers, Adeline – Jessica McEvoy, Greg – Jeff Clement, Lance – Peter Lewis, Fatima – Linsay Rousseau, Sean – Elie Hirshman, Quentin – David Cummings, and featuring – Ella Boone as Rosey“Eye Blood” written by Marcus Damanda (Story starts around 00:26:20)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Leo – Mike DelGaudio, Dad – Jesse Cornett, Grandpa – David Cummings, Brent Fisher – Dan Zappulla, Jodi Wilcox – Nichole Goodnight, The Phantom Operator – Jessica McEvoyThis episode is sponsored by:Betterhelp – This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. Give online therapy a try at betterhelp.com/nosleep and get on your way to being your best self.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Marcus Damanda Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Waiting for 21” illustration courtesy of Alexandra CruzAudio 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.

Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast, waiting for season 21, hiatus special, Part 1. That's a mouthful. I'm your host, David Cummings. Now that season 20 has concluded, its shadow still lingers. This week and next, we'll have hiatus episodes featuring tales from our season 20 premium content. And speaking of shadows, I hope everyone is prepared for the big solar eclipse happening on April 8th. If you happen to live right in the path of totality, like me, I wish you all the best.

I hope you survive. I say that because of the all-too-true conspiracy theory I see floating around online, stating that the eclipse is going to trigger a mass human sacrifice event which will kill millions. So, if you're hearing this before the big event, grace yourself. If you're hearing this after it happens, well, congrats on surviving. And if you're nowhere near the path of the eclipse, may the sun shine its light on you, unencumbered by that pesky moon. And so, whether the moon casts its shadow upon you or not, we can all share in these dark tales.

After all, it's what we do in the shadows. In our first tale, we find ourselves dealing with those pesky zombies. You've likely seen or read plenty about them in films, TV, books. You know how to survive, right? Kill the undead and find food and shelter. Easy. But in this tale, shared with us by author H. Alt, a group of survivors find shelter together. The only question is, are the monsters the undead or the humans?

I join Sarah Thomas, Reagan Tacker, Nicole Doolin, Kyle Akers, Jessica McAvoy, Ella Boone, Jeff Clement, Peter Lewis, Lindsay Russo, and Ellie Hirschman in performing this tale. So don't forget, you have to be constantly on guard. They could be anywhere when there are monsters in the shadows. People stalked through the door of an abandoned cottage, single file. guns and flashlights raised. Circles of light darted over dusty furniture and 70s-era wood paneling. Roz ran her light over the fireplace and wondered if it still worked. It didn't matter either way.

The summer night was warm and balmy, and they would move on as quickly as they could. My folks had a place like this before. Darren's gruff voice startled a rat out of its hiding place. A few of the group jumped at the squeaking. Chase the streaking ball of fur with their beams of light before it disappeared into a small hole in the corner of the room. We check if there's monsters before revisiting memories. Roz's under eyes were marred with stress and exhaustion,

a matching set with her seven companions. Roz, Darren, Lance, and Fatma fleshed out across the room, leaving the other half of the group to post-watch outside and check the perimeter. Each one of them were defensive as they were hyper-vigilant, having had met their fair share of trouble. If they were to meet their past selves from before, they would no longer recognize their own faces. Crickets chirped merrily with no regard to the group's circumstances.

Night had fallen hours ago, and although the sun's heat had died with it, the humidity still hung thickly. Outside, Adeline stood with her back the cabin entrance, gun and flashlight pointed into the surrounding woods. David settled up next to her, waving his flashlight slowly between the trees. You think they're out there? The rest of the group from the supermarket?

Even without clarification, Adeline had known who he had meant. Might be. What do we do if we run into them again? She gave a shrug with one shoulder, where the butt of her rifle was propped. what we have to. David would have preferred a more reassuring answer. He should have known better than to expect that from Adeline. Her blushing cheeks and quick tongue deceived.

She was as hard as the rest of them. David considered himself the softest of them all, and the rest would agree and mock him for it, lovingly, usually. Inside, Roz led her scouts further into the cabin, in what her four-year-old Rosie called goose formation. Darren was just behind her and to her left, while Lance and Fatima trailed her on the right. They crossed the outdated living room on cats' feet,

Darren and Fatma scanning the frames of flying ducks and bears catching fish in rivers, checking the darkest spots in the rooms to make sure they were clear threats. They fell again into single file when they hit the hallway, where Roz paused. The other stopped at once. Ross let out a low whistle, then waited with breath held. The monsters responded to two things, sound and movement.

If one of the skin peelers were here, they'd know in another heartbeat. No monsters came. Roz began forward again, shoulders tensed as she pushed through the first door. Outside, Greg brought a fussing Rosie up into his arms. She immediately contented against him. with arms snaked around his neck. It was nigh impossible to keep a bedtime for her the way they were forced to travel. Before the world ended, Greg's therapist had stressed the importance of keeping a schedule,

something about maintaining bodily rhythms and hormone levels. He had tried to take her advice. He really had. But no matter how he tried, he couldn't seem to manage to fall asleep before 4 a.m. Now, his previously inconvenient sleeping habits suited the group. He never minded taking second watch. Is it bedtime? Rosie plucked at Greg's sweat-stained shirt-collar.

Almost, little Rosie. Rosie wasn't his. Sometimes he wish she were. Roz and Greg had known each other in the before times, and she trusted no one more with her daughter. Do you want to teach me the alphabet again? A, B, C, Rosie began reciting her letters. At her side, Sean checked the woods once more with his flashlight,

found nothing, then dipped his head into the cabin. His eyes had adjusted to the dark while they were roaming empty countryside roads after sunset. It was more dangerous to travel at night with the monsters out there, but Sean figured Roz was trying to create as much space, between them and the supermarket group they had gotten away from three days ago. Sean and the rest of Roz's group had originally been welcomed in with open arms. The leader's name had been brought. Sean learned that the real monsters were not the one stocking aimlessly in the woods,

but were the people who remained. He and the others hadn't eaten since leaving. Sean's stomach felt like a cavernous wall, beaten by nature until it was hollow. The skittering lights of Ross's scouts disappeared into a room down the hallway ahead. Sean went to the kitchen cabinets, afraid to hope. After the third room, a small bathroom with a stained bath, ripped down shower curtain and blackened toilet bowl, Ross said, clear. Don't even want to know.

Ross silently agreed. They made their way back into the hallway, and Roz made her approach to the final door. Knees bent and guard up. Inside the last room, she finally let the gun drop from her shoulder. Their flashlights danced over two empty cots and scattered blankets. Empty cans littered the floor. The boarded windows led in only slivers of moonlight and dust. Think they're still here?

Fatima passed Roz and Lance to inspect the remnants from the cabin's previous tenants. She brought one can to her nose. Couldn't be. Hasn't spoiled yet. Where would they be, how do they slate? Maybe the Sunriders got them? Ross sighed with the heavy responsibility of being the group leader. If there were only two strangers, her group had nothing to worry about. But now she had to consider how to handle them if they were to show up again.

Fatim, I get the rest of the group inside and secure the windows and doors. You know the drill. They all did. Reinforcing their shelter before settling in for the night was Survival 101. Sean was holding up a can of beans in triumph when the scouting team returned to the front room. We dine like royalty tonight. There's someone else's... Roz dropped her rifle onto the dirty counter.

Greg entered and handed Rosie off to her mother, and Roz pulled her close, kissing the top of her head. You ready to sleep, baby? Sean lowered his arms, disappointment on his face. So we don't dine like royalty tonight? Her people were starving, and there was only half a chance the cabin's occupants would return. We eat. Her humanity, what little of it was left after the end of the world, got the better of her. Leave two cans untouched.

That only leaves six cans for the eight of us, plus Rosie. We'll make do. Later, the group huddled in the living room with all the pillows and blankets they could scavenge from the back bedrooms. They sat in near darkness, save for the three candlesticks they had lit in the center of their circle, to better see their scant food and exhausted faces. Rosie was already asleep, face stained with baked beans. Roz held back from eating as much as she wanted.

She needed her people to eat first. They relied on her. and after the last run-in they had with other survivors, she knew she would do anything to keep them safe. Do you think they're coming? Rozd realized she wasn't the only one who couldn't stop thinking about it. The supermarket group, I mean... Drop it already.

If they come, we deal with them. We barely made it out alive the first time. Lance said nothing. He was a man of few words and often let discussions play out as he watched. from the sidelines. Greg risked cutting his tongue by licking the cut-off can-top.

Roz glanced at Darren. He acted as her second in command and didn't struggle making the hard calls the way Roz did. Darren felt her gaze, glanced up from his can of green beans to match it. They come, they die. The simplicity of his words struck Ross

with the dull thought against her chest. He was right. It was all about survival now. A sound came from the door that led outside. Everyone straightened at attention at once, all eight pairs of eyes jolting to the twisting doorknob. The sun monsters didn't have the coordination. Seems the previous tenants have returned.

Fatima looked to Roz. They were all looking at her now. She and Lance had barricaded a chest against the entryway. The door opened and thunked against the wood. A voice said something behind the door. Roz was already on her feet. She crossed the room, grabbing her rifle from the kitchen countertop as she did. She waited.

Hello? Is somebody in there? Roz kept her voice low, authoritative. My group took up shelter here. It's best you continue on your way. But I can't. I have my son here. He needs somewhere safe.

Ross clenched her jaw, imagining if it were her and Rosie outside the cabin door, and not inside where it was safe. Then you shouldn't have left. Darren stood just behind her, one hand on her shoulder. The weight of his hand was the weight of the world, the weight of her responsibilities, the weight of every group member's life. She must prioritize them, always. Being in a group was the only way to survive. Which made this lone man and his child all the more suspicious. I had to. We needed to scavenge. We were running low on food.

Lower now. The rest of them were standing in the living room, muscles tense and tot. Fatima and Adeline had picked up their guns. What's your name? Quentin. And my boy's name is Charlie. Please. Please. I think they're out here. They're going to hear me. Are you armed? There was a pause.

I have a handgun and a knife. Drop them and leave them at the door. Oh, but... Drop them. Precious moments passed. Roz heard the clatter of his fallen weapons. She gave a slight nod to Darren, who moved to push aside the chest. Lance was at the door, fist around its knob.

Fatima and Adeline had their rifles up at the ready. At Ross's go-ahead. Lance let the door open some inches. A gaunt man's face appeared in the open space, then the top of a child's head. Roz nodded to Lance to open the door the rest of the way, and the man stepped inside. There's a lot of you.

Quentin looked fearfully at the group's readied weapons. You have a baby. Greg brought a glowing candlestick to the doorway. He just turned two. Ross looked closer as Darren bent to retrieve the discarded weapons in the doorway. Together, he and Lance resecured the door. Charlie was sleeping against his father's chest, thumb and mouth.

His skin and hair were both fair, and she could see the top of his head had already become sunburnt. Your little one needs a hat. Come in. Sean came by to scoop Quinton's backpack from off his shoulders. He waited in his hand. Nice haul. Ross watched Quentin eye the empty food cans by the blankets on the floor.

We left you some. Now we got more. Darren snatched the backpack from Sean and took it to the kitchen to inventory. Several emotions struggled to emerge on Quentin's face. Eventually, he frowned and shook his head. I understand how it is. Every day is about survival now. Roz clenched her jaw.

Survival was all anyone still alive ever thought about anymore. Greg brought Quinton an open can of spam, and Quentin took it with one hand. They all slowly milked back to their living quarters, Fatima's still holding tightly to her gun. She had met with seemingly innocent people before, and she wasn't ready to let her guard down quickly. She also knew Roz appreciated her caution. Roz motioned Quentin to sit. Quentin did so. looking grateful, but still on edge.

It was clear he felt threatened, being surrounded by a group of strangers that had moved into his squatting territory and eaten his spoils. So, tell us who you were before. Before? Before the world went to shit. I know what she meant. I just don't understand.

Ross said nothing, only stared at Quentin. Adeline answered for her. We have to know if you're trustworthy. Yeah, but how would you know? The group's collective experiences and subsequent lessons had taught them everything they needed to know about the nature of man and the de-evolution of humanity when society crumbled. Lance answered for them all.

We know. Okay. The man shifted the slumbering toddler to his other shoulder. I was an accountant for a law firm. Try again. Darren sauntered over from the kitchen, a can of food in each hand. Excuse me? You lied. Ross watched Quentin's expression change.

She wasn't as good at reading expressions as some of the others were, but even she thought that was too stereotypical and bland of an answer. The kind of answer you don't get any information from in follow-up questions. I was a man. and a department store. He was choosing to tell the truth now. Good. Your wife?

Fatima had lowered her gun, but her fingers still flirted around the trigger. Quentin's face went stone cold in the warm candlelight glow. We lost her in the beginning. Nobody responded. They had all lost people important to them at the beginning, to the sun monsters,

at the hands of others. Raw's bet a monster had gotten her. All it took was one scratch, and their disease would latch onto your skin, marring you with painful blisters and boils. It spread slowly at first, covering the victim's entire body in angry red. Eventually, some areas turned black or the skin chart. Finally, Roz assumed from unfortunate first-hand observation the heart and brain were affected. That's when the person you knew died forever and became a skin rotter, a sun devil, a monster. How did you two make it on your own?

We had a group, got separated about a week ago. Being alone out there isn't easy. It got easier after we found this place. You find any good scavenging spots while you were out? There's a small town about eight miles from. from here. Must have been a tourist trap once. Had all kinds of sightseeing brochures and guides. Some of the stores were cleaned out, but there was some decent stuff left. I just couldn't bring it all back with me. Darren had caught it. Ross could practically see his hackles rise. His hand went to the

knife, while she kept her eyes on the flame licking the top of the candles. You say you had a group? Yeah, that's right. A man named Brock led us. Everything happened at once. Fatima lifted and cocked her rifle as everyone but Quentin and Roz jumped to their feet. Darren unsheathed his hunting knife and moved behind Quentin in a flash. Adeline reached for Charlie and pulled him away from his father, and Charlie began to cry. Quentin's eyes bulged as Darren held the blade to his throat. His panicked gaze went from Roz to his son and back again.

What is this? Your group. Flickering shadows jumped over Raza's sharp cheekbones and hollowed throat. They're cannibals. Quentin sputtered. Darren pressed the knife against his throat harder. A line of red swelled at the blade. Please.

Please, my son. They ate us. Fatima pushed the muzzle of her rifle against Quentin's sweating forehead. They ate our friends. I didn't know. Bullshit. Lance had been watching from against the wall. Ross knew he was right. The father and son looked very well fed for having been on their own for more than a week.

Okay, okay. I knew. I knew who they were. But we were starving. Just trying to survive. And you did. Darren ran his blade across Quentin's neck. Letting the blood pour out onto the floor, the man's body slumped forward, red streaming down his chest, puddling around the sweating candlesticks. Darren wiped his blade against the dead man's back before sheathing it again. Baby Charlie wailed.

Adeline had his face pressed to her chest, softening his cries from the ears of the monsters outside. Rosie stirred, and Greg went to her. Roz rose to a stand, crossing the room to Adeline, to take another look at Charlie's head. As she had feared, the soft pink of sunburn had spread. Angry red blisters marred the baby skin. How she wished it had simply been sunburn.

This, Roz would do herself. She had to. She was the leader. The others looked to her. She pulled out her pocket knife and flipped the blade open. Adeline, once bouncing with the baby, went still and turned her face away. Her cheeks glistened with tears in the flickering candlelight. The knife went straight into the baby's soft skull without resistance,

and at an instant, his wailing stopped. Silence returned. Hiding outside in the dark, monsters restlessly milled between the trees. Monsters were all that remain now. some appearing more human than others. In our final tale, we meet a man with a rather unusual condition. It's his eyes, you see? No, no, no, it's nothing mundane like astigmatism or even cataracts.

His condition is a bit more intense. And in this tale, shared with us by author Marcus Demanda, while the man has learned to deal with his condition, It's what happens when it goes away. That's the real concern. Performing this tale with me are Mike Delgado, Jesse Cornette, Dan Zapula, Nicole Goodnight, and Jessica McAvoy. So be thankful if your eyes are mostly normal. Far better than dealing with eye blood.

The first time I had the eye blood, I was 15 years old. My parents had loaded the whole family into the Lincoln. after church for an afternoon visit with my grandpa at the Best Lives Senior Living Facility. No one really wanted to go. The photographic record of that day doesn't reveal a single happy face, neither from my mom nor from my dad whose father grandpa was, nor from any of us kids. Nor were there any smiles from the old man himself, who smelled vaguely like shit and looked at us like we were strangers come to sell him something.

But mom took pictures anyway, as soon as we were through the door, we gathered around his chair for them and his breathing picked up. A raspy, whistling sound that suggested panic as his eyes darted right to left. None of us expected him to last much longer. He'd gone deep down the well of Alzheimer's disease by then. There wasn't much left of the genial old soul who had taken me for walks in the park when I was little.

the perhaps over-indulgent grandpa who told stories and then let me raid his attic every time I came to visit. He'd always warned us that the attic was haunted, Grandpa did, and that was enough to keep my older brother and sister from going up there. But I went. And I always came down with some old toy dad or Uncle Ron had used to play with, something that was only mine from that day on. Maybe it was there in that dry, musty, cake. of creaking wood and pink insulation poking out of torn tinfoil that I got the high blood. Can't say? It's possible.

It occurred to me at the ripened but cynical age of 15 that he looked and sounded almost dead already. But that was only when he made any sound. Most of the time all he did was sit in that chair and wheeze, staring past us out the window or at the wall, saying nothing, seeing nothing. Perhaps he'd forgotten we were in the room. Dad, who came here all the time, had told us his awakenings happened suddenly and ended just as quickly. Then he'd either recognize his firstborn son and have a brief conversation, or just as often mistake him for someone else and have a brief conversation.

Once, to hear it from Dad, Grandpa had fancied himself a lad in school and pantomimed spitting apple seeds at the other kids. non-existent, of course, for a prank. That kind of seemed like the thing grandpa might have done as a boy, if those other kids have been assholes. I could see it. Well, now that the preliminaries were over, God leaned over to hug him first, said in the example. Hey, pops, it's Sunday, two in the afternoon.

So, so it's me, Anthony. It's your son. I brought the family. Dad? Are you there? I'm here. Hello. Grandpas were confused, lost.

I could see the unspoken questions there. Who are you again? Why are you here? Who are these people? Briefly, I caught his gaze. It was an accident. I spent a lot of time looking away from people when I was 15. and selfishly, I know, I was in no hurry to engage with a grandparent that I still loved,

but who didn't recognize me anymore. I'd have never admitted it back then, but it hurt. I took it personally. Even though my grandfather couldn't help that he didn't remember me, I was angry at the old man and the robe and slippers, at the husk who'd been helped out of bed and propped up in a wheelchair by nurses who hadn't bothered to help him shave or even clean himself. It was at that moment when his normally vacant stare fixed on me that I first felt the itch.

It made me blink and palm my eyes. I didn't think much of it at the time. And one by one, Dad introduced us all in order of age. Mom, Carly, Pete, and finally me. It was like he was giving a family to a man who'd never. had one before. Grandpa, who was at least awakened enough to talk, did his best to be polite as he received our hugs.

Your wife, Barbara, is it? Well, aren't you lovely? But he clammed up when it was Carly's turn, and he stayed quiet through peace. Perhaps it was overwhelming, this display of grim, unsmiling, but determined love from people. he didn't recognize. But he bore up under it, and that was like him, like the grandpa I had grown up knowing, until it was my turn. I got past mom and dad. I was leaning in for the obligatory embrace when everything changed. It happened too suddenly for me to understand why, although I did feel unwanted tears growing fat under my lower islands, heal himself backwards, even though he was already

practically up against the wall in the window sill already. What the hell is this? Get that fucker away from me. Get it away. Away. I recoiled from him, bewildered and shocked. But I was not swift enough to avoid his hand. With just stunning strength, he swatted me hard across the side of my face.

And there, on his palm was a bright red smear that could only be one thing. I realized in that instant that I was seeing red too. Literally, red, not just some emotional fog of teenage angst. My eyes clouded in a splotchy crimson haze that partially cleared or reconfigured if I blinked my eyes. My cheeks were soaked and I could smell it, blood from my eyes escaping in a steady trickle as I stumbled backwards with my hands over my face. Grandpa jammed his finger at me, like a judge-pronouncing sentence. But he was hysterical. His words cloaked in a moaning terror, teetered on madness.

Get it out. Take that fucking thing out of here. I reeled in place. I staggered back, and then my mother screamed, too. My own mother. And not just because my grandfather had struck me. I held up my hands and saw what was happening. and understand how.

And that's it. That's all I remember before passing out, right there on the spot. In my dreams, I saw Grandpa again. I lay in bed, unable to move when the door crashed open. That's when I realized it was still his room, his door. And I was lying on his bed when he scuttle shambled into the room on all fours. I couldn't see him. I only knew him by the whisper rattling of his breathing.

He was coming from me. His breath hitching, coughing, trying to expel something. I wanted to scream, but I couldn't. Reaching up, grabbing the post by the foot of the bed. Its dry fingers cracked the nails, split and dripping eye core that looked black in the dark. I could hear his voice behind that effort to breathe, the blocked indrawn cry for life, desperate with futility and terror. He was as frightened as I was, and neither of us could call for help. Both hands on the bed now. He grabbed me by the ankles before I even saw his face. And when I did see it, when he managed to haul himself onto the bed with me, his face was swollen. His white eyes rolled back and bulging like they might burst. I couldn't move.

Couldn't he lay on top of me. His open mouth against the side of my face, sucking for air he couldn't get. He drooled on me, died on me. His body's shaking and convulsing against mine until it lay still. It's a wonder and a mercy that I didn't shit myself. Maybe I did and nobody told me. One way or another, the next thing I knew, I woke up in the emergency. room with one hell of a knot on my forehead, blood on my face. Eye blood happens. There's nothing

too weird about that. Most times it's a subconjunctival hemorrhage, otherwise known as a broken blood vessel. You could also have a subretinal hemorrhage, or a vitreous hemorrhage, or a submacular hemorrhage. But those would just be a one-time thing for normal people, enough to ruin your day, but not sufficient to fuck up your life. There's also your standard Hafeema, which is much more dangerous, but that's because it's generally brought on by blunt trauma. And I hadn't had any blunt trauma

until Grandpa had reeled back and slapped me. There's a host of known possible causes for mysterious eye bleeds, even from the tear ducts, everything from tumors to laser eye treatments, to just wearing contact lenses for too long. at a time. Or you could just be a villain in the James Bond movie. There's always that. Anyway, the doctors spent most of that afternoon ruling things out, narrowing down possibilities.

There was no easy answer. And as of the next morning, my family was distracted by other news. Sometime after 7.30 that evening, Grandpa had died in the common room while watching Wheel of Fortune. And no, he didn't go from a heart attack or some other latent stress effect from having freaked out earlier in the day. He choked to death on a hunk of probably half-cooked meatloaf that he accidentally inhaled into his windpipe. There was no connecting the two events. They were random, separate, just two bad happenings that both landed on the same day of bad mojo. Simple as that. Bad Mojo

Dad's exact words And that's what we told ourselves Back when I was 15 For two years We even believed it Then it happened again Left arm overhooked to my opponent's elbow Fist pressed against his chest

Then my right hand over the back of his neck To complete the trap A quick merciless squeeze As I lunged forward with my feet and rolled And bam Just like that And with a most satisfying fwump, I had his back against the wrestling mat. It was nothing more than a simple head throw,

but it never failed to produce a collective woe from the bleachers. There were some groans, too. This was in a waymeat, after all, as well as some cheers for my teammates. It was all as expected. Wrestling was my sport of passion. It had saved me from the dark, brooding, lonely days of my first year in high school. Now, at 17, I finally had a real shot at county. My opponent, Brent Fisher, was only a freshman. But as coach liked to say, You can only wrestle the opponent the other team puts out there. It ain't about fair.

I couldn't help it if I was as wiry, skinny as he was, both of us in the 126-pound weight class, nor that I was just better than him. I expected the ref to drop to a knee right beside us, as he confirmed both of Brent's scabs were pressed flat. I expected the slap of his hand declaring me the winner, making my record 7 and 0 with three meets to go. What I didn't expect was the gymnasium-wide gasp

that rose up like a sudden flame from a gas grill. I didn't expect the itch, nor the jet of blood that squirted from my eyes directly into his eyes. Your eyes? Oh shit! You're hurt, man. Get off me!

It splashed onto his neck, the shoulder strap of his singlet. Seriously? It must have looked like I've been fucking stabbed or something. Fucking gross out, dude! Get off! I didn't move until the ref made me. Sorry to any who don't understand,

but that's how this whole wrestling thing works. Contact sport after all. Had it been a simple nosebleed or even a full mouth bleed, the ref would have separated us, called for a blood time, and sent Brent to a corner to wait it out while coach helped me get the bleeding under control. Then I'd have to pin him again, albeit from the top or controlled position. I'd have to think of a new move to trap him. He'd never fall for the head throw twice. I had no idea what you did for an eye bleed, and apparently for a second or two, neither did the

ref. Meanwhile, Brent lurched past his coach and threw up into a bucket with the mat cleaning supplies. I had an odd thought, given my circumstance. That boy is not well. Sorry, Brent. My bad. The ref called the match right there. Injury forfeit Fisher wins. My first thought, and it was a bitter one was, it ain't about fair. But it wasn't fair to Brent either, having to go through that. He hadn't exactly signed up for this. Then I realized they called 911 on my ass. There I was trying to explain to my coach and to the ref and to anyone who would listen

that this had happened before, that I'd be all right. I didn't even feel bad or woozy or anything. But I didn't have anyone there to back me up. Mom and Dad came to all my home meets, and better than half of the away ones, but they weren't here tonight. And, you know, it's just hard to be convincing when you're standing there, towling blood from your eye sockets. More tests, another cat scan, and another set of follow-up appointment scheduled. For the immediate present, the doctors insisted on keeping me overnight, which was a decision my mother wholeheartedly endorsed, and she stayed with me the whole time. The bleeding had stopped by the time we had got there.

Doctors said that if they hadn't seen it in the medical record from before, if they hadn't had to clean it off my face, they'd have struggled to believe the eye bleed had ever happened. There were no abrasions under my eyelids, nothing worrisome about my vitals. I was dehydrated, but it was a wrestler. In the 80s, you cut water to cut weight. They got me on an IV, left me with mom, and of course, dad came too. but he took his own sweet time showing up.

It wasn't until my eyes in the dark. I saw nothing but the shadow of a seat in front of me. I didn't hear any engine, but it felt like I was in a moving car. If so, I was in the back seat. The seat in front of me, well, there was Brent Fisher, sleeping against the headrest. There was his sleeping head, anyway. Then it left the head.

headrest, completely disembodied, and leaned against what would have been the passenger side window. Yet I saw no more of the car than Brent's seat and the headrest. There was no window there. Then it didn't feel like the car was moving anymore. The side of Brent's head resting against the invisible windshield splintered, half of his skull first cratering, then completely came in. The bottom half of his jaw seemed to shake as though in slow motion before it tore free,

spraying teeth. His nose exploded in a fountain of gore, erupting cartilage and tissue like the time-lapse capture of a blooming flower. I never felt a thing. Why should I have?

It's not like I was there. When I woke up, I was still in the hospital. It was morning, and my father had finally come. We were still waiting on test results before I could be discharged. Hopes for any definitive answers were not high. So, albeit with some misgivings, Mom leaned over the bed, kissed my forehead, and stood to leave.

Dad was here to wait out time with me. If I looked bad, I got even money that Dad looked even worse. It looked like he hadn't slept all night. Mom leaned over and whispered something into his ear, then left without a backwards glance. I rubbed sleep from my eyes, then checked my hands after just to be sure. I only shook his head. Dad? What? He studied me when I couldn't help but notice in that moment that the bags under his eyes reminded me distinctly of grandpas. He laid his hand on the bedrail but didn't touch me.

Suddenly, he just came out with it. son, are you cursed or what? His face was deadly serious. Feels like it sometimes, I thought, but I wisely didn't say so. Those are the kinds of thoughts I entertained when I was in middle school, or just starting high school. Back when I had no clear idea of who I was or what my interests were. Back when you were, that heavy metal music and that damn D&D game. To his credit, he seemed embarrassed at himself to be bringing.

these things up. I could see where this was going and it was fucking dumb. It was bone stupid and my father was not a stupid man. He never used to bother me about my Sabbath records or playing D&D or Gamma World, not even while I was doing it. Still, it was hard to avoid hearing the rumors about the kids who got wrapped up and all that stuff. We heard it at church constantly. Never mind me, but his hands were shaking. I'm sorry, son. I don't know what to make of this. What did Mom whisper to you? He took in a long, slow breath.

Let it out. She said it's not his fault, Anthony. And it isn't. I held up my hands again, studying them. Brent Fisher, then burst into tears. He reached out and held my hand and squeezed it, sobbing. I think it was at that moment. moment that something in my heart closed for all time. I couldn't even cry. I asked,

was it a car crash? Not really. Dad tried to steady himself and only half succeeded. The damn rail barriers at Seminole and Moheican, they, they're so old, son. Haven't been changed since I was your age, I bet. It was only a matter of time. before something went wrong with him. They came down too late. The boys' pickup got caught. When the bars dropped down on the windshield, his older brother got out in time.

That would have been Evan of the 180-pound weight class. And was in the flat bed. Older brother says he was asleep. I doubted very much he was when the train came. He was probably awake long enough to see it come. At least it wasn't like in my dream. I thought, unable to not think it. At least his head wasn't against the windshield.

At least I hadn't seen his death any more than I had seen grandpa's. That'd be just crazy, right? But there had been hints of the truth both times. Glimpses into the manner of death, grandpa's inability to breathe, Brent's exploding face. and I had felt those deaths, though without any pain, maybe at the exact moment they had taken place. With that came a realization even more terrible. Brent Fisher had been predestined to die from hours earlier.

Had to be. If he hadn't been, I wouldn't have had the eye bleed. Unless... Unless the blood wasn't a predictor. In fact, the more I thought about it, that was the best case scenario. There was a chance that Dad was right in a way. It could be a curse, though not in the way he had suggested. It might be a curse that I was bestowing upon the other people against my will.

Best if it was just a predictor of death. In the worst case scenario, it was the cause. I gave up wrestling. I didn't even go back to school. I instead took classes from the homebound program and my tests at the high school equivalency learning center, which catered mostly to adult dropouts and to kids bust in from the local juvie.

Even there, I went at odd hours, avoiding people as much as I could. I didn't go to prom. I didn't walk at graduation. I went back to avoiding eye contact with everyone. Absentee high school turned into post-high school distance learning in the early 90s. I did it via Northern Virginia Community College where prior to the internet, you checked out videotapes of the lectures from the library and you got your

assigned readings through the mail. It was all pointless. I didn't need an associate's degree, much less a bachelor's, to end up where I was probably headed. Night security in the back lot of a car dealership or some other quiet, low visibility job like that. Yet my parents, who fought very little against me learning at home and giving up on regular school, still seemed to think it important that I got a complete education, just like Carly and Pete were getting at GMU. But more and more, they avoided me. When we were together, they didn't try and draw my gaze.

At 19, well, I suppose they figured I was about due. And if I was looking at them when I got the eye blood again, Well, suffice it to say that it was hard to blame them. But it didn't happen when I was 19. It happened when I was 20. The best thing that could be said of the experience was that it took three years before the next recurrence instead of just two. It was reasonable to hope that if you followed the pattern by adding a year each time, that it would be four years until the next one. Did you find everything okay?

A lot can happen in the few years when you're still young. young. In my case, I'd finished college with an associate's degree, got a job as the night cleaner at the Dumfrey's Route 1 office annex, and again, with some startup funds from the parental unit, moved into my first apartment. I did, yeah. I said to the lady at checkout, eyes downturned, fishing out my wallet. Thanks. I guess I already knew that. I mean, it's always the same things, always the same time. I guessed she was about my age, hard to. know for sure. And she was right about my habits. Money was tight. So I'd gotten familiar with where every cheap thing was in the store and I just bought the whole list on repeat every time. It was also

true that I got my stuff practically at the close of business every Tuesday and Friday. Then unloaded back home and went straight off to work. Fewer people to deal with that way. Less chance of seeing people. Sorry, it's kind of hard not to notice. I know it's not my business. I know it's not my business. She'd rung up my groceries several times. The nice young woman at Express Lane number three. But I hadn't learned her name. I'd never even seen her name tag. I never looked up.

To me, she was the navy blue store shirt who knew me by routine as well as most anyone. She was a friendly voice who, heretofore, didn't ask uncomfortable questions. Just a single man living the dream. My eyes must have flitted up for a second. partway because now I caught her name tag. Jody. I fished out my wallet surreptitiously checking the total on the register. It's okay. I don't mind. It wasn't that I absolutely never saw anyone's face. That would have been impossible. To function in this world, you have to deal with people. I'd had the job interview. I lived amongst my fellow human beings. A person can only do their best, hope for the

best while minimizing risk. You okay? Me? I said with a shrug, wanting to sound surprised, but unable to. I'd gotten that question from strangers before. I'm fine. Why do you ask? I laid down a pair of twenties and waited.

Well, for one thing, you never look up. I mean, come on, am I that scary? I shook my head. I had considered sunglasses for protection, but those would have on extra attention at night. I had no idea if they'd work anyway. As protection against my eyes, I mean, for other people. No.

I said, watching the pair of 20s that lay between us, it's not you, it's me. I could have almost laughed thinking those words. Hey. She bent somewhat at the waist, craned her neck to look at me sidelong. I looked the other way. but it had been three years for all I knew it might never happen again

maybe the curse had gone away when I reached adulthood been dispelled from afar or worn off or if it really was a medical condition it might have run its course I don't know how else to explain why I was so so damp reachable in that moment except, well, there was a nice young woman speaking to me, and that never happened. People let their guard down from time to time.

But I didn't. I swear to God, as my witness, I didn't. I kept to the program. He did my best. And so when the first drops of blood pattered onto the $20 bills, without so much as the itched warning me of their coming this time, She was still safe. Probably.

Depends on if the eye blood was a predictor or a cause, of course. God, oh, Leah? I'm sorry. Should I? She stopped mid-sentence, as though shocked at herself. But if she'd taken herself by surprise, it was as nothing to the number as she'd done on me. She said my name.

She knew me. I looked up. I didn't even realize until I'd done it. It was as though the problem. pronouncement of my name had drawn me, caught me off balance, made me look before I could do anything to stop it. And there she was. Jody Wilcox of my 11th grade Spanish class. I hadn't recognized her voice, which was stupid of me, stupid, stupid, but her face, her delicate features wrapped in an autumnal halo of brown curls, out of which peered bright green eyes was as clear in my

memory as a yearbook picture. Her hand had gone to her mouth, but now she reached for the call button. I'll get help. I reached out and grabbed her wrist, peering through a thick, opaque curtain of blood. No, don't, Jody, I'm fine. Do what I tell you. Listen, she might scream, and now damn it all that itch was back, buried deep in my head, but worse than ever, right behind my eyes. It was like searching fingers, little probes seeking and opening to spread further. Feelers for fresh blood. Go home with somebody tonight. Go straight home. Keep someone with you if you can. All night, Jody. Do you understand? She tried to draw her hand back. Even through my bloody tears, I saw her eyes blink and blink. Do you fucking understand me or do you? She screamed and returned. She screamed and

return naturally and wrenched her hands free. And that was it. There was nothing more I could do. I ran. Wiping blood from my face, crashing through the automatic exit doors while they were still half open. I drove straight back to my apartment, skipped out on work. I spent an hour just sitting on the couch waiting for the police to arrive. Jody knew me. I wouldn't be hard to track down. But the police didn't come. I sat down on the couch, set the pill bottle on the lampstand. Good old Paxil, my trusty dream-suppressing antidepressant friend. The only reliable friend I'd had since high school. If I ever did dream well on that shit, I didn't remember it afterward. And if I didn't dream, then maybe nothing would happen to Jody. It was possible. I shook out three of the pills and considered them.

For a good long time, I weighed the known benefits against the possible risks. Sleep was escape. Sleep with no dreams was safe. I sat there and sat there. At 1130, I called home. I got the third degree from mom before I could successfully reassure her that the eye bleed had stopped and there was no need for me to go back to the hospital again. True, I had half a tissue box of bloody Kleenex and a wet pink and red pilot in my

feet, but she didn't need to know that. The bleeding had stop. That was all that mattered. She handed me off to Dad, whose voice was an odd blend of calm and regret. That stumped me. What did he mean by that? I was coming to him for help. I... What you ought to do is call the police. Said somebody to check on her. It happened yet. I nodded. Okay. Dad at least made sense. Why hadn't I done that already? Then, as though I had answered him aloud and invited more, he went on. Many people as possible know exactly where you are.

If you're lucky, then she isn't dead yet by in advance. Protests in the background. Mom, what was she? And without speaking to me again, he hung up the phone. The lady on the other end of the line sounded bored. What's your emergency? I paced the small living area of my apartment, not really knowing how to start. I'd considered calling the police directly, then reminded myself that if this wasn't an emergency, then nothing was.

I opened my mouth to speak, but was immediately cut off. Something good. Get over here. We're calling in so-called is when it's really just people yelling at each other. What's your malfunction, Leo? You're not calling to waste my time, are you? There it was again. My name were I least expected to hear it.

That plus the lady's attitude, which was so far off the charts inappropriate, is to be surreal. I made my head spin. Or talk to the fucking click. I swear, if you're wasting my time. Does she know my name? I told myself there had to be an automatic trace in the call.

They needed to know where the emergencies were coming from in case the caller couldn't speak. Yeah, nothing too weird about that. No, miss, there's a real problem. Exceeded if you were just some lonely deuce who calls 911 because he's away from home for the first time and can't sleep. I'm not here to babysit losers and assholes. I've got an important job. Tell me, Leo, are you prank to an asshole?

What? No, there's this girl. Oh, shit, here we go. That's where I lost it. Would you shut the... fuck up and listen to me. Someone is going to die. Okay? Have you got that? Is that good enough for you? And then she laughed at me. The goddamn 911 operator laughed. Jody Wilcox? You don't need to worry about her. He called the police two hours ago.

Why? They've been expecting you ever since. I let out a breath and rolled my eyes at the ceiling. Equal parts. Wildered, relieved, and still frustrated. She'd called the police. Good. She was smarter than I'd been. And quicker, thank God for that. Miss, I don't know what she said to you,

but someone needs to stay with her all night. She's in trouble. She's... Already done, you fuck too late, Leo. You knew what you had to do. You had one jump. Where will you say you were, Leo? when the cops come calling.

Where were you when Jody took her boyfriend on the long walk from Food Lion to eternity? This was impossible. There was no way the operator could know these things. No way she could be like this. You don't get it, do you? Oh, Leo. You poor thing.

Turn around, why don't you? What do you see? I turned around, which faced me back to my couch. And there I was. splayed out and asleep with my pills gone from the nightstand and with my eyes half-lidded. My body twitched in front of me. My eyes fluttered as though straining to open. Had I taken all three of those pills?

Probably. I was a chronic insomniac and had been so ever since Grandpa died. Also, these weren't my normal sleep hours and between the encounter at the checkout line with Jody and expecting the cops to come and arrest me for it, well, I was at my absolute least. limit for stress. I hadn't called 911. I hadn't even called mom or dad. I'd retreated to sleep, where my common sense had told me what to do from unconsciousness. But here, submerged in a startlingly lifelingly lifelike dream scape, I was trapped, as trapped as I had been on grandpa's nursing bed, as helpless as Brent Fisher had been on the wrestling mat.

Do you ever fuck it up? Almost done the right thing. I had thought about calling the cops myself, but then I imagined what they would have said. You want us to post an all-night surveillance crew on a girl you knew in high school because of your freaky-ass medical condition? Get help, son, for yourself. Not that it's any excuse, but I still believe it would have gone that way. Go to hell. I said to the phantom operator, to that part of my subconscious. that seemed to thrive on self-punishment.

I switched her off, paced the floor of my apartment with my head and my hands. I twisted my hands in my hair, wrenching it and knots, trying to wake myself with pain. I howled at the walls, slapped myself, banged my head against the wall, and felt none of it. That's when my front door exploded.

When a body came hurtling through it that would have been thrown by an angry giant. The body was broken, twisted, bones jutting out at the shins and elbows, compound fractures so fresh and knew that they still dripped marrow jelly onto the bright white carpeting of my apartment. Though, the body didn't breathe.

And it wasn't Jody. I didn't know who it was. But it was a young man who might have been hailed and strong had it not look like he'd just been spit out of the presser of a trash compactor. But now, Jody stepped into the room just after him. Perfectly fine, but for the abject's terror being up there. She screamed much more loudly than she had at the grocery store.

But this time, her scream had a word in it, his name. Mike, she still had her phone in her hand, too. As though she'd been talking on the phone whenever the year, young man named Mike had been twisted into a human pretzel and thrown like a Molotov cocktail through my front door. But now, my door was whole, undamaged even. And the body on my floor was gone. Jody was gone too, though I could still make out the fading Doppler effect of her screams, knocking, a fist slamming against my intact door, a muffled voice, police. They'd come out now. They'd come after.

all. Took you long enough, I thought. Eyes finally opening through the fog. I hauled myself up off the couch to answer them. Jody Wilcox had taken my advice. She didn't own a car so she called her boyfriend Mike to come walk her home. Their apartment was closer to the store than mine was. It would have been a 20-minute walk, tops. She'd called the police while they were walking, asking them if someone might not check in on me to make sure I was okay. She was still on the phone when it happened. At the time I'd gotten the eye bleed, maybe it was supposed to be her that got creamed in the bike lane at the corner of Haudley and Prince William Parkway. It definitely would have been her if Mike hadn't lunged into her and pushed her clean off of her feet to roll into the 7-11 parking lot.

Police had met her at the hospital, then gave her an escort to the station. They needed a full recorded account of everything from the moment I'd screamed at her until the unspeakable accident that had taken Mike's life. Coming to see me was no longer time sensitive as they explained, and getting a coherent, if unbelievable story from Jody had been understandably difficult. I wasn't charged. There was nothing to charge me with. They had the drunk driver of an F-150 for that. My inexplicable health condition was easily accessed through records at the same hospital Mike had been taken to, DOA, and the unaccountable same-day deaths of Grandpa and Brent Fisher, though admittedly unnerving, proved nothing. No more than Mike's death did.

Nevertheless, the police made it clear to me over time that they thought it might be a good idea if I moved my cursed ass out of town. I'd understand, they told me, if they thought it necessary to check up on me, look into my doings just to make sure no more tragedies occurred. Sooner or later, I was assured, the story would leak, and who knew what the big brothers of our federal government might want out of me? Could be a lifetime locked up as a lab rat, slowly dissected one piece at a time, until they unlocked the potential uses of whatever I'd been gifted or damned with. Maybe I could even be weaponized.

I didn't want that. Did I? Well, no, I didn't. And I don't. So, naturally, I did what they told me to do. I moved pretty damn far away, too. And I've found myself a nice, remote living situation, where I shouldn't be a problem to anyone.

I've been here a good count of years now, decades, actually. And you know what? No more tragedies. I haven't had any more eye bleeds in front of other people, and no more innocent people have died. Wins all around. I even managed to stay in touch with my parents. I've weaned myself off the Paxil. I sleep almost normally.

Time, as the saying goes, does heal most hurts, no matter how deep they cut or how much they bled when they were new. If I could know just one thing, I'd like to hear Jody Wilcox is doing okay. But she didn't hang around town either. Whatever happened to her, whether she married into a new name or had changed hers, or if she just avoid social media like a sensible person, I'll never know. I like to think she's okay. On balance, I guess I've done all right if you take the long view of things.

My little online business, my fake identity have served me well enough for a long, long time. I've been almost happy. But, you know, life will throw you a curveball every now and again. It started when I was brushing my teeth tonight before bed. Blood in the sink. But not from my mouth. And it's just me, anybody else. I cannot sleep.

I don't have my pills and I don't want to sleep. Never sleep again? 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 2020, by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media.