The NoSleep Podcast - S21 Ep14: NoSleep Podcast S21E14

Episode Date: August 4, 2024

It’s Episode 14 of Season 21. Ride the Sleepless Express into tales about chilling changes.“Father of the Year” written by John Beardify (Story starts around 00:04:05)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Mike DelGaudio, Kim – Nichole Goodnight, Thing – Erika Sanderson“Cat Lady” written by Marissa Yarrow (Story starts around 00:17:05)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Arlette – Kristen DiMercurio, Cat Lady – Erin Lillis, Officer Thompson – Xalavier Nelson Jr.“Nose Beers” written by Michael Boulerice (Story starts around 00:47:35)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Griff – Matthew Bradford, Sara – Sarah Thomas, Troy – Dan Zappulla, Partygoer – Atticus Jackson“The Bizarrie of Monsieur Delancey” written by René Rehn (Story starts around 01:06:45)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: John Stevenson – Graham Rowat, Monsieur Delancey – David Cummings, Mike Schmidt – Dan Zappulla“Never Be Hungry Again” written by Fiona McKenna (Story starts around 01:53:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Jeff Clement, Neighbor – Jesse Cornett, Father – Atticus Jackson, Mother – Danielle McRae, Narrator – David CummingsThis 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 John BeardifyClick here to learn more about Marissa YarrowClick here to learn more about René RehnExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Never Be Hungry Again” illustration courtesy of Kelly TurnbullAudio 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. Your 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. Have you ever gotten out of bed in the morning feeling rotten? You try to go about your day, but you're just feeling off. Someone might notice and ask, Hey, you doing okay?

And you respond, I'm just not feeling like myself today. The concept of a person not being themselves, being noticeably different than usual, can be more than just a case of the Mondays or having a bad day. In the world of horror, a person who has suddenly changed, suddenly become a person who looks the same but acts markedly differently, well, that can be the start of a very unsettling tale. We humans thrive on normalcy and routine. If someone we know well behaves oddly out of character, it can be creepy, even if the change is positive.

I used to have a co-worker who was known around the office as a grump, a surly, unpleasant person. but we got to know them that way and we got used to them. Then, usually a couple of days each month, this person would be really pleasant and friendly. You'd think that would be a good thing, but it wasn't. It was oddly unsettling to see them change into an unfamiliar type of behavior. And it's not just people's personality changing that makes for great horror. There are many stellar horror stories and movies, which feature people being taken over by some unseen. force, making them behave wildly differently. Think about a movie like Invasion of the Body Snatchers,

R.I.P. Donald Sutherland. And then there's one of my favorite horror movies of all time, and in my opinion the best haunted house movie ever made, The Changeling from 1980, starring George C. Scott. The changeling involves a child switched at a young age. Changelings are well known in European folklore as children were kidnapped by a supernatural being, and an imposter or changeling was left in its place. So in this episode, we feature tales about people who change or become different. And whether the changed person has to deal with the nightmares or those who have to experience someone else changing, we can be sure to find dark tales based on people who can truly say, I'm just not feeling like myself.

today. And now, the train is ready to depart. Your journey into the darkness begins now. In our first tale, we meet a father with a young son. And like most parents with a new baby, he's sleep deprived, and who can blame him? And yet, in this tale, shared with us by author John Beardify, we learn that the father's brief dip into sleep, while with his son on the subway, leads to him fearing for his baby's safety. But everything seems all right, doesn't it?

Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, Nicole Goodnight, and Erica Sanderson. So don't be so hard on yourself as a new parent. Mistakes happen, even if you do end up feeling sarcastically like Father of the Year. The old woman in the blue shawl was staring at my son. and I thought I knew why. A single man with a screaming baby said one thing to most people. Kidnapper. I flashed a smile to show I meant no harm, but she didn't even blink.

What was her problem? It was three days before Christmas, and the subway reeked of melted slush and unwashed winter coats. My wife had wanted to meet downtown after she finished work, where we planned to walk beneath festive lights, take pictures of the decorated storefronts and generally celebrate our son Ryan's first Christmas on Earth. Personally, I would have preferred to have fallen asleep on the couch. The combination of a grueling workweek, a bad sinus infection, and Ryan's insane sleep schedule had left me with a fingernail

grip on reality. Everything seemed too bright and blurry. Time seemed to speed up and slow down at random, and I found myself nodding off for seconds at a time. The subway cart jolted, and my eyes snapped open. Had I really just fallen asleep while I was supposed to be taking care of Ryan? I grimaced. Father of the year, right here. Ryan, however, had stopped wailing. He was dozing peacefully with his thumb in his mouth. I guiltily scanned the faces of the other passengers, wondering if anybody else had noticed my slip-up, but nobody had even looked my way. It must have been only a second, I told myself. Everything's fine. But it wasn't. Something felt different, and the subway was pulling up to our destination by the time I realized what it was.

The woman in the blue shawl was gone. I blinked. It shouldn't have been possible. The subway hadn't stopped anywhere, and there was no place to move in this tightly packed wagon. Shrill beeping announced that the doors had opened, and suddenly, I had bigger things to worry about, like maneuvering a bulky stroller onto a subway platform during rush hour. I bent over and whispered to Ryan, Okay, little man, just a few more hours. We can get through this. I wasn't sure which one of us I was trying to reassure. Last-minute shoppers rammed their way through the crowd with colorful packages. Tinny music played from speakers hidden behind fake Christmas trees, and children ran madly across bumper-to-bumper traffic to press their faces against

glowing storefront windows. It was absolute madness, and I had no idea how I was supposed to find Kim. A punch connected with my arm. Hey, I spun. See, I told you that you guys would make it in one piece. Kim gave me a peck on the cheek. He shouldn't be so nervous. Nice to see you too. Kim grew quiet as she leaned over the stroller and the smile disappeared from my face. There was something unsettling in her silence. Kiddo looks a little pale, doesn't he? Kim reached down to pinch Ryan's cheek. I frowned. If my five-month-old really did look any different than he had that morning, I was too exhausted to tell. Should we take him home? Now that Kim mentioned it, Ryan had been unusually still since the subway ride. Subdued almost, like he was waiting for something. For some reason, I thought of the old

woman in the blue shawl, and a shiver ran out my spine that had nothing to do with the cold. My wife touched the back of her hand to Ryan's forehead. Well, he doesn't have a fever. She weighed the options. Oh, come on. Maybe the lights will cheer him up. Christmas only comes once a year, you know. Thank God for that, I muttered and followed my wife and son into the holiday chaos. Two hours later, Kim and I were walking through the front door of our apartment. Although neither of us had said so, we were both worried about Ryan. He wasn't sick or vomiting. He didn't have a rash or mucus pouring out of his nose. He was just quiet. After five months of all, almost nonstop shrieking, that was cause enough for concern.

Maybe quiet isn't the right word, I thought, as I lifted Ryan out of his stroller and carried him down the hallway to his crib. Maybe a better word would be watchful. This is a beautiful blanket. Where did you get it? The floor seemed to drop out from under me. I placed Ryan in his crib and hurried back to my wife, terrified to confirm what I already knew. The blue cloth that Kim had lifted from the inside of Ryan's stroller wasn't a blanket.

It was a shawl, one that I recognized. Kim shouted after me as I sprinted to Ryan's crib. Hey, what's wrong? The image of a murderous stranger rubbing poison onto my son's lips and leaving behind the blue cloth as a gruesome souvenir flashed unbidden through my mind. Please, God no. I prayed with a fervor I hadn't felt in decades as I checked my son's vitals, examined his skin for needle marks, and peered inside his mouth. Nothing. Ryan was fine. Better than I was, in fact. And under the circumstances, I had no choice but to tell Kim what had happened on the subway. The weird old woman who wouldn't stop staring at her son,

the way I nodded off with one hand on the stroller. I'd expected Kim to be furious, but she just took a deep breath and tried to walk me through the evening's events in a rational way. In winter, the subway was a refuge for those who had no place else to go. The mentally ill homeless, the elderly pensioners who couldn't afford to heat their homes. Was it really so hard to imagine that such a person might have seen a cute baby like Ryan and wanted to give him a little gift? Our son might even have reminded them of their own child or grandchild. In any case, my wife suggested, the strange appearance of the blue shawl probably wasn't anything to worry about. But me falling asleep while watching Ryan,

however, was. And we both knew it. Was I really up to the challenge of being a parent? From the disappointment in Kim's eyes, it seemed like she was beginning to have her doubts. It'll be a couple of hours before the next feeding. I squeezed Kim's arm. You go get some rest. I'll sleep on the couch beside the crib tonight. Kim bit her lip, then nodded. I lifted Ryan from his crib and held him to my chest. It was a relief to feel his tiny heartbeat close to mine. Still asleep, little buddy? Ryan squirmed and rolled over, but didn't wake. I kissed him on the forehead, laid down on the couch, and turned out the light. Too tired to wonder, what surprises the night would bring. It was still dark when my eyes snapped open a few hours later.

I could see the nighttime glow of the city outside the window, and while the room had cooled off, the central heating was still doing its job. No sound came from where Kim dozed in our bedroom. So, why had I woken up? I slowly became conscious of the man-sized, emaciated form that lay on top of me. Its needle-sharp fingers grazed my ribs. Its elongated head craned upward toward my ear. And suddenly, I remembered everything. How the old woman had spoken an impossible word, and everybody in the subway car had gone as limp and as slack-jawed as stringless puppets.

How she approached the stroller with a bundle wrapped in her blue shawl. how she lifted Ryan from his blankets and replaced him with with I wanted to scream but couldn't the loathsome weight on my chest was whispering in my ear I've come so very very far

to be it dug its fingernails into my flesh over the sea beyond the star but now your life blood will nourish me and your son will dance in our courts forever it clamped its toothless mouth onto mine sucking in my shriek along with the blood that flowed from my crushed lips they blinked a beam of sunlight was shining straight into my face had ryan really slept until morning i couldn't

Believe it. Horrific memories of the night before flashed through my head like a lightning bolt. I panicked, looking around for my son. But Ryan lay peacefully on my chest, breathing softly and watching me with those deep, incomprehensible eyes. He was perfectly fine, apart from the bloodstains around his mouth. If you've ever struck an animal with your car, you know how horrifying it can be. You feel so much guilt, even if it really wasn't your fault. But in this tale, shared with us by author Marissa Yarrow, we meet Arlette, who has to break the bad news to the pet's owner, and she doesn't take it well. Not well at all. Performing this tale are Kristen Di Maccurio, Aaron Lillis, and special guest voice actor Zolivir Nelson Jr.

So do the right thing, but be extra cautious if you have to deal with this particular cat lady. March 14th. The cat ran in front of my car intentionally. I saw both cats sitting on the sidewalk and was worried that one of them might dart out into the road. Then when one of them did, it was too late for me to do anything about it. The cat was suddenly beneath my car and then my back tire lifted and fell, which I didn't feel so much as here in the quick succession. of thunk-thunk sounds. I slammed on the brake and just sat there for a minute. My heart sinking

into my stomach. I looked into the rearview mirror, hoping, impossibly to see the cat running on the other side of the street and trying to convince myself that it had been a pothole I'd hit instead. But there was no cat on the other side of the street. I allowed my car to drift slowly to the curb. The other cat remained on the sidewalk. Staring at my car, Indifferently, sadly, accusingly? I was projecting, of course. It was just a cat that didn't know what life or death was, and that probably would just as likely have darted into the road

since it didn't move when I opened my car door and examined the lump lying in the middle of the street. It had a beautiful gray coat that reminded me of a cat I had growing up named Smokey, because all gray cats with big paws and round cheeks are named Smokey. This cat even had a black breakaway collar. like my smoky did. And a wave of regret washed over me as I imagined this cat's owner calling out for him later

when he didn't come home for dinner. I bent down and gently flipped the name tag over to look for a phone number or address. Instead, I just saw his name. I'm sorry, Max. While I was still crouched down next to Max's body,

the second cat, mostly white with a cloak of gray, rubbed against my leg. The tip of its tail, tracing the bottom of my jaw. I reached out my arm to pet it, feeling like I needed to apologize to this one for killing its friend. And it spun around and nearly threw itself against my leg and meowed loudly. I ran my hand along its sleek, bony back, and it looked up at me with bright green eyes as it started on a third pass. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do it. It meowed again,

and then reared up and placed its forepaws on my arm. It had the same kind of collar and name tag as Max. Were you and Max siblings, Lily? She did a gentle spin off my arm and landed gracefully on the black tongue. She took a few steps, then looked back toward me and meowed. I stood, meaning to leave, but it didn't feel right to just leave Max there in the road. He might have gotten hit by another car that way, and I felt like it was going to be bad enough for his owner to find him in this condition,

if they found him. Lily meowed at me again and started to take off down the street when I made eye contact with her. Stupid cat thinks we're playing a game. I bent down again and wished life back into Max's body. He looked okay

except that he wasn't breathing through his open mouth. His yellow eyes were open but staring vacantly across the road. His body was still warm when I slid my fingers beneath him. His fur was soft, slipping between my fingers as I lifted his nearly weightless body.

His head lulled and his legs draped like he was a liquid thing pouring out of my hands. I grimaced because my brain still couldn't quite accept that this was no longer a cat now, but was simply a small corpse. I turned back towards the sidewalk, thinking that it felt callous to just leave him there, where any little kid might find him or something. Lily ran towards me, meowing loudly and incest, but didn't attempt to rub against my legs this time. She meowed until we made eye contact,

and then she turned away back up the street. Get out of the street, Lily. Go home. Be safe. Go home, I thought. I stopped midstep. Lily turned back toward me and meowed again. A dog could do it. Why couldn't a cat? Can you take me home? I asked Lily, rhetorically, I think. I didn't want to be led on a wild. goose chase with a dead cat in my arms. But if we ended up going nowhere, it didn't really matter

where I left Max's body. Not if I didn't find his owner. It was better to at least try, right? Okay, Lily, take me home. Lily turned as though she understood what I was saying and trotted down the street. Maybe home is a word she knows. I followed her down the center of the street for a few yards before she drifted to the sidewalk. Lily maintained a steady but fast pace. Occasionally she stopped and looked back to meow at me and then kept going. We crossed one street, then another, then another, and I started to feel like an idiot for thinking this cat could lead me anywhere in the maze of suburban houses that all looked the same. The scene probably looked insane to anyone who might have happened to peek out their window.

At the next cross street, Lily made a left turn on the sidewalk, and I wondered again. if maybe she actually was leading me somewhere. She stayed on the sidewalk like she took that path all the time with a human. She led me deeper into a part of the neighborhood nowhere near my own house and which I was completely unfamiliar with, but she continued to use the sidewalk and make turns with apparent intention. My arms were growing tired, and I could swear Max's body was growing unnervingly cold in my hands.

Finally, Lily crossed a yard full of red and white lava rocks and native plants and planted herself on the porch, waiting for me to catch up. A tightness formed in my chest as I mounted the steps to the front door. I didn't have to do this. I can just leave the cat in the driveway. I don't have to tell these people that I killed their cat. What if this isn't even their cat? What if Lily led me to a random house?

A cold panic washed over me, and I looked around to make sure no one had seen me so I could make my escape. But as I stepped away from the door, the door not creaked. I was frozen with a mixture of fear and shame and confusion as the door opened and revealed a woman, 30-something, in a ponytail and workout clothes. Can I help you? I'm sorry. Her eyes darted from my face to the gray fur draped over my hands.

Before I could say anything else, her face contorted into a knot. She put her hand up to hide the ugliness of her pain, and her voice came out strange. I held his body out to her, unsure of what else to do and unable to hide from the awful truth of this situation. I'm really sorry. He darted out into the road and... I trailed off because there was no need for gory details. She looked from Max to me and then behind her into the house like she was glitching out a little bit, unsure of what to do. She reached out a hand to his body and then pulled it away and covered her face again.

I can't. I can't. I can't. She started to hyperventilate. I'm really sorry, I said again, because what else could I say? I can't get you, please. She opened the door and stepped inside, and I gathered that she wanted me to bring Max's body into the house. The smell hit me first, before I could even step over the threshold. It was like a fog of musty, hot garbage. The air was thick with ammonia and dust.

Between that and the shock of so many cats, on the couch, on the ground, jumping from the second floor to an immense cat tower below, literally crawling with more cats. I forgot how to walk for a moment, stumbled, caught myself, and stumbled again because there was a cat underfoot. It noticed me and my furry burden, and now they were mulling, rubbing against me, attempting to climb my legs to get a better look. Oh, God. She picked up an orange cat circling her legs and cried into its fur. The orange cat seemed not to mind.

While she wasn't looking, I tried to bat away the tabby, hooking its claws into my jeans and the skin of my thigh, and looked for somewhere to put the dead cat down. Catlady pulled her face out of the orange cat's belly and looked at me. Her eyes red with tears, but also probably dander. It was hard not to feel completely gutted for her. Outside on the porch, I hadn't noticed the worn valleys of wrinkles in her frown lines and brow, and her blonde hair which looked thin and gave her the further appearance of age she probably didn't have.

I'm sorry. I know people think they're just cats, but they're like family to be. I wanted to tell her, I didn't care if they were family or cats. I just didn't want to be there. It was so much worse being there inside that house than I ever could have anticipated it would have been, and I just wanted to leave. No, no, it's okay. The Tabby started to crawl up my leg again, and I reflexively kicked it away, and then tried to cover up kicking her cat by taking a step forward with the corpse. Should I put this somewhere? Her cry startled the orange cat out of her hands. It joined the crowd of a dozen cats idly watching us from various.

perches around the room. With her free hands, Cat Lady reached out for the body and cradled it close to her chest. Is that he right into the road? Yeah, I tried to stop, but... She nodded and pressed Max's head close to her, rocking the body like a baby.

Then she looked up at me, her eyes full of tears again. Arlette? That's a pretty name. She was still rocking the cat's body. A cat on the couch chasing. another one hissing and throwing claws. Cat lady seemed not to notice, but I realized we'd left the door open. I decided against addressing this irony or doing anything else that would

prolong my stay in that place. My eyes started to water from the smell, which seems to have gotten worse since we'd been standing here. Cat lady looked up at me again. You're a good person, Arlette. Most people would have just left him in the street. Oh, well, you know, I struggled to find a smooth transition out of the situation. The tabby at my feet was standing on its hind legs again, stretching the length of its body to my waist, and not so gently, clawing through my jeans and into the tender skin of my abdomen. Her yellow eyes stared up at me, almost with kindness as she inched up my torso. On her tag, I could see her name was printed in the same etched lettering as the others.

Haley. Haley's claws dug in hard, and I kicked her more forcefully this time without meaning to. The other cats were watching me with fixed eyes and wide pupils. Catlady stepped forward and lifted one hand towards my face. You're such a good girl, Arlet. A very good girl. I flinched away from her hand and her strange words. My heart beat in a way that let me know my animal brain deep down sensed a danger that I continued to tried to deny out of some human sense of decorum. Stammering an unintelligible, confused response,

I took another step back, and the toe of my shoe found something softer and more yielding than the carpet. I instinctively withdrew from stepping on the cat behind me, but Haley was again trying to crawl up my waist and there was a roaring chorus of meowing and yowling. It seemed like every cat in the room was looking at me, but my eyes were fixed on Cat Lady.

There was something very, very wrong. with this woman. She took another step towards me. Her dark brown eyes narrowed on her prey, and this time there was no escaping the reach of her hand. She stretched her fingers up behind my ear and started to scratch me there gently. I turned my face away from her and took a step back, but again found a cat beneath my foot. I couldn't readjust my weight quickly enough and between her attempts to pet me and my attempt to flee, the sharp acrylics of Cat Lady these nails, dug into my skin as I fell helplessly to the floor. The cats were on me before I could even get my elbows beneath me. Haley was on my chest, and there was an orange cat attacking my

feet, while a skinny tortoiseshell cat with willow hanging at her chin hissed and swatted at my right arm. Then they were rushing me, as though they'd all been given a silent command. None of them were very big, but beneath the angry, focused weight of them, I couldn't lift myself from the fetid carpet. At first, they only pinned me to the floor. But then the tabby, their ringleader, lashed out at my face, giving me twin gashes to match those that cat lady gave me on my neck.

At that, the rest of the cats attacked and swarmed. I struggled to breathe beneath their combined weight, and every gasp I managed pulled dank and heavy dust into my lungs. I felt suffocated and struggled harder beneath them, but my desperate flailing only brought my arms in contact with needle-sharp claws and teeth. My arms and legs thrashed on their own as my consciousness began to float away. My vision became a black tunnel as my brain tried desperately to protect me from all of this, and before blackness overtook me, I could hear the cat lady, repeating something in a soothing sing-song.

You're such a good girl, Arlette. such a very good girl. Then a bell was ringing. It was dinging over and over and over again, summoning me out of the darkness. Opening my eyes was like throwing the weight of a dozen blankets off myself, and I took a deep breath of fresh night air, as though my mouth was buried under the same blankets.

I was sitting in the driver's seat of my car, and my door was open. The door light was illuminated on the dashboard, but the rest of the car was in darkness. The lights on the street were all out. I tried to sit up, and my neck struggled to keep the leaden weight of my head upright. My entire body was sore. I reached over to close the door,

suddenly aware of the cold night air and the exposed skin of my arms below my t-shirt sleeves. I missed the door the first time, and then clumsily made purchase and shut it. I didn't know where I was. It wasn't my street. And I couldn't remember how I got there. All I could remember were cats.

The cat ran in front of my car intentionally. I didn't see any cat in the road in front of me. The black top was an endless void in the night, but I could see scattered leaves strewn about the surface, contrasting just enough to be made out in the porch lights of the surrounding houses. When I turned my head on my aching neck to the driver's side window, I saw a cat on the sidewalk, facing my car. The white coat stood out bright in the darkness, and I could even see the gray spot covering most of the cats rounded back as it sat on the concrete.

Go away, Lily, I thought. Then I wondered how I knew that name. It sparked something inside of me, something that made me crave the comfort of my own home, and a drink, and a shower. When I reached home, I was shocked to find myself covered in dozens of scratches. Some of them were so deep that my clothes. clothes were sticking to them and I had to pry the fabric away, releasing a fresh flow of blood in order to clean myself off. I was so tired. Too tired to be concerned about what happened to me and why I couldn't remember how I ended up in my car. I put clean clothes on over the weeping wounds, not caring how the fabric would stick again. And I collapsed into bed. That night I dreamt of cats. They were jumping and hissing and reaching out their forepaws towards me to attack. I tried to run.

There were just more cats, giant house cats as big as lions. I tried to scream, but all that came out was a feline howl. The next day I woke up two hours after I was supposed to be in the office and called in sick. The scratches covering my body were swollen and infected, and my throat felt like it had expanded internally to twice its normal size. Sitting up made my head swim, and breathing in too deeply made me cough, uncontrollably. My ears burned and the tips of my fingers were tingling. I'm not sure if it was a good

thing or a bad thing, but I was able to recall what happened to me the previous afternoon. I worried that my wounds were festering with some sort of zoonotic disease, like taxoplasmosis or rabies, but the fear made my heart rate rise and wore me out. I called my primary care physician to make an appointment, but their neck available opening was in two weeks. I told myself that if I still felt like this tomorrow, maybe I'd go to the emergency room. I googled how to treat cat scratches and took another shower, after which I properly dressed my wound instead of letting them stick to my clothes. In bed, I read more about cat scratch fever and told myself I'd keep an eye out for the tell-tail bumps and swollen lymph nodes that were supposed to take three days to show up. So far so good.

No need to worry, I thought. Then for two days, I slept. I woke up this evening to a dozen missed calls from coworkers and my supervisor and twice as many texts that I didn't read. It was dark in the house, and I stumbled into the bathroom. It wasn't until I was washing my hands that I noticed the redness creeping out from beneath the patchwork of band-aids on my forearms. I peeled away one and saw the red bumps with tight white tips tightly packed around one of the deeper scratches. I gently ran my finger across them to relieve the unbearable itching sensation, and they burst open.

I placed them underneath the warm tap and rubbed at them with soap. From the bleeding volcanoes around the wounds, thick, dark hairs uncurled and straightened. I googled, cat scratch fever plus hair, and found nothing new. Scratches plus ingrown hairs revealed pet wound care products. Foliculitis plus cat scratch

Still only discussed feline ailments My lymph nodes felt like nothing at all And my fatigue had passed So I decided to forego the ER bill I told myself that human bodies are weird And I'd be fine It's too late to do much else But I feel like I need to write down what's happening to me

In case I do need to go to the hospital or something I'm sure I'll be okay But something isn't right I feel there should be some record of that something I can show my doctor or a shrink or the coroner. March 15th. I woke up this morning, screaming, and in a panic. I leapt out of bed trying to figure out who was attacking me,

and my body slammed into my dresser. I was covered in blood from itching at the cat scratches in my sleep, and my band-aids were just barely hanging onto the slick skin and thick hair beneath them. That pain was nothing compared to the twisting, burning, agony contorting inside of me. My collarbone felt like I rolled onto it in my sleep and broke it it on both sides somehow, and my tailbone itched like crazy. I couldn't put my arms anywhere that didn't hurt, but I tried to soothe both aches at once, throwing my ass up and away from the floor as I tried to protect my poor, sagging clavicle from assuming any weight. Nothing lessened the pain,

and I continued to thrash without rhyme or reason to escape the cage of agony my existence was imprisoned within. In my writhing, I slammed my head against the dresser again, distributing a shock of pain through my brain, and sending my full-length mirror crashing down, landing above me, and reflecting the horrible reality of my image back at me. My entire body was covered in a coarse but patchy coat of black and white fur.

Not just the wounds, but every exposed section of skin had red bumps and newly released hairs from my arms to my chest to even my face. There was something wrong with the shape of my face, too. It wasn't oval like I'm used to. It's like my chin receded into my neck, and my nose simultaneously grew and flattened out, encroaching on the space my upper lip had once occupied. And my eyes, I could hardly stand to look at them.

Once they had been brown, perhaps gold in the right light, but now they were yellow. And the pupils? It was too much. I screamed and thrust an arm out at the mirror, cracking its surface and sending it spinning upwards and away from me. The pain in my body had been momentarily forgotten but had not abated. I twisted on the ground to lift myself from my back,

and then twisted again to relieve the pain in my shoulders. The most comfortable position I could assume was to spread out, face down on the floor, with my limbs akimbo. I allowed myself to scream into the runner rug as the pain washed over my skeleton again and again, with a growing horror and an inability to stop it. Something began protruding from my ass. It wasn't in my bowels, but somehow, inside of me and outside of me, like my spine was attempting to escape my skin from the bottom of my body.

It burned and itched, and all I could do was helplessly bat at and scratch at the pain until finally, with a nauseating feeling of release and a soft pop, the burning stopped, and the pain abated. I reached my hand down to my tailbone and gingerly inspected the area with my fingertips, which found something so unexpected that I pulled away in shock, slick with blood. I told myself that I was dreaming. In reality, I was just lying in bed with a horrible case of cat scratch fever and having a nightmare. But no, I couldn't lie to myself like that. All of this was too real.

The wood floor beneath me was too cold, and the smell of blood in the air was too sharp. And when I reached back around and forced myself to really feel the thing at the base of my spine, it felt too solid in my hand to be anything but real. When I arched my back, the thing in my hand, my three new inches of tail,

also moved. March 16th. There are a careful. hats outside of my house, maybe 20 of them. They're on the porch and perched on my car, and they're lying in the grass in the backyard, and they're all facing the house. I feel like they're watching me. The hair has gotten thicker. The coarse hair is covering almost my entire body now, but around my scratches, it's becoming softer, like I'm growing a double layer of hair. My tail has gotten longer, too. I can't go outside. I can't be seen like this. Whatever's

is my secret shame to bear. But the cats keep meowing. And I'm worried that someone is going to send animal patrol over to talk to me like they're my cats or something. I'm honestly worried they might take me away if they came. I opened the front door just enough to try to scare the cats on the front porch away. But they only meowed louder. They crowded the doorway like they were trying to get in and I could see all the weird

name tags the cat lady gave them. There was Patrick, Walter, Amber, Isidore. And then there was Lily. I don't know why she scares me more than the other cats, but it feels personal somehow to have her monitoring me. The other cats from the yard ran over to join the cats on the porch, so I quickly stood to close the door, but before I was able to slam it in their furry little faces,

I swear I heard them say something with human words. March 17th, the cats are speaking. I thought I was losing my mind, and I probably am, but they climbed onto the roof of the garage and sat at my window, meowing last night, after I tried to shut them out and go to bed. They kept meowing, but then I heard them speak again. Come with us. Help us. Come home, Arlette.

I had to move to the basement so that I couldn't hear them anymore. This morning, my lips looked thin and purplish. My tail is getting bushy, and the hair is getting thicker. One might even call it a color. now, but I'm not comfortable thinking of it like that. I guess I'm still clinging to the life I knew before, where I was sane and fully human. I've shrunk, noticeably. I wasn't tall before, but I'm pretty sure I've lost a good foot of height, maybe more. I'm scared to measure myself, but I can only see myself in the bottom of the bathroom mirror now, and I can't reach the high cupboards at all.

I also have a bunch of extra skin hanging off of me, almost as proof that I used to fill it out better. Also, my collarbone doesn't hurt anymore. Because it's gone. I think if I'm lucky, I'll just die. And this will all be over. But I think I'm mostly scared that something else is happening. I'm so scared. March 18th. It's getting harder to write. My fingers are claws now. Holding a pen is becoming impossible. The cats are still sitting outside my house and they aren't meowing anymore. I've had to draw all the blinds so that they can't see me. It's a lot of the blinds. It's a too much like looking in a mirror. Mostly I've been sleeping. I've just been so tired and so depressed. Whenever I wake up, more of me has changed. I'm sad and angry. I've found myself literally tearing

at my furniture out of rage and confusion. I know what's happening to me now. I've accepted it. Just know, whoever finds this, that she did this to me. The lady with the cats. The cats might lead you back to her, but I'd be careful if you follow them. Welfare check report, Arlett Harding, March 22nd. Request for a welfare check was made at 1311 by Susan Robbins, who said she is a friend of Ms. Harding. Ms. Robbins claimed that Ms. Harding had been cat-setting for her, but would not answer the door this afternoon when she came by to retrieve her cat. TSPD reported for a welfare check at 1347 and found all the doors and windows were locked and shuttered.

Through one window, Officer Brinkley could see that the house appeared to be in disarray. Forcible entry was made through the front door at 1425. Several stray cats from outside the house also came in with the officers, and there was some difficulty in removing them from the property. Ms. Harding was not present in the home, although her car, purse, and cell phone were found on the property. Her receipt was found in her purse dated March 11th. Miss Robbins says this is the same day that Ms. Harding began taking care of her cat. Ms. Robbins identified the cat and was allowed to take it home with her.

Ms. Robbins stated that Ms. Harding had not told her of any plans to leave town. While searching for receipts and for Ms. Harding's wallet and phone, the journal was found sitting out with the last entry reading March 18th, given the nature of the writing and the fact that the house was locked from the inside, it's believed that Ms. Harding left her home on foot with an extra key or may have left with a trusted individual during what appears to be a severe mental breakdown. An at-risk missing person's report will be created using information on her driver's license, The journal entries from March 14 to March 18 are included in this report,

along with photos found of Ms. Harding in her house. The cats were removed from the residence, and the door was secured at 1614. Taken by Officer Daniel Thompson. When nature calls, you'll do almost anything to find a bathroom, even if it means trying to sneak into a huge party at the Rich Kids Estate. Desperate times, right? Well, in this tale, shared with us by author Michael Boleris,

we learned that the party isn't just your typical cager. No, this is a bacchanal that takes hedonism to new depths. Performing this tale are Matthew Bradford, Sarah Thomas, Dan Zapula, and Atticus Jackson. So try not to go off the rails when offered a bump. Stick to ale, instead of the nose-bulous. Beers. I was about to shit myself. We careened down the windy rural roads of Havermill, and I used my left leg to push myself up from the driver's seat in a frantic effort to clench my butt cheeks even tighter. A thin sheen of sweat broke out on my forehead as I accelerated

through the night with my free right foot. Slow down, Grit! My girlfriend, Sarah, clutched the passenger's side, oh shit handle of my ancient Volkswagen hatchback with a two-handed grip, as if she were clinging for dear life on a runaway New York City subway car, and not getting high on a casual after-school burn cruise. Sorry, baby, I just need to find a bathroom fast. Why don't you pull over and go in the woods or something? Nothing to wipe with.

Oh, you have to go number two. Sarah popped open the glove box, hoping to find a travel pack of tissues or a long-forgotten stack of fast-food napkins. I'd pride my eyes from the road long enough to glare at my girlfriend, as if she hadn't been in the Haver Mill High cafeteria with me. me as I'd consume 23 greasy ground beef tacos on a deer. Yeah, I have to shit, Sarah. We spent the following minutes scanning the sides of the forest line road for construction

site porta-potties, county bade shops with irregular hours of operation. Anywhere, I could both relieve myself and retain a shred of my delicate teenage dignity. There! We spotted the gaudy architectural uplighting through the trees simultaneously. The aging German motor whined as I punched my gas pats. pedal to the floor. My tires crunched on the pristine crushed seashell drive that led to the manner to state. Its Byzantine stone architecture, white archways, and marble pillars were woefully out of place in our rural farming community. Ah, fuck, oh, fuck, a fuck, a fuck, a fuck. I parked and launched

myself out of the driver's seat. You're really going to shit here? Sarah got out and stared at Havermill's largest residence with awe. As far as we knew, no town he had ever been invited in the property. Troy Manard was a senior at Haverville High, just like us, but his parents only allowed him to hang out with the kids from our area's private school. Sure, why not? Looks like Troy's having one of his parties anyways. There's got to be like 300 bathrooms in here. Nobody'll notice. I jog past the line of expensive cars with Preston Academy parking pass decals on them

and headed straight for the Manse's open front door. A garden fountain featuring a sater with an enormous erection followed my progress with its cold stone gaze. Sarah followed behind me, her short legs pinwheeling to keep up with my desperate trot. Everything in the mansion's foyer looked ancient. Pillars everywhere. A ten-foot-tall museum-worthy marble statue of Dionysus. I've had a bee in world history. It was the focal point of the room.

There was no time to scan the party for faces I recognized. I just sprinted up the stairs, found an unoccupied bathroom, and proceeded to empty half of my soul into it. I sat on that expensive-looking toilet and looked around as my column spasened the last vestiges of Taco Tuesday out of itself. Marble, marble, marble. The ceiling was adorned with a tiled mosaic in the style of the ancient Greeks. An odd-looking framed art print read, First one to fall asleep gets drawn on. Last one awake is a god.

Is it a bankruptcy piece? I didn't doubt it. The manored family had money, money. With the crisis averted, I walked around the enormous house in a state of physical bliss intermingling with panic as I had no idea where Sarah was.

Preston Academy kids milled about everywhere. We could spot one from a mile away because of those dark circles they always had around their eyes. It was a notoriously difficult school to get into. They were probably caused by all those overnight cram sessions. Locals referred to them as Preston goggles. I eventually found myself on a library filled floor to ceiling with old leather-bound books,

so much so that shelving had been deemed more of a priority than natural light, as there wasn't a square inch of unspoken-for wall left to put a window in. Troy Manard, as pale and skinny as white asparagus, leaned down a fireplace mantle. Oh, hey, what's up, Troy? I felt funky. What did he say to the richest person you'd ever met after barging into their home unannounced? Griff!

He turned to face me, his arms outstretched and welcome, as if he'd expected me all along. Sighted to finally have some actual locals over. He handed me a red solo cup full of keg beer. I've been running out of Preston kids to party with lately. I took a while. long sip, not knowing what to make of that, or the fact that he knew my name. I mean, we'd never spoken before. Troy procured a baggie from his pocket and wiggled it in the air between us,

casually, as if it were the most normal thing in the world for a teenager to be in possession of a large quantity of expensive drugs. You ski? I smiled, my awkwardness washing away in the tide of Troy's magnetic friendliness. First chair. We did lines of coke off a silver serving tray engraved with Greek mythological imagery. Then he poured a shots of Uzo from a crystal decanter, as I once again remembered I was supposed to be looking for my girlfriend. Toast? He hoisted his glass. I mulled it over.

First one asleep gets drawn on. Last one awake is a god. A knowing grin spread across Troy's face. slow, like red wine seeping into a white tablecloth. There's a saying from back when our family name was Maynod. You will know the favored drunkard by his prose. In old Greece, people had patron gods. Specific gods they worshipped as their town's protector.

Ours was... Dionysus! I interrupted. Cocaine Clydesdale's galloping through my veins. Like your statue had a cult full of violent alcoholics. Exactly. violence, orgies, booze-fueled madness, we come from a long line of party animals.

It started with Dionysus and just kept going. Getting lit is basically the family religion. Hey, men. I'll tell you what. Troy proffered the baggie. You keep this. My treat. With that, Troy disappeared into the throng,

leaving me to sneak another bump before doing the same. Eventually, I found Sarah, in a ballroom choked with balloons and streamers. I waited outside for like 15 minutes. There are like a ton of halvermill kids here. Apparently Troy sent out an invite at school today. Must have missed it because we left early. Anybody want to play a drinking game?

The guest cheered. Troy stood on a balcony overlooking the room. His voice booming through loudspeakers. Last one to pass out wins. Rules are simple. drink stop drinking you're disqualified my staff will make sure you play fair last one awake is a god the room erupted in applause weird i just read that in his bathroom sarah grabbed my arm let's stay think we can win win what uniform butlers rolled out kegs bags of ping pong balls and sleeves

of red cuffs. Serving trays filled with shots of all types were passed around the room. The Havermill Townie's eyes nearly popped out of their heads at the garish display. The Preston kids looked bored. I looked up. Troy was gone. Three hours in, the playing field had been halved. Kids who couldn't compete because of curfews left.

The butlers watched us all and enforced Troy's rules. The several lightweights had already barfed and passed. out, and after five games of beer pong and a round of flip cup, I was buzzed. People whispered about the prize. I mean, what could it be? All anyone knew was if the manards offered it, it was big.

A new car? College tuition. The Preston gang was formidable. One of the managed an unassisted one-armed cake stand. Others draped themselves on overstuffed leather furniture. Guys made out with girls, girls, made out with girls and guys made out

with guys. Wow. Sarah let out a burp. That explains the Preston goggles. They're exhausted for fucking. A half circle formed around a girl beating a shit out of our school's quarterback. He was unconscious, but she continued

pelting him with her little fist. I had no idea what led him to getting knocked out like that, but it had to have been bad, because absolutely no one was stopping her from going to town on his defense. senseless face. I mean, I swore I saw a tooth fly out. It was impossible. I've always hated violence. That piece of me wanted to step in and pry her off the bloody chalk, but a deeper, stranger piece of me wanted to watch it play out to see how far it could go. That made me pause and peer into my

red plastic cup for a moment, briefly wondering if someone had slipped something into it. He's out of the competition. That's right. If you're Out, you're out. Out. A upbeat house music thumped away, but the night's jovial vibe had downshifted into something dark. Everything felt wrong. We endured two more rounds of beer pong.

Sarah puked cake foam into a trash can. Then it hit me. I drag Sarah into a bathroom and pulled a baggie out. Her eyes bulged. Oh, hell yeah. Secret weapon! I used my car key to scoop a tiny mound. She hoovered it.

I did the same. Newly fortified against the effects of light keg beer, we composed ourselves and re-entered the party, which was no longer a party. Someone was climbing the lighting scaffolding, a trash can burned. The enormous Preston Academy student vomited while another guy jerked him off.

And a girl sawed at her hair with a broken bottle. The horny Preston seniors had abandoned the kissing for a full-blown group sex. I mean, outside of porn, I'd never seen anything like it. And Sarah, man, she was gorgeous. I'd never really noticed before, I mean, but I wanted to fuck her. I wanted to snap her neck and I tasted my post-nasal coke trip and my guttural urges dissipated. Sarah looked at me. Was that stuff?

I watched his half our town fought and fucked and sobbed. People I'd known my entire life. I shook my head. Is the beer spiked? Because it's almost like the Coke is keeping us from going now. Okay, okay, let's walk through the facts. Troy gave me Coke. Before that, he went on about the motto his old-ass Greek family is always saying,

and I figured he was just drunk and rambling about bullshit. I don't care how much money you have. Giving someone a bag of Coke for free is weird. Giving it to a virtual stranger is even weirder. I know, right? What about the family mottoes? What were they? I repeated that last one awake is a god thing.

I saw in his bathroom. That must have been one of them. Then he said something like, you will know the favorite drunkard by his prose. I think that was it. Sarah sipped her beer as she mulled it over. The way you tell it, it's almost like Troy gave you the Coke

because what you said was like some kind of secret password or whatever. Either that or he just wanted to give you a secret weapon to win this thing. But why? You don't even know him. Well, I know is that the Coke is working, and everyone not doing it is like... I trailed off as I watched two girls from my grate shovel handfuls of potting soil from a toppled olive tree into their mouths. So if we really want to stay and win whatever this prize is,

we should probably keep doing it. We deliberated, and after nodding our mutual agreement, made our way back to the bathroom for more booger sugar. Two hours later, there were only 12 contestants left. Four of them pute bloodstained foam between turns and a game of beer pong, an empty bottle of store-branded drain cleaner lay discarded under the table. Another three contestants screamed at the ceiling in hysterical gibberish, not entirely unlike rural evangelicals speaking in tongues,

under revival tents. One desperately attempted tying a window curtain into a giant noose, and the remaining four were scattered and difficult to keep track of when they weren't standing still to masturbate or piss in a live electrical wall unit. Sarah and I did our best to keep to ourselves, quiet and away from the frenzy. We drank and played as the game's rules insisted, but we couldn't get drunk with so much blowing us. The crazy couldn't see that.

Sarah and I sneaked in. another bathroom break. The baggie was almost empty, but there was no way the remaining kids were going to last much longer at that rate. We were going to win. A scream sounded from the ballroom. The music stopped. Then a deafening series of sharp, loud pops like fireworks. More screams. Then silence. Sarah and I held our breaths. The door burst inward. Sarah It all happened so fast that I didn't have time to see who was attached to the meaty hand that dragged me out by my hair and effortlessly tossed me to the floor like a bag of trash. The enormous Preston Academy kid stood above me, a shiny black pistol in his hand. I quickly scanned the ballroom.

Everyone lay on the ground, some spasm, but most lay entirely still. And there was blood everywhere. Troy said to speed things along. We don't have to pass out to lose. We can die, too. We both looked up at Troy, who was back on the balcony overlooking a carnage, almost as if to double-check the prestige kid's logic. He shrugged indifferently.

Capitalizing on the distraction, I regained my footing and sprinted desperately toward the ballroom exit. The staccato sound of handgun fire followed behind me. I'd have to find a way to get back to the ballroom where Sarah was without being spotted. Going directly through the enormous Preston student was guaranteed to put a bullet in my head. All the doors in the foyer were locked. I ran to the library. I frantically patted down my pockets. No phone, no weapon.

I took in my surroundings. No hiding place, no window to escape through, no fireplace poker to swing at the last second. Nothing. I couldn't have picked a worse room to take shelter in. The bulk of the Preston boy loomed in the library entrance. He raised his handgun. I grabbed the engraved serving tray. Troy and I hoovered nosebears off of just hours earlier

and threw it as hard as I could as the gun discharged. His bullet fired into the floor. I shuddered and felt the leg of my jeans warm with a small burst of urine. But my would-be murderer stared at the gaited, mouth agape, blood sluiced from where the silver disc had cleaved into his throat, nearly decapitating him. He collapsed. I limped back through the foyer and into the ballroom,

looking for Sarah, but not daring to yell her name, in case there was another murderous contestant lurking in the marble-clad abattoir that was the Maynard house. As I passed it, the blank eyes of the Dionysus statue drank me in. Troy's supervised butlers removing corpses, squeegeing pools of viscera from the parcave flooring, calmly, as if they'd done it for millennia. One last contestant fell from the ceiling-mounted concert light scaffolding he'd apparently been dangling from, hitting the ballroom flooring with a soggy thud I could feel through the soles of my shoes.

The butlers didn't even bat an eye. Is that all of them? I dared to allow an exhausted giggle to escape my mouth. We did it. We went? A sputtering cough. Then a ragged breath drawn in like a cello note. came from the bathroom I'd been dragged from only moments earlier, where Sarah, I ran to Sarah,

kneeling down to cradle her as I pulled goopy strands of hair from her face. Her skull was split where it struck the vanity. She gurgled, each eye looking in a different direction. Her facial expression was that of an animal pulped by a speeding truck, frozen shock mingling with disassociation in the throes of an inevitably bad death. Footsteps on Marvel Tiling broke the grim silence of the moment. Troy Manard was suddenly standing behind me.

Help! Last one awake is a god, Griff. Can I fix her? Troy didn't respond. The air around us vibrated. I dragged Sarah's body by her limp arms through the ballroom toward the foyer. Your spasming body made no protest.

I lay Sarah. down at the foot of the statue and stood behind it. This is real, right? I can fix her when I'm a god, right? Last one awake is a god, Griff. I placed my hands on the cold marble and threw all of my weight into rocking the statue back and forth, angling my efforts so it would fall where it needed to.

I'm going to fix you, baby. I promise. Everything shook. A curtain drifted from a cathedral, window, revealing a sensory obliterating landscape never meant for human eyes. The butlers turned in unison to look out in it with reverence reserve for those finally returning home after a particularly long journey. The stone face of Dionysus had somehow crained to stare down at me during my efforts. A new, knowing smile had replaced its once stoic expression.

I strained with the last big push. 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. Copy rights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the risen consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.