The NoSleep Podcast - S21 Ep11: NoSleep Podcast S21E11

Episode Date: July 14, 2024

It's Episode 11 of Season 21. Ride the Sleepless Express into tales about deadly dwellings."Crows on the Roof" written by T. Michael Argent (Story starts around 00:03:20)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Kyle Akers"The Eyesore" written by Nikita Gerasymenko (Story starts around 00:23:30)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Erika Sanderson, Shelly - Ash Millman, Miss Murray - Penny Scott-Andrews, Mr. Robertson - Andy Cresswell"Sleep, Empty" written by Matt Tighe (Story starts around 00:46:35)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Gary - Jeff Clement, Mrs. Swainson - Mary Murphy, Young Man - Atticus Jackson, Cashier - Matthew Bradford, Marcy - Nichole Goodnight, Business Lady - Nikolle Doolin, Teenage Girl - Sarah Thomas"The Fog in the Window" written by Joshua Fardon (Story starts around 01:12:10)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Kristen DiMercurio, He - Matthew Bradford, She - Sarah Thomas"The Man on the Ninth Floor" written by R.D. Davidson (Story starts around 01:33:40)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator - Allonté Barakat, Dave - Atticus Jackson"A Facet of That Faceless Death" written by Louis Santiago (Story starts around 02:03:30)Produced by: David CummingsCast: Narrator - Mike DelGaudio"And Still I Fly" written by Em Starr (Story starts around 02:18:30)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Ferdinand - Graham Rowat, She - Nikolle Doolin, You - Nichole GoodnightThis episode is sponsored by:GhostBed - Get ready for the coolest beds in the world! GhostBed provides high-quality & super comfortable award-winning mattresses crafted in the United States and Canada. Get 50% off your purchase by going to GhostBed.com/nosleepClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Joshua FardonClick here to learn more about Louis SantiagoExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"A Facet of That Faceless Death" illustration courtesy of Thea ArnmanAudio 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.

All aboard. Tickets, please. Find your seats. The train will be departing shortly. You're aboard, the sleepless Express. A direct journey into the darkness of the night. There are no sleeping cars available on this train. On this journey, you will experience the horrors found within.

the dark landscapes and endless black tunnels, you will hear things which will leave you frightened and disturbed. And remember, there will be no stops until the very end of the life. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome aboard the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your conductor, David Cummings. As you ride the sleepless express into your nightmares, we recognize that you're also traveling somewhere. And I'm guessing most of you are trying to get home. Yes, home. It's where the heart is, after all.

Your home is your castle, your place of refuge. And while it doesn't matter what type of domicile you reside in, we no longer have to think of a home as being a house. I can hear you asking. A house in this economy? Perhaps that's why for many people, their home is in an apartment. Apartments can be wonderfully cozy. Places where you can live and even work. Room for yourself.

Perhaps a significant other. A pet or two. Lovely places to live. Except for one thing. The other people in the other apartments in your building. Yes, apartment living means living very close to strangers. If you're lucky enough, you become friends with some of them. If you aren't lucky, you start to notice how peculiar they are and how close they live to you. In this episode,

we feature stories about the many disturbing things that can happen in our apartments, our buildings, and the people we see around us, or those things that seek to engage with us in our own living spaces. So we can only hope you get home safely tonight, and if you live in an apartment, double check that you lock the doors, pull the blinds down tight, and hope for a quiet, uneventful evening. And now the train is ready to depart. Your journey into the darkness begins now. In our first tale, we meet a man who has spotted something odd.

From his apartment, he can see the apartment building across the street, and he can see the person who regularly makes his way onto the building's roof. And in this tale, shared with us by author T. Michael Argent, we learn of the reason for the man's adventures up there and how it might be mistaken for being rather bird-brained. Performing this tale is Kyle Acres. So it might be better to mind your own business when you, You realize there are crows on the roof.

I didn't get out much during my first job. I graduated college six months before I started, so I tried to make a good impression by getting as much done as possible every day. By the time I got home, I was too tired to call anyone or go out for drinks. On top of that, I often worked overtime to show my dedication. Consequently, when I did have a free night, I didn't have anyone to enjoy it with. being a workaholic doesn't give you time to make friends. So most of my days off I spent sitting in my apartment watching TV.

It worked for the first few months. I binged all of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural, and Community. But a streaming service can only get you so far. Unable to afford another, I ran out of things to watch. I settled on flipping mindlessly through the cable channels. I'm not sure when I noticed him the first time. likely during one of those endless midnight infomercials. My eyes probably wandered out the window next to the TV.

And there he was, in the apartment across the street. The window he crawled out of was on the corner of the top floor. The lights inside were never on, not even in the mornings when I left for work. The window remained dark and motionless, except for the man's appearance on select nights. It would go like this. I'd be staring at the screen when movement caught. my eye at the opposite window. I'd get up and walk across the room and watch. The man's hands, pale and thin, slipped underneath the sill and pulled the glass up. There was no fire escape or

ledge where he could gain footing. He simply swung his legs out, pulled himself through the gap, and sat there, feet dangling in the night air. Nothing between him and the street ten stories below. What happened next I knew was impossible on some level, but it was hard to dismiss when it was happening right in front of me. The man twisted his body until his feet were planted on the sill and his hands grasped the top of the frame. Then, with one fluid motion, he launched upwards and grabbed the edge of the roof. It didn't look too strange because it happened so quickly,

but inspecting the measurements one day, I realized the distance between the window and the edge was six or seven feet, feet. There was no way he could gain enough momentum to jump and grab it, but he did anyway. Now hanging from the edge with both hands, the man hoisted himself up just as quickly as he jumped from the window. In seconds flat, he was standing on the roof, clothes flapping in the breeze. I'm not sure what he looked like. He was a little too far away to make out any details, but I could tell he had dark hair and the pale skin. He always wore the same black raincoat and boots with silver buckles.

Once he was up there, he stood still for a moment like he was waiting for a signal, then strove confidently to the corner of the roof's edge. With one quick motion, he fanned his arms out straight in a crucified position,

threw his head to the night sky, and cried out. It was the only aspect of his routine I could hear. The noise that erupted from his throat was ear-splittingly loud. Even to me, a street over and behind a pane of glass.

I don't know why I never heard about it on the news. He could have woken the whole block. It wasn't a scream, it wasn't a yell, it was a wholly inhuman sound, distorted and echoey, like a bird being strangled. The crows came after that. While a man made his call, they swooped up and flew from the taller buildings, the trees on the sidewalks, and other farther off sections of the city. They flew against the night sky like dark ghosts, flapping their wings as they lit in the

air above him. Once about 20 arrived, they began a sort of cycle, flying in a strange, compact pattern only a few feet above the man's head. Suddenly the man stopped his call and snapped his head back down. In the same instant, the crows stopped their vortex above him. They flew up one last time and then flapped lazily down to land on his shoulders, where the ground at his feet. He walked towards the door that led back into the apartments, the birds following him. He opened it. He opened it. held it open slightly for the ones on the ground to come in and shut it. The roof was quiet after that, like he was never there at all. On the nights he was, nothing could deter him.

November brought cold rain and December brought snow, but the ritual never changed. I can't begin to describe the questions this man brought up. Who was he? Was that his apartment he crawled out of? How did he train the crows to come when he called? Were they the same ones every time? What did he do after he went back into the building? His presence became a component of my routine,

not as a static part, but a sporadic thing that confused and interested me in equal measure. I would whittle whole nights away, staring at that dark window, waiting for him to come out of it. Sometimes he did. Sometimes he didn't. On the nights he appeared, I went to work tired and half asleep in the morning.

This went on for six years. six or seven months before my curiosity finally got the better of me. All those questions burned in the back of my mind. I thought my commitment to work would prevent me from finding out anything, but then Memorial Day weekend rolled around. The whole office closed. For the first time in months, I had an entire weekday off to myself. I knew what I was going to do. That day, I waited until the afternoon. I didn't turn on the TV, make breakfast or read. I just sat in my chair, watching the windows for any sign of movement inside. When three hours passed, I grabbed my coat and started down the stairs.

My heart thumped rapidly. I left the lobby and stared at the opposite building as I crossed the street. It was an old brick monstrosity with gothic-style windows. Somehow those familiar ones in the corner seemed darker than the rest. Luckily, a woman came out the front door as I walked up. I slipped in behind her, finding myself in the small cluttered lobby. The dusty tiled floors and dying potted plants made it seem like no one lived there. An out-of-order sign hung up on the single elevator door.

The stairs were to the right, carpeted and dark emerald. I climbed them slowly. My heart beating faster than before. It surprised me how quiet the building was. Noises disappeared, the higher I went. The voices behind closed doors faded away. The sounds of traffic outside disappeared. even my own footsteps were muffled.

The top hallway was dingy and lit by yellowing wall sconces. On the table near the landing sat evasive flowers, dry and wilted with dead petals scattered around. I turned and knew instantly which door it was. It sat at the end of the hallway, ajar as if waiting for me. Mechanically, I started towards it, passing the other silent apartments. I don't know what I expected when I slowly pushed the door open. but it wasn't what I saw. Here was a small living room, covered with dust, silent as a tomb.

There was no furniture or anything on the walls. It was all on the floor. I couldn't look at everything at once. A large variety of objects were spread in a layer across the room. They were placed in such a careful and geometric way. I knew it was intentional. In one corner, hundreds of beads of every color imaginable. spiraled this way and that.

In another, buttons had been placed in neat rows by size. A collection of mismatched earrings glinting in the muted sunlight that came through the dusty windows lay against the far wall. Nuts, bolts, screws, nails, small branches, pebbles, and other small objects' crows could fit in their beaks stretched to every corner. There were two exceptions to the neat, orderly fashion of treasures. The first was a path. devoid of objects, about two feet wide, starting right at the door and winding amongst everything,

before branching off and stopping at both a built-in closet on the left wall in that familiar window. The other was a plethora of crow feathers, black as crude oil, laying randomly in different spots around the room. It wasn't the small trinkets that bothered me. It was the collection of bones that sat near the window. The closer to the wall the collection went, the larger they were. got. The front ones were small and brittle, like they belonged to birds or mice. But beyond that, there were larger bones. There were cat or dog-sized. The crowning point of the set, leaning in the corner by itself, was a human femur. I became aware of a heavy breathing noise coming from

somewhere in the room. I looked toward the built-in closet on the left wall. The other various doors in the apartment were closed. The objects had a sense of otherworldly, to them, like they had been forgotten by time and were never meant to be found. I felt wrong to look at them. I decided I'd had enough. I had my answer. I certainly didn't want to stick around and find out what's in the closet. Just as I turned to leave, I saw a crow land in the sill of that familiar window. I stopped in my tracks. It cocked its head for a moment as if puzzled by my presence. It gave a small flap of its wings, then cawed loudly without warning. The sudden noise caused me to step back in alarm.

My foot collided with a row of beads, destroying the careful pattern and sending them sprawling. The crow cawed frantically, pecking at the glass and flapping its wings harder. The breathing noise from the closet stopped, and I heard something shifting inside. I ran out the door and down the hallway, not daring to look back. I took the steps down two at a time, almost slipping and tumbling down them. My mind raced, and for a brief second I thought I heard. a second set of steps descending behind me.

I was sure that if I turned around, I would see the man in his raincoat bearing down on me, screeching that strangled bird cry, ready to wrap his hands around my neck. But nothing happened. I raced out of the lobby and across the street to my own building. I didn't stop until I locked my door behind me. My heart beat a thousand miles an hour in my chest, hammering so hard I thought it would burst. I felt voyeuristic and unclean, like I had disturbed a place that was not meant.

to be seen. I spent the rest of the night flipping through channels. Every so often I looked across the street trying to catch movement. But there was nothing. No one even walked in front of the windows. No crows flew around the building. As day turned to evening, I tried to put the afternoon's events out of my mind. Maybe there wasn't anyone in there after all. The ducts in that building had to be ancient. It was probably air passing through them that I had heard. Even if that man was inside, he couldn't possibly have seen me before I fled. I went to bed that night shaken, but secure. It had been a mistake to investigate, but it was over now. I met a mental note to buy curtains for the window next to the TV. As I slipped off, a sense of calm overtook me some hours later to a tapping

noise coming from behind my closed bedroom door. Half asleep, I momentarily thought it was from a dream before the sound became more incessant and irritating. I grogly got out of bed and walked across the room. The previous day's events completely forgotten. What I saw beyond the door snapped me awake. A crow sat on the sill outside, tapping at the glass. Its feathers were so black I could only make out its gray beak as it collided with the pain. All the blood drained from my face.

I ran across the room and began banging on the window trying to scare it away. This only made it angrier. causing it to tap more fiercely. I took a step back and nearly tripped over the shoes I had kicked off the previous afternoon. The right one rolled over, and I saw it. A bead, crimson in color and shining in the moonlight, was caught in a ridge of the soul. I must have stepped on it in my haste to leave the apartment.

When I looked up again, I noticed the bird tapped at the corner of the window, in the direction of the bead. I looked up beyond the crow in the foreground of my vision. across the street the man in the raincoat stood on the roof and faced a new direction directly towards me there are more crows than ever now

two on his shoulders and all the others at his feet surrounding him like a black rug they stared at me as well their beady eyes boring into mine I felt the world slip away I heard a sharp crack and saw the tip of the crow at my window's beak just beginning to poke through the glass

my vision swam and I sank to the floor, unconscious. It was still dark out when I came to. Cloud covering my vision cleared. From somewhere in the room, I heard a soft thump. I put my hands to the carpet and pulled myself up, leaning back into a sitting position. The man in the raincoat was at the window, slipping through it like an eel. A crow stood on the carpet below him, hopping from foot to foot among shards of broken glass. As I watched, he did his routine like I had seen him do so many times. He did. before. In one fluid motion, he went from sitting on the sill to being crouched on it, grasping the frame. He glared at me, grinning humorlessly. It was only then I realized

his eyes were black and beady, with no trace of white in them at all, just like a crow's. Keeping one hand on the frame, he brought the other down to his lips and put a finger to them. Then, so quickly I barely registered it, he leapt out and grabbed the edge of the roof outside. pulling himself up and out of sight. I was paralyzed. Some time passed. I'm not sure how long before that familiar strangled cry echoed directly above. So loud it seemed to bear down on me.

It wrapped me up in its cacophony and slowly drained my consciousness until the world was dark again. I bolted instantly awake in the morning. My eyes shot to the window. It was still open. A cool breeze drifting lazily through it. I put my arms behind me and began to sit up, only to feel my hand come down on something. It was only then I surveyed the space around me. All of the objects in the man's apartment lay on my living room floor, neatly placed into rows and spiraling designs.

Every inch of carpet was covered except where I had laid where I blacked out. The beads glinted in the mid-morning sun. The buttons were organized by size and shape. In the corner by my bookshelf I saw a familiar pile of bones And suddenly I became aware of something in my mouth It was dry and leathery Completely devoid of moisture I brought my hand up and grasped at the thing pulling it out

It was a long black feather It took me a few hours to gather everything into bags And throw them in the dumpster behind my building The next night I lay awake in bed Flinching at every sound that came from outside my bedroom door I thought for sure it was the man, coming back to claim all his treasures only to find them gone. I never saw him again. I lived in that building another three months before moving across town.

Every night I checked to make sure the apartment across the street remained dark. It always was. I suppose I'll never be able to explain what happened or what it all meant. Truth be told, I don't really want to. I've mostly put the incident behind me, or at least I've tried. ever since that day when I see crows in the city they'll stop whatever they're doing if they're flying they'll find a place to land

if they're pecking at some trash on the ground they'll stop if they're cawing at one another they'll fall silent all activity will stop then they turn their beady eyes to me and stare no matter how fast I walk by or how little I pay attention their gaze never leaves until I'm out of sight sometimes they fly away afterwards

disappearing a mile the skyscrapers. I can only hope they're not bringing messages to someone. When you consider all the various odd characters you could share an apartment building with, you might feel more comfortable realizing that everyone has busy lives and they don't really concern themselves much with you. So why do we concern ourselves with others? You see, in this tale, shared with us by author, Nikita Garasamenco, we meet Shelley, and Shelley meet Shelly meets Miss Murray. And there's something about Miss Murray that makes Shelley want to keep an eye on her.

Performing this tale are Erica Sanderson, Ash Millman, Penny Scott Andrews, and Andy Cresswell. So don't be nosy. Don't interfere. It shouldn't matter to you how anyone looks, even with the eyesore. Shelley clambered up her sixth flight of stairs. Four more to go. She sighed. The elevator was out again. She knew the exercise was good for her. It was a conscious decision. Constant elevator breakdowns were a way to cram an extra bit of physical activity into her

lifestyle. Of course, it also lowered her rent considerably. Not everyone wanted to live on the 10th floor with stairs frequently being the only way up or down, even with a view as wonderful as her apartment offered. The view was the main reason she wanted to live here. There were no other tall buildings nearby, and she had an unobstructed view from her bedroom out onto the whole town. Not from her living room, though. There the view was blocked by an ugly fire escape. Even if it hadn't been obstructed, she preferred looking west over the city rather than north over some barren hills. Just two more flights remained.

She knew in the long run living here was a good decision. She also knew the deep burn in her thighs was a sign of health. But in the moment, she still hated herself. She hated the stairs, too, and she hated that damn elevator most of all. Hello, dear. Shelley looked up just in time to see her next-door neighbor pass by on her way down the stairs. The dark sunglasses she never took off caught the reflection of the setting sun through the stairwell window. Shelley remembered she had, once again, forgotten to pass by the sunglasses store on her way home.

Her eyes have been feeling irritated lately. maybe because it was the early summer and the sun was particularly dazzling. It was probably also the reason for the excessive amount of nighttime headaches as of late. Fortunately, a glass of red wine was enough to take the edge off. Miss Marie, how are you? Shelly didn't really expect an answer. Miss Murray rarely stopped to chat. She was always headed somewhere, a busy woman.

Shelly hoped that by the time she was in her late 50s, she too had enough energy and purpose to rush her. round, although Miss Murray lived alone, which wasn't part of Shelley's plans. Finally, she was on her floor. She propped her bag of groceries on the wall separating her door from Miss Murray's and fumbled with her keys. Her heavy breathing was making it harder to pick out the correct one. Once inside, she unpacked her bag. She emptied the remains of the bottle of wine from her fridge into a glass. With half a drink in hand, she trudged to her bedroom to enjoy one of the perks of her apartment, the mesmerizing sunset.

She made herself cozy in the armchair she liked to read in, and focused her attention on the dwindling rays of her cosmic parent. She completely understood why ancient peoples worshipped the sun. Shelley wasn't religious, but the sun undeniably shared quite a few traits with a white-bearded man sitting in an armchair observing the humans from the skies. It too watched over them like a father, a vigilant eyeball. of flame. The noise startled Shelley. She sighed and adjusted her hold on the wine glass. Her fluffy new carpet almost became a casualty of Miss Murray's thudding. It was unfortunately a

fairly common occurrence. Every once in a while, Shelley would hear a pounding coming from the apartment next door, sometimes proceeded by a shuffle of footsteps. At first, Shelley thought it could be the angry sounds of swatting at flies or some such. But no fly swatter made that heavier a sound. Besides, the banging persisted all year round, and insects were scarce during winter. She'd asked the third remaining tenant on the 10th floor, the owner of the whole building, Mr Robertson, about the noise. He said he could hear it too. He told her the first time he'd heard it he'd rushed next door thinking Miss Murray had fallen over and hurt herself. Except she'd answered the door looking her usual self, even wearing her dark shades, and offered him a cup of tea.

When he'd asked about the loud noise, her response was, What noise? He told Shelley he'd gotten used to the banging and didn't even hear it anymore. So Shelley too did her best to ignore the sounds. But it wasn't always easy. The sounds didn't bother her, not really. But the nightmares that followed practically every instance of banging did, or rather a single recurring nightmare.

Shelley dreamt she was being watched, someone peeking through her window and watching her as she slept. Only the upper part of the face was visible as a shadow, shrouded in darkness. The only thing discernible was a single, unblinking, piercing blue eye. Sometimes Shelley could make out wisps of hair, lightly flowing in the air, unnaturally, as if each wisp had a mind of its own. The being would appear not only from under her bedroom window, but from the left and right edges,

even from the upper portion, defying gravity and making it even crue. creepier. Shelly always woke up, drenched in sweat. Instead of feeling refreshed, she felt fatigued, like she'd stayed up all night. A shower, a cup of coffee and a healthy breakfast did wonders after such nights. When the nightmare had only just begun repeating, she tried closing the curtains. With no view of the outside, Shelley felt a little claustrophobic, but it would have been worth it if the nightmare left her alone. That night, she dreamt of something skittering erratically across her curtained window. After a while it stopped. Not long after, she heard a loud thud from her living room. Then the same skittering again, now across her living room floor, becoming

louder and louder as it scurried closer. Shelly couldn't see what it entered her room, but she remembered a familiar feeling enveloping her. She was being watched, and it was far more intense. She struggled to move and wake up to no avail. She lay there, helpless. until dawn. Once her immobility had faded, she sat up in bed. She was wet and shivering. Her pillow and bed sheets were soaked through. She stood up and promptly sat back down, her head spinning.

The second attempt a few minutes later was more successful. In the bathroom, she saw herself in the mirror. Dark bags under each of her brown eyes, both bloodshot, sunken cheeks, pale skin. She looked like she'd lost a few kilos over. night. Even her bright blonde hair looked dull and grey. She felt even worse than she looked. Empty, weak, powerless. She took her temperature expecting a fever, but it was 35.4 degrees Celsius instead. She called in sick and spent the day under warm covers and copious amounts of hot soup. She figured the horrible nightmare and sleep paralysis were triggered by some insect or small

animal that had got into her apartment via the window in her living room, and her overly imaginative brain filled in the rest. After that night, she never shut her curtains again. Shelly made her way to the kitchen, set on having an extra drink or two. She found it sometimes helped with her nightmares, except she had no more wine. She looked at the time. She could still make it. The mini market around the corner was still open. She grabbed her keys, stuck her feet into a pair of trainers and slammed the door behind her. She threw a futile glance towards the dead elevator and began her trek downstairs. Half an hour later she was back. Her thighs were burning again. She could feel and hear her heart pounding. Her breathing was hard and deep. It drowned out any outside sounds. She was fumbling with her keys

when she hit something hard with her head. The something tumbled to the floor. Shelley barely managed to keep herself upright by grabbing onto the wall for balance. The something turned out to be Miss Murray. She was sitting on her bottom, leaning backwards onto her hands. Her skirts were a jumbled mess. Her sunglasses. They were lying on the floor. Shelly's whole body tensed up. Her eyes widened. She felt a whole form inside her chest into which her heart seemingly fell. She felt a vast, empty coldness. Her eyes. Miss Murray's eyes. They weren't there. Instead, Shelly saw two gaping hollow holes. Both holes went deep into her skull. The walls were fleshy and pink. They secreted a viscous pus which glistened with a slightly yellow tinge. It pulled at the bottom of each hole. Blood vessels covered the interior. She could see them pulse steadily. Finally, Shelley let go of the bag with the wine to cover her mouth. A loud clang echoed around the room. The bottle rolled to a stop by Shelley's door. The tension broke.

Miss Murray scrambled to her feet with remarkable agility and shots towards her door. Within seconds, she was already inside. Shelley remained frozen in shock. What? What had she seen? There's no way that was real. Dazed, she gathered her keys in wine and entered her apartment. She stood by the door collecting her thoughts.

She must have imagined that. How could that possibly be real? Can a person be alive with holes in their head? Wouldn't it get infected and kill the person? Was that what the pus was? She shuddered at the memory. No. No way.

Miss Murray didn't act blind. She could see. Sure, it was weird wearing sunglasses all the time, but she behaved like a normal person. It must have been that wine Shelley drank. It must have gone bad in the fridge or something. Bad wine can make people see things, right? Shelly walked to the kitchen table and picked up her glass.

She sniffed it cautiously. It smelled ordinary. She stuck it in the sink. She uncorked the new bottle and held it, the liquid inside teetering over a fresh glass. A moment of hesitation. Should she? Screw it.

She filled the glass to the brim. She held it up at eye level. She enjoyed the rich purple colour, but it failed to still her internal turmoil. She took an enormous gulp. Hopefully that would. The pang of dizziness a mere few minutes later reminded Shelley that she hadn't eaten yet. She busied herself preparing food.

It demanded all of her focus and she gave it gladly. A distraction mixed with wine was a great recipe for ease of mind and Shelley was quickly getting over the horrifying scene with Miss Murray. It was pushed to the back of her mind. Doubts were creeping in to cover its place. It must have been some trick of the life. or her mind had played a trick on her, an hallucination. She was probably light-headed from running up and down ten flights of stairs, like how people saw spots when they were exerting

themselves physically. Except, instead of spots, Shelley saw something unthinkable. Her full stomach and a second, or was it, third glass, brought Shelley comfortably back to sanity and composure. Once the banging started again, she didn't even flinch. The noise persisted for long than usual. It seemed the source was right up against the shared wall of their apartments as well, whatever it was. Should she knock on Miss Murray's door to see if everything was all right? The thought immediately brought back a flash of Miss Murray's eyeless face. Shelly shivered. No, she'd stay inside tonight. But there was a way to check up on Miss Murray, and she wouldn't even notice. Shelly could sneak out onto the fire escape outside her living room window and quietly

peek into the next-door apartment. She would see that Miss Murray was perfectly fine and come back inside to her wine and her book. She sherry sprung to her feet. She tiptoed to the window. Racing herself against the glass, she slid it open as slowly and softly as possible. Then, like a cat, she pounced outside through the window, lounging on all fours. Luckily the building was new and the metal hadn't had the time to rust and become creaky yet. She turned towards her neighbour's window and inched forward until she could see inside. She saw a tidy, well-furnished living room, a plush sofa by the wall further away, a large easel by the shared wall.

The walls were covered with paintings, weird, creepy, surrealist paintings. There were portraits of different animals fused into one. An elephant whose feet were those of a penguin, its trunk morphed into a fish tail. An ostrich on eight spider legs. The end of its long neck had attached to it the face of some insect. Enormous compound eyes, bristly antennae, and a long protruding sucking mouthpart. The nest behind it contained giant round eyeballs instead of eggs. Shelley's whole body clumped up. This wasn't at all what she was expecting to see inside an old lady's apartment. Other paintings were more gruesome. A yellow dog with hoofed feet was lying on its side.

Its neck was long like a giraffe's, and it curled all the way around its body towards its belly. The belly was enlarged as if pregnant and had a perfectly round hole in it. Through that hole, a neat pile of intestines seemed to have fallen out, which the dog was lapping up. Many more such grotesque horrors filled with the room. They disturbed Shelley. Even through the dullness of the alcohol, she felt incredibly unsettled. Some of the paintings were on the floor, prop. against walls and furniture, probably newer paintings. Some of them were further repulsive abominations,

but others were pictures of people. Those were not as detailed. They were unfocused and drawn with broad brushstrokes. It was hard to make out the minutiae, but they were of people sitting on sofas watching TV, people sitting behind kitchen tables eating, people in their beds sleeping. Shelley finally noticed Miss Murray. She was sitting upright on the floor, facing the sofa. Her legs were split, one in front, one behind. One arm was raised to her face covering it. The other was stretched out behind her at an unnatural angle, twitching slightly.

The leg behind her flailed wildly for a moment. It smacked the floor with surprising force. Shivers travelled down Shelley's back, wave after wave. She wanted to crawl back into her apartment and get blackout drunk, in hopes of forgetting what she saw. But she couldn't move. She couldn't even avert her gaze. The hand covering Miss Murray's face twitched violently,

and for a second, Shelly saw a bulb as something on her face. A moment later, the hand twitched downwards and hit the floor with a thundering thump. On her face, a milky white blob was pulsating slowly. It was double the size of a fist and had many tiny tentacles. Some were waving around in the air. Others were taught, suckered onto the face. With each pulse, the mass sank deeper and deeper into the gaping eye sockets. Shelley gasped,

realising she had made a noise, she instantly grasped her mouth with her hand and held it tightly shut. The white blob stopped pulsating. It rotated. A bright, penetrating blue iris looked straight at Shelley. Shelly fell backwards. She could no longer see into the apartment. This seemed to break the spell. She scrambled back in through her window, no longer caring about how much noise she made. She slammed the window shut and locked it. She ran to her front door and locked that as well. Frantically, she looked around the room. She grabbed the knife she had used to make dinner and rushed to her bedroom, locking the door behind her. She locked the windows here as well. She dove into her bed and hid under the sheets. She didn't know what to do. The cocktail of terror and alcohol made her thoughts slosh around against her skull. Should she call the police?

Call her dad? Scream and hope the neighbours came? What if that made things worse? Should she run? She couldn't. There was absolutely no way she'd take a step outside her door. She sat against the wall with her feet to her chest. Only her eyes and the hand clutching the knife remained above the sheets, both white with fear.

Her heart pounded in her ears. Her whole body trembled uncontrollably. Shelley remained motionless until a few hours past sunrise. No banging. No noise of any kind. Was she safe? She had survived the night. She'd been gathering courage for hours.

It was time to go have a look. She couldn't stay locked in her room forever. She finally relaxed her grip. The knife clattered to the floor. She massaged her hand as she paced back and forth across her room. Pins and needles enveloped her everywhere from having been so tense all night long. Lost in thought, she didn't know what to do. She couldn't live here anymore that she was certain of.

But what could she do? And how would she avoid that gut-wrenching horror? She needed to get away from here. But what if there were others? What if there were other things like this out there? Was she going to flinch whenever she saw someone with sunglasses? With the knife back in her grasp, She walked up to her bedroom door and froze.

She listened intently for any noise. Silence. She unlocked her door and opened it, holding her weapon at the ready. She examined her living room carefully. It appeared unchanged. Relief flooded her body as she let out a heavy sigh. She grabbed her handbag and made a quick round of the apartment, throwing in the absolute necessities.

She shoved the hand with the blade into the handbag. She couldn't walk around outside, a kitchen knife, but she was damned if she took a single step past the neighbouring door without protection, assuming a knife could even be considered protection against that monstrous thing. She leaned her ear against the front door and waited. After about 15 minutes of silence, she felt safe enough to open the door. She turned the key and slowly opened the door. She stuck her head out and glanced up and down the corridor quickly. She took a shaky step outside, ready to jump back at any sign of of trouble. She gave the neighbouring door as wide a berth as she could, not letting it out of her

sight, not daring to turn her back to it. She knocked on Mr Robertson's door. The door swung open. Good morning, Shelley. I'm letting you know I'm moving out. Today. Shelley glanced over her shoulder. Oh? His eyes narrowed as he looked Shelley up and down. She was vaguely aware that she must look exhausted and dishevelled, but it didn't matter. her. Mr Robertson appeared not to notice, or simply chose not to comment. You two, is everything all right? Huh? Yes. Why? Who else is leaving? Why, your neighbour, Miss Murray. She came by earlier this morning.

Shelley's heart sank to her feet. She told me she'd be moving out later this week, sooner she's packed. She's sort of complained about nosy neighbours. You have any idea what that's about? You know, she wasn't wearing her sunglasses today. Shelly tightened her grip around the knife in her handbag. I don't think I've ever seen her without her sunglasses. I wonder why she hides her eyes. Have you seen her eyes, Shelly? What? What did they look like? They were so much. pretty. She really shouldn't hide them. They were a very pleasant light blue. You know, kind of like yours, actually. He peered into Shelley's eyes, shifting his gaze between each eye every

few seconds. I usually notice these kinds of things. Funny how for so long I failed to notice both my neighbours had such captivating eyes. Goodbye, Mr Robertson. I'll send movers to pick up my things later. They'll leave the keys. Shelley turned around. She was so tense her legs turned to wood. Her knees wouldn't bend properly. She stumbled awkwardly past the two doors.

Sheised up somewhat on the stairs, her body slowly settling into a steady rhythm. By the time she arrived on the ground floor, she felt the usual healthy burn in her thighs, but also an unusual burn. One in her eyes. Shelley was paying the toll for the previous night and the sun, it was particularly dazzling.

The rays of light were like spears penetrating through the tender soreness of her eyes. Shelley headed straight to the sunglasses store. As much as I hate to admit it, I can agree that restful sleep is important. Deep sleep, core sleep, REM sleep, we need it all to keep ourselves working properly. Just ask, give it. Gary, who will meet in this tale, shared with us by author Matt Ty. You see, one of Gary's neighbors has a strange request. A request Gary should think twice about agreeing to.

Performing this tale are Jeff Clement, Mary Murphy, Atticus Jackson, Matthew Bradford, Nicole Goodnight, Nicole Doolin, and Sarah Thomas. So, fine, get some sleep if you have to, but... make it good sleep. The last thing you want is to sleep empty. I dream of falling. There is fear as the air rushes by and surrender tinted with the darkest exhilaration. There may be an end and there may have been a beginning, but for now there is only the falling. It fills me. And then I jerk awake in the dark. For a moment, I still hear the roar of the air and the thud of my heart, throwing itself against its cage.

I gripped the edges of my bed. It was only a dream. The thudding fades, and as the dream recedes a little as well, and the lethargy of interrupted sleep floods in, there is another sound. It takes longer than it should to place it, here on the edge of waking, and in the slowest part of night. there is someone at the door. The apartment is full of dark outlines and contrary memories, and I barked my shin on the side table

and stub my toe on something hard before I even think to turn on the light. The knocking comes again, slow, deliberate, at odds with the early hour. It is too loud, a sharp shock running through the building's quiet. I don't expect anything good. Half awake, though I am, I still remember to very quietly place my eye to the peephole. I'm still fuzzy, and now my toe is throbbing. But I recognize my visitor. Old Mrs. Swainson from down the hall is no threat.

There must be something wrong. I open the door and blink against the harsh corridor light. My neighbor does not say anything. She is tiny, a diminution. of shape, almost lost inside her gray robe, and she is wearing pink hippopotamus-shaped slippers. Her hair is a halo of gray frizz. Are you okay, Mrs. Swainson? I'm still trying to shake off that feeling of falling. She's staring upwards. The lights overhead are bright, and I can hear a slight buzzing, one of those low sounds that slinks out and takes over such spaces.

in quiet times. I squint up as well, and then around at nothing, and then back at her. She lowers her face very slowly until she's looking right at me. I almost step back and close the door in one sweeping motion. I stop myself, though. Mrs. Swainson is old and confused, and she's standing in the corridor in her robe and ridiculous slippers, and despite what I see, I like her. I always have.

She always seemed like she had weathered the years of apartment building living without becoming too hard or too brittle or too strange. Until now. Her eyes are a mess now that I see them properly. They're badly bloodshot and so sunken that the skin underneath them is a horrible, soft purple. The skin around them has sagged as well, and her gaze is hot, as if she's so full of fever, it's melting her face. I have never seen someone so tired. And Gary, you are full.

She sways a little as she speaks. Her voice is soft, and she looks around again, her eyes lingering on the walls, the floor, the hall. My hand tightens on the doorframe. Mrs. Swainson suddenly focuses on me again. Her sagging features intense. Have what? I ask on reflex. And then...

Are you okay? Can I call someone? Mrs. Swainson leans forward. Your dreams. Can I have them? I pull away. I should close the door, or I should call someone.

I should do something. She pulls back slightly at my movement and then starts to cry softly, her head hanging low. She makes a little whining noise as well that at first I think is part of the buzzing of the lights. The sounds overlap in my head, the buzzing and the whining.

Hey, I say, not wanting to say anything, not wanting to be there at all, but not knowing what else to do. Hey, you can. Sure you can. It's nonsense. This is all nonsense and maybe worse. Maybe an old lady losing her mind.

But as I speak, I think of that falling dream. I have others. Sure I do. Just like everyone. Fragments and oh-so-real scenes and trumpeting sequences of both high, embarrassed. But the falling one, I hate. As soon as I speak, she stops crying. She looks up at me, but she doesn't smile.

Her sunken, dark eyes are steady in her sagging, melting face. The buzz of the lights is low and insistent. She doesn't look crazy or muddled now. She just looks tired. I'm sorry. She starts to shuffle backwards. I am exhausted. I stop at the little cafe on the corner like usual,

but today I ask for a double espresso, even though I think maybe it won't help. I drink it quickly, my mind full of the night before. The hours after Mrs. Swainson's appearance had been, strangely, the best sleep I had in a long, long time. deep and dark and overflowing with nothing. And yet, I am exhausted. It is a thing to think about as I drink my bitter coffee and walk the middling distance to work.

Sometimes my early hours are broken and restless, my mind pushing itself away from dream fragments and towards waking worry. It is a malady I am sure I share with many, but the hours after Mrs. Swainson's visit had been different. I do not ascribe those few hours of dreamless slumber to the old lady's odd request. Of course not. Although there is always something to be said for suggestion, or self-suggestion. But even so, last night when I should have been restless,

disturbed by Swainson's sagging, haggard face, or the image of her shuffling off down the, the corridor in her ridiculous slippers, I had slept. It had been as still and empty as bottomless, lightless water, but it had not refreshed. Instead, I am so very, very tired. I think again of Mrs. Swainson, her sunken and bruised eyes, and the sagging skin of her face as the lights buzzed overhead. The espresso does not help.

I leave work early. I'm too tired to crunch numbers. Adding digits, even using the fill function in the spreadsheet, is too much on top of the Herculane effort of keeping my eyes open. The only thing that stops me dozing is the image of Swainson with her drooping, aged face and her quiet crying as she stands in the hallway. I can't stop seeing her. I can't stop hearing her.

I am walking slowly down the street when I realize I'm cold. I've been cold for several blocks, actually, but I've forgotten my jacket. Maybe at work, although I cannot recall. I hug myself, but I do not turn back. The cold has worked its way into my brain, and for a moment, moment I'm feeling more than half there, almost awake. I slip into a convenience store and buy a piping hot black coffee. As I stand near the machine, sipping it, breathing the bitterness in deep. I hear the door open and someone come in. Can I have them? I take a large gulp of my coffee

and surprise. It burns, but the pain brings focus, cutting through the remaining fog in my head. There is a reply, something from the cashier that I don't catch, although the tone is dismissive. I take the few steps towards the counter needed to clear my view. It is not Mrs. Swainson. Of course not. There is a young man standing at the counter, leaning on the counter, pressing into it, really. All I can see is the back of a dirty denim jacket and untidy brown hair. Despite the chill outside, I can smell the man, drying rancid sweat mixed with the bitter aroma of the brew in my hand.

You are so fool! My hand shakes so hard I spill hot coffee on my wrist. Get out of here! The cashier is young too, and wide-eyed, a threat of panic running his words together. I'm sick of this. I'll call the coffee. Go! The young man leaning on the counter writes himself very slowly, as if he is trying to remember how to move.

He turns. He is thin and very pale, and his eyes are sunken and dark. There is dirt on his face. He pivots his head slowly, left and right, before settling on me. He looks confused. He shuffles to the door. I stare at the closing door, the coffee cooling in my mouth, and then I turn back to the cashier. That's the third one today.

I don't register the words properly. For a moment I don't feel tired. I don't feel slow or foggy at all. The sight of the cashier cuts through my dazed mind. I stare, and the cashier stares back, suddenly wary. They are so real, so vibrant, so full. I take a step forward. I swallow and open my mouth,

and then I realize what I am about to say, to ask. I leave instead in a shuffle that feels like a run. It is far harder than it should be not to look back at the cashier as I go. Gary? Gary? The voice cuts through the fog, and I jerk upright. I have a moment of utter confusion as I stare at my work desk. The bright computer screen is filled with a spreadsheet that screams in bright white,

and the little mug I put my pencils in exists at the far end of a lengthening, gyrating tunnel. Perhaps it is the cashier speaking. Maybe I am in the convenience store. I look around, blearily. The voice speaks again. A chipper, happy, grading voice. Earth to Gary!

I ask the word in general. I don't remember the evening after the convenience store. I don't remember getting to work again on what seems to be another day. I don't recall working either, although the glaring spreadsheet is half done. I think of pink slippers, shaped like hippos, of cashiers and the smell of drying sweat. Are you okay? The same question I had asked Mrs. Swainson. I turn, and the world of the office revolves slowly around me,

some sort of slow, vertiginous ride I had not meant to get on. I have always hated that loopy, loose feeling of coast. and tilt-a-wurls. That feeling of disconnect, of no control, almost like falling, almost like a dream. A face appears, pale, narrow features framed by red hair, all of it floating above a sensible gray knee-length dress. The face frowns and looms over me, swelling to fill my vision, and then pulling back. I stare, unable to think of what else to do. Marcy, I ask, finally.

My tongue is thick. Are you okay, Gary? The woman's eyes flick to my screen. In the zone, eh? My brain swinging on a pendulum, cresting a ride. My brain falling. She frowns at me. Are you okay?

You look tired. Yeah. The room finally steadies, and Marcy's face stops lurching towards me. Bad dreams. I don't know why I said that. I don't really know Marcy. Or maybe I do. I'm not sure.

I could have easily said I didn't sleep well, but that is not true. I have been sleeping, deeply, sleeping without dreams. Maybe my mind is so foggy. There was a cashier, a woman in pink slippers, buzzing lights.

I remember surfacing from somewhere deep, walking slowly to bright morning light, surfacing unsatisfied. Marcy Nond. and her red hair shifts and sways. I blink slowly. She is so real, so there. I think of the cashier, vibrant, full.

What are you trying to work through? She grins as she says it, and I try to parse her words. Maybe a joke. I don't get it, but I'm not sure if it's my grinned. groginess, or just the strangeness of words falling from one person towards another. Such a strange thing, words. Pieces of thought. Broken.

You know what I mean. Now she's frowning a little, and I wonder if I've done something wrong. Dreams are a way of processing things. A reset, kind of. Your brain sifting out detritus, getting you ready for the next. drown. That's what they say anyway. Oh. I think of Swainson.

Is that who this woman means when she says they? A they who knows about dreams. Sometimes I dream of falling. We all have that one, Gary. The woman, Marcy, I think maybe that is her name.

shrugs and turns to go. I watch her. She must have dreams. I am sure she is so full. I want to ask, but she is gone. I wake in the dark. I reach out for the light by my bed, but my hand finds nothing.

I try to breathe and can't remember what that. That is. The world is gone, flooded by a spinning, empty blackness, within which float small, shining pieces. A cashier looks at me in near panic. Pink slippers step under buzzing lights. A red-headed woman looms in front of me, talking of falling, talking of dreams.

She is so full. so full and it is not fair i sit up no i am already sitting up i breathe finally i do not know i do not know where i am my mind fumbles the darkness stretches out and all around i must have slept i should sleep i should sleep But it is so empty there. I close my eyes. The light burns and I groan. My eyes are so heavy. I force them open and the world tilts around me. I bend forward grasping the edges of the couch.

It is morning already and I'm sweating through my clothes, drenched in my own reek from the day before. Next to me is a half-empty container of Thai food, congealed. My eyes are gummy, and when I stand, the world tilts even more, threatening to slide away. All I want is rest, but my sleep is deep and dark and empty, and not anything that can help. I am so empty, and I need to be full. The cashier was full Marcy

was floppy of my building I am on the street I am at an intersection There is a steaming cup of coffee in my hand But as I raise it to my lips The world spins and swoops away Like a bird Like the wind

Like a dream The cup falls to the The ground and the dull brown liquid runs across the concrete. I have them. I hear it for the first time, for the thousandth time. It takes a second. It takes forever. To raise my head and look towards the voice.

It is like falling, but I am still. There is a woman, a woman in a business suit. Her hair blowing about, strands flailing for purchase against nothing. Her face is melted. Her face sags. Tired and purplish under her red eyes. She is talking to a teenage girl. The teenage girl laughs and spins away, spins and falls across the intersection without falling.

A graceful, impossible dance. The girl laughs to images of herself that are all about her. Fractured reflections, moving in unison, moving away, either faces as they go. Mocking, frightened, spinning smiles, and screams and frowns. A soul. Her swooping, mocking, fearful friends are so the business lady just not move. The business lady is empty. I look down at my spilt coffee. The world of the sidewalk becomes a hollow, twisting tunnel.

People lurch towards and away from me. Words and faces looping around me as I walk. They are all so full. They should share marshal. is screaming and someone is pulling at me. I wonder if this is a dream, but no, Marcy has the dreams. She won't share. She's crying.

And someone is holding me and I am asking and asking. There was a whining, a pleading. It sounds like buzzing lights. It sounds like Mrs. Swainson. It sounds. Can I have them? Please. Can I have...

And hold and spin me. It is sickening. They are forcing me to be empty. My shirt is torn. And the wind is cold. There is a knocking. A knocking on my door. No. A banging. A banging like my door is metal. The world spins and slides as I look behind me.

There are people. People coming out of the door onto the roof. Spilling out. Milling. Staring at me. On the roof. This must be a dream. I feel tears in my face. Tears. tracking over the sunken, sagging skin under my eyes. It is a dream. I have found a dream. I look down at the edge of the roof, the edge just under my feet, and I saw a dream. This is it. I could be full again.

Step forward, and I dream. A fall. The plane pulls into the terminal. We ask that you gather what's left of your sanity and depart the train. Thank you for traveling with us on the sleepless Express. 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 editorial team is Jessica McAvoy and Ashley McAnally. 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 traveling the rails with us for our 21st season.