The NoSleep Podcast - S21 Ep3: NoSleep Podcast S21E03

Episode Date: May 19, 2024

It's Episode 03 of Season 21. Ride the Sleepless Express into tales of black magic."The Picture Tree" written by Andrew Majors (Story starts around 00:03:10)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Jake - Matthew Bradford, Catherine - Katabelle Ansari"One Star" written by Ash Phoenix (Story starts around 00:33:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Andy Cresswell, Doug - Jake Benson, Hoodie Guy - James Cleveland, Passenger - David Ault"Surveillance" written by K.G. Lewis (Story starts around 00:50:50)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Mr. Hale - David Cummings, Elodie - Mary Murphy, Brian - Kyle Akers, Intruder - Atticus Jackson, Security System - David Ault, Narrator - Erin Lillis, Representative - Graham Rowat, Technician - Jeff Clement"Between the Devil and the Deep" written by Sebastian Gray (Story starts around 01:03:05)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator - Kristen DiMercurio, Ethan - Jeff Clement, Mr. Irving - Graham Rowat, Mitchell - Atticus Jackson, Mrs. Powell - Mary Murphy, The Girl - Sarah Thomas"The Bynum Girl" written by Paul Buchanan (Story starts around 01:45:25)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator - Mike DelGaudioThis episode is sponsored by:Soothing Sleep - After the sleepless tales are done, check out the podcast that will help you sleep better. Soothing Sleep is a show that will help you relax your mind with immersive journeys and visualizations, with special breathing techniques to relax. Search for "Soothing Sleep" wherever you find your podcasts - and get a good night's sleep.ShipStation - ShipStation makes it super easy to manage and ship all your online orders faster, cheaper and more efficiently. Keep growing your business all year long with ShipStation. Use promo code NOSLEEP today at shipstation.com to sign up for your FREE 60-day trial.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Andrew MajorsClick here to learn more about Ash PhoenixExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"Between the Devil and the Deep" illustration courtesy of Alia SynesthesiaAudio program ©2024 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

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. Do you believe in magic? in a young girl's heart, how the music can free her whenever it starts. Well, those song lyrics sure sound nice and wholesome. Yes, magic can be seen as a positive and wondrous part of life. But this is the No Sleep podcast.

We're not here for any of that positive, nice, green kind of magic. No, we're here for the black magic of the dark arts. Yes, the horror genre has been conjuring up the spells of black magic from a its earliest days. In fact, I dare say there have been some tales about evil spells and black magic for as long as we've been telling scary stories around the campfires from time immemorial. And it's safe to say more than just campfires are involved when it comes to witches and black magic. History has proven that many people don't like witches who practice the dark arts, so much so that they invited them to, uh, campfires of a much more punitive and horrid.

nature. But nonetheless, in this episode, we'll discover that black magic is still alive and well in our modern world, like the spells that have us trapped on this devilish ghost train. Yes, you can never fully escape the influence and power of those who conjure up malevolent forces against you. All you can do is sit back and try to enjoy the ride. And now, the train is ready to depart. Your journey into the darkness begins now. In our first tale, we meet a teenage boy who lives in a town with a famous landmark. No, not a statue or anything man-made. It's something much more natural.

And as we'll learn in this tale, shared with us by author Andrew Majors, when a new girl arrives at his school, he decides to show her the landmark in hopes of getting to know her much, much better. Performing this tale are Matthew Bradford and Catabelle Ansari. So yes, we all did foolish things when we were teenagers. And in this case, that means dealing with the picture tree. My hometown has a picture tree. Stupid name, right?

I mean, don't blame me. I didn't coin it. It's what everybody in Blaine called that one old-ass tree you always pointed out to relatives every time he took them to or from the airport. It goes south along Route 45 to jump on the interstate, and there it is, sitting atop its own little hill just behind Mr. Acker's field like the centerpiece of some boring Victorian landscape painting. It's been there for God knows how long, still this, as far as I know, and will probably remain there forever or until it burns down and the wind scatters its ashes over three states. It's a normal tree, nothing special about it. Okay, a few things are special about it.

Otherwise, apart from the manipulation, violent dismemberments, and other traumatic memories of my teenage years, this essay of mine would make for pretty dull reading. I mean, first, it's big, like redwood big, so tall you have to tilt your head up from the horizon line just to see the top of its crown. And if I remember correctly, the official height was measured at around 75 feet. The skirt of its lowest branches forms a 20-foot shelter around the trunk, also huge, barely able to be encompassed by three-thirds. fully grown guys chaining their arms together. I mean, it's a landmark for sure, sticking out like a big green thumb

when compared to the little rill of forest next to it. Even the bigger oaks with trunks you can't get your arms around by yourself look like ankle biters in comparison. Second, it's the only plant for about 100 feet in every direction. I know that sounds like nothing, but consider, have you ever seen a wild tree without a single blade of grass growing underneath it? Or a little sapling poking up out of the ground? And not even leaves stay for long.

decaying into mulch almost the same day when they drop in the fall. The picture tree looks like it has its own little planting ring around it of fallow, almost sterile-looking dirt. Like the roots are so powerful, they immediately suck up any nutrients they can find. My dad called it a freak of nature the first time he took me to see it. I was five years old. I stood in the shadow and tried to look up through the branches all the way to the top, but I was so short I could barely make out anything past ground level. It was the first tree I ever saw that wasn't kept up by a landscaping company. Big, old, gnarled, deep-rooted, storm-scarred, and imposing. That's probably not the right word, even if it fits from a five-year-old's perspective,

but the only other one I can think of is monstrous. And that doesn't fit at all even after what happened. I mean, this isn't a story about evil dead trees, so get that out of your mind right now. It was potent, I guess. Yeah, that's a good word. Something in that tree is potent, alive even. In a greater sense than xylem, phloem, photosynthesis, and the carbon cycle. I was still tumbling that potency over in my mind when Tad showed me the goofy, big-butted

character he made of mom on a big space of bark just above the third rough level of branches and back. That made me laugh. I mean, it still does, which is good. I don't laugh much anymore when I think of mom or dad or blaine. Oh yeah, third thing. You're going to love this. It's called the picture tree because when I was a kid, anybody who pulled over jumped the fence and walked across Acres Field

could draw anything they wanted on it. Seriously, the picture tree used to be Blaine's unofficial graffiti spot to the eternal gratitude of the business district city hall in the town library. There was nothing anyone could do to stop it. Nobody owned the thing, and technically speaking, it wasn't on Ackers or the Forest Service's land, thanks to a little legal snafoo dating back to the 1860s, when the survey or alderman or whoever okayed the town plan

forgot to include the little sliver of hill that it stands on. It's been in legal limbo for over one and a half centuries now. And unless a team of lawyers wants to step in and clear the matter of, unlikely since the tree's now part of a government research outpost embedded in the late Mr. Hacker's field, it'll stay that way. Weird world, I guess. And the people of Blaine took full advantage of the weirdness. By the time I was 17, that tree was slathered in doodles, sketches, and murals from crown to trunk.

Saturated, more like. Even in places you couldn't reach without a climbing harness. Most of them carved years or even decades apart. Some big enough you could make them out from the highway. A few local companies had even tried putting their ads on it before the outcry made them teff. Nobody knows for sure when the whole thing started or who started it. My money is on some flower child back in the same. the 60s, or maybe two sweetheart, a generation earlier, who wanted to carve their initials

somewhere to immortalize a love that probably only lasted a few months. It might be a lot older than that, but I'm not sure. I checked the town archives and there's no mention of the tree until 1935 when the logging industry tried moving in. Oh, and another weird blane factoid. For whatever reason, they couldn't hack it. The biggest operation lasted about a year or two along the same forest line the trees on before it declared bankruptcy and pulled out. Depression era of financial woes? Probably. But after everything that's happened, I can't help but consider other possibilities. Most people in Blaine adored the tree. I was ambivalent. I'm not some edgy teenage I'm outside your system man way. It just didn't grab me like it seemed to grab everybody else. Sure,

it was nice having a small town curiosity that wasn't another Indian massacre or senseless hate crime. And the Blaine Hydeudlers, despite or perhaps of their moniker, were a damn good basketball team. But for whatever reason, the hubbub around the tree just seemed a bit obsessive. Almost everybody in town had scribbled something on it. Both my parents did, and a good number of the adults in my life, too, including Principal Howland. That guy hated everything fun. I knew at least one person in every class I had from kindergarten up who'd gone out to carve something on the tree, even if it was just the word ass and big death metal letters. You had guys talking about carving the names of chicks they'd done it with in the upper branches, old men reminiscing

about the blood oaths they'd signed with their buddies on the back of the trunk before going off to war, and even a few tourists passing through had made the little cutesy chicken scratches on some of the roots. The tree was like a tattooed Iggerzil, and its roots in Blaine went deep. For whatever reason, those roots never wound their way around me. no reason for it. Like the man saying, I never cared much. Until I met Catherine. Remember that love only lasting a few months thing I talked about earlier?

Well, mine lasted about a year and a half, and the only reason it happened was because I was outside the protective umbrella of the tree. I was never a total outcast in Blaine. But despite having two parents born and raised in town, I was no towny. Apart from basketball for the doodlers and some occasional extracurricular activities, nursing home duty, helping out the local food bank. I had no real rapport with anybody and next to no social life. My only close friends were Derek Menninger,

who moved away when I was nine, and Peter Langley, who started to hang with a different crowd, the picture crowd, let's say, by the time we entered middle school. Even when I screwed something up, like the time in fifth grade when I accidentally flipped my lunch tray over onto myself and spent the rest of the day spattered with hardened broccoli soup and cream cheese, it was was quickly forgotten. Imagine being born invisible and only being noticed whenever you made enough noise for people to hear you. That was what being in Blaine was like for me. I was invisible for 17 years before I met somebody else like that. Catherine didn't make any big entrance. She just showed up one day at Blaine High in the middle of my junior year right after winter break. I still don't

know how she managed it. As near as I can figure, her parents, if she even had them to begin, with would have been long dead by the time she came to Blaine, so I don't know who would set her up. Then again, people like her are good at pulling strings. She certainly gave mine a good tug. The student body didn't like her much. Like I said, concerning Blaineites, I was on the outs, but not an outcast. But with Catherine, things were different. It was an inarticulate thing, as most social arrangements are, but people definitely noticed her and were either weirded out or disliked her intensely. When pressed, most just called her a freak.

Teenagers are wonderful people, aren't they? Some were capable of going into long-winded detail. I remember the school nurse, Mrs. Benedetti, giving me some spiel one day after I landed wrong in my foot during practice about being wary of Catherine. You know, that she had the evil eye about her, something from the old country she remembered her mom telling her when she was a child. I nodded sagely and waited for her to refill the ice bag.

I probably should have listened. Because it turned out, I was perfectly poised to become Catherine's bestie-turned-romancer from the moment she arrived at Point High. It was kind of a kindred spirits thing. At least, that's what I tell myself to get to sleep at night. I was lonely, and she was lonely, too, even if she didn't admit it. I mean, nobody bullied Catherine, but I've got to believe ostracism gets to you no matter who you are. Believing that means believing she's at least nominally human.

and it's not like I had danger vision developed at that point. I mean, I was 17 out of my mind with hormones and no discernible taste. Why not go for her? It started simply enough the first day she sat with me at lunch. This seat taken? I still remember her what she looked like that first time I saw her. Olive's skin, not too skinny, not too fat, with willowy limbs and dark, dark hair, what poets call Jet Black hair.

Still can't place the color of her eyes, somewhere between blue and green. She wasn't dressed too ostentatiously, no spaghetti straps, piercing or whale-tail panties peeking out of the back of her jeans. But she sure as hell wouldn't be mistaken for someone like Kimberly Marin, who wore tan slacks in a colored shirt every day like she was prepping for her career as a White House intern. Catherine wore a dark green jacket over a light blue t-shirt, a most pristine jeans, a rarity for my time, and a little black skull cap, like a white white. Yarmaca, but fuzzy.

I was so surprised I didn't answer back right away. What finally came out was, yeah, right there. I didn't point at an empty seat next to me, thank goodness, but it was implied. She smiled. Catherine's smile was warm and inviting and really made me nervous even from the start. It was like you knew she was planning something,

but not too sure how it would go for you. Thanks. Without ceremony, she slid onto the bench, beside me. It was as simple as that. It turned out we shared a class, chemistry, with Mr. Martinson. So one day I asked for her help on a stoichiometry problem, which turned into study dates during free period. I started walking with her to the little rental shacks on the outskirts of town. Blaine's equivalent of the projects, a place where people my mother called Transients lived. I never saw or met her parents. Catherine told me they worked weird hours and got home late.

That would have been a red flag if I had thought about it too long, but hey, 17 and hormones. I can't remember when we started dating, but it was before summer break started. It seemed natural. I figured we could have a thing, maybe some good times we'd fondly remember. That would end up with graduation and me going off to college to find a soulmate. Turns out, dating Catherine would be the first and biggest mistake of my young life. Catherine was a witch. Stop laughing. I'm dead serious.

She practiced something that superficially resembled Wicca, maybe some kind of old right thing or whatever it is. It's real. I didn't think anything of that red flag either since religious beliefs were not a topic of discussion at my house. My mom was Catholic and my dad was Methodist, so they compromised by raising me nothing. But it was kind of cool.

She showed me a few basic reasons. rituals that dealt in crystals and some weird spells you wrote with your offhand. Freak the rest of the kids out, which for me was a bonus. Being the center of attention is pretty nice when most of the time people barely register you exist. Look, I already told you this relationship was doomed from the start. Catherine and I were only boyfriend and girlfriend for the year and a half she stayed in Blaine.

I emphasized boyfriend and girlfriend because it was painfully obvious in retrospect what she was after. She was scoping the place out, probing for her. her weaknesses. And when she couldn't find an inn with anybody else, she found a sucker. I was her tour guide to the inner workings of Blaine. And to this day, I still don't know why everyone else circled the wagons, but my guess is the tree had something to do with it. It was protecting the town like a white blood cell protects a body from disease. I also don't know why Catherine chose to mess with a tree. Maybe she was just looking for something important she

could break or hell for some fun. Pretty fucked up fun if you ask me, based on how it turned out, but I could relate at that age. I'm still raw over one of the few bullying incidents in my life. Back in middle school, three guys from the football team cornered me and strapped me with cargo ties to a lamppost behind the bleachers. It took me three fucking hours to get down by myself. I told that to Catherine, naively expecting sympathy, but she laughed. Maybe she generally thought it was funny. Maybe she thought they were funny. I didn't ask and I didn't plan to if or when I see it again. It makes me pissed off even talking about that. Even now I've scratched over the lines on this page three times trying to get it down. She just used me like I was a patsy. I was. I totally

was. God damn, Catherine. Okay, focus. So it was late August going to my senior year when Catherine asked about the picture tree. I told her everything I knew, and when I finished her eyes, well, you hear people using expression lit up, but I swear with Catherine, it happened literally. It was like they had a flashlight behind them for a fraction of a second. I had brushed it off, running theme for me, and she asked if there were any big, clean spaces left on it. I told her I didn't know, and she frowned, a rarity with Catherine, and she was a smiler, and told me to take her to it. Of course I did. I hadn't gotten to. unlaid yet, so what else could I do? We went around sunset. I can't remember the exact day,

probably two weeks or so before school reopened. Nobody else was at the tree. The red sun had morphed it into a giant, twisted, prong-armed black sentinel standing guard over its little patch of forest. It was the first time I'd ever been out to it by my own accord, and up until then I'd never realized just how imposing the thing was. Yeah, turns out that's the right word. It was like a bouncer, a guardian, big and brawny, keeping watch over the little town of Blaine and its good people for reasons entirely its own. Catherine was totally serious as we walked around the tree, another novel emotion, like she was a scientist probing a new specimen. She was reluctant to approach at first, a little afraid even, but after a few minutes she passed within the dirt circle and began muttering, running her hands over the carvings in the bark, squinting to see the smaller and older one.

underneath. When I tried to speak, she shushed me. I hung back and tried not to feel useless, keeping watch as the dark in the forest beyond Acres Field turned pitch black. I imagined hungry animals for some reason, bears, wolves, monsters without names, hiding in the underbrush, waiting for us to drop our guard so they could come out and hunt. It was well after sunset when she finally told me what to do. With a flashlight in her hand, she pointed at a little patch of bear tree near the tallest branch. There. We could carve something really cool right there.

What do you have in mind? Wait, don't tell me, the dick. She didn't laugh. A special symbol. A sigil. Something that'll make fun stuff happen. I'll need to get it ready, though. It'll take time.

How much time? Probably a few weeks. Maybe longer. She took my hand. Thanks for bringing me out here, Jake. I appreciate it. You're a really special guy. Then she kissed me, and that sealed it.

I was surprised. It took Catherine only half a week to come up with the sigil. It's difficult to describe without a picture, but it's like some kind of weird knitting pattern or Celtic knot collapsed in on itself. A web of symmetrical loops and crosses all around the outside with chaos in the middle. I've done plenty of research,

but haven't seen anything like, it since. I suppose it's the ironic twist to this whole thing, but that'll come later. She told me to climb the tree and carve it into the topmost bow she'd identified with the flashlight. And then I can give you a little reward. I knew what that meant. Horny teenager, remember? So I did it. In mid-September, on the first Saturday I had off from practice, I went out to the tree alone. Catherine told me she couldn't do it herself. It had to be someone who knew the land. land. I believed her and still believed that only a Blaineite, albeit one whose connection was a bit buggy, could hurt the tree in the way I heard it then. Climbing the tree took the better part of two hours. The branches were sturdy, and only on occasion did my sneaker slip and threatened to throw me off the narrower perches I chose as I rose higher and higher above the ground.

I tried my best not to imagine being thrown off and falling headfirst onto the top soil below to nourish the tree with torn flesh and leaking blood. Well, tried and failed more often than not. Watching the drawings on the tree grow fewer and fewer the higher I climbed. Around noon, I made it to the little branch. My pocket knife was the carving implement. The notebook page Catherine had drawn the symbol on slapped across my left thigh. I unfolded both and started gouging the symbol into the woods. Nothing happened when I did.

No screams of the dam, no hateful laughter or rueful moan sounded my ears. I always figured black magic was a little showier. I mean, it is, but not in the way you expect. By the time I finished, according to Catherine, that carving had to go deep. It was getting to be late afternoon. Climbing down from the tree without breaking my legs or skull during the golden hour was surprisingly easy. I only looked back at the tree once as I made my way back across Acres Field to the road. Somehow it didn't look like a tree anymore.

It looked more like a big half-shattered tombstone. I wanted to meet up with Catherine to try and make things happen, but high-impact workouts and booty calls rarely mix. All I wanted was to go home, shower, and nap. Mom and Dad were off on a flea market excursion the next town over, so I had the house to myself. Man, I must have slept till nighttime, because even though I never saw Catherine again,

I did get a visitor showing up at my room, something that was nude and live and very eager. It might have been, Catherine, or someone else entirely, but all I know for sure is I was petrified in place while she or it, something, did some damn good work on me. I passed out again well before it was finished. It wasn't the first time of my life. Stranger as it sounds, that honor goes to Kim Maren to her returnal show. but it was the best. They call it Le Petit More in French, and now I know why, because I was like I was dying every second.

For all I know, maybe I did, and this is my afterlife. Pretty fitting afterlife for a horny chode, I gotta say. Things were very different in Blaine when I woke up Monday morning two days later, and I could tell right away because I was roped to my bed with jumper cables, still naked and very He sore. I'm sure of whether or not anything that had happened was real. I did my best to get cleaned up and ready for school, which was a shame because there wasn't any.

Mom and dad weren't at breakfast. Mr. Parson, our 75-year-old next-door neighbor, wasn't out weeding his garden, and the crosswalk guy who helps guide people across the street in front of my school was taking a sick day. At least 20 kids were missing from my homeroom class, and so was Mrs. Keller, our homeroom teacher. The rest were deeply reared it out about something and about me.

People in the hall refused to talk to me or even make eye contact. A few murmured words under the breath. Not exactly a normal day. And then the cops came. They were deputies for the county sheriff, and they walked me out of school and put me in the back of the town's only cruiser. The precinct was near the interstate, so on the way there we passed by the picture tree,

except now it was covered by Paul Bunyan's beach towel, a blue tarp that hid the whole trunk. They couldn't cover the branches or the field, and both were stained or soaked more like with red and blue, and green and orange and yellow and black and every other hue imaginable, an entire rainbow's worth of color flooded down onto it in a delta straight out from the roots. I got the worst two surprises of my life at the sheriff's office. The first was a government parapsych officer telling me I was now in their custody. They asked a battery of questions more confusing than the SATs about who I'd been seeing, what she'd asked for, what I did, and other embarrassing stuff about our intimacy.

And when that was over, I got the truth. But not the whole thing. I still haven't seen pictures, and I don't want to, because the carefully worded government ease they used to maintain my sanity was enough to give me nightmares. Long story short, a lot of people I knew were in serious herd, my parents included. 90% of Blaine, almost everyone in town who'd drawn something on the picture tree had become affixed to its surface, twisted around and melded to it as if they were made of warm rubber, and more than two-thirds were still alive.

They occupied the exact spots on the bark where they had made their marks. Naturally, that meant most people were lumped together, commingling and fleshy demolition derbies of pain and suffering. The colors I had seen in the field were part of some magical discharge epithenomenon, a release of human spiritual byproduct coupled with whatever was inside the tree. Tears in my eyes, breath hitching, I asked if they had Catherine in custody. They said no, and that she was gone. Before skipping town, she had carved her own message on the wall of her now vacated apartment. For a good time, called Jake Hamlin.

No longer, Jake Hamlin, and I no longer live in Blaine, or California, for that matter. Boston is my home now, about as far from the West Coast as you can get without leaving the good old USA. It's been 16 years since I got yanked out of that town like a loose tooth. I haven't seen anyone from it since. and don't want to, not with the shape they're in. I don't have so much bad memories of them as bad dreams. Sixteen years worth of bad dreams, involving people I've known and cared for my whole life

folded around a tree trunk like string cheese. The case file is still hot. Catherine's apparently been on their radar for years, which meant once the department was sure I was an unwitting accomplice slash sucker, I got passed along to my aunt living in Cleveland, and on to Wittsack when I turned 18. To this day, I'm under monitoring in case Catherine ever tries to make contact again. I don't think that's likely.

Con artists don't travel down memory lane too often, and I wasn't even a mark. Just some Randy teenage nobody who was dumb enough to do her bidding. Look, I'm not looking forward to leaving Boston, but something has to be done. I'm going crazy thinking about this. I'll leave this recording on the kitchen counter for my agent to puzzle over. You're a good guy, Chris. blame yourself. Oh, and ask Stacy out first chance you get. The worst you can do is better than what happened to me. A half-full gas can in the back of my car should be enough to get the party

started once I get to California. The picture tree had a good run, but it's poison now, and I help poison it. I don't know how the project's going, but who knows? Maybe I'll set everyone free from this nightmare. I hope my parents at least will be at peace. It'll be a long drive. It'll be a long drive. On the way, I'll keep studying. Wicca has a lot of intricacies to it, and there are countercurses. It's a pretty steep hill for a guy who isn't sure he believes in God to climb, but I'm doing it. In the process, I found out a lot about my ex.

For one thing, she's apparently way older than she said she was, and possibly not even human. The last thing to consider, I've learned the hard way there's always room for a plan B. When I see Catherine, I'm going to have some choice, words for her. One of them is Dryad. Another is imprisonment. If she wants a close-up look at the picture tree, she can damn well have it for the rest of her unnatural life. Signed, doodled, John Holland, aka J. Camelin, Boston, Massachusetts. If you live in a city big enough, you likely

have used a car service at least once. Whether it's the good old taxi cabs or the Uber's and lifts of the world, you know what it's like to have a car pick you up and take you to your destination. If you're lucky, it's a safe and uneventful ride. But in this tale, shared with us by author Ash Phoenix, we meet a driver who has a dire warning for his fellow drivers. It involves a passenger you should avoid at all costs. Performing this tale are Andy Cresswell, Jake Benson, James Cleveland, and David Alt. So remember to rate your driver kindly and fairly. The worst thing you can do is give one star.

This is a warning. To all those who drive taxis, Uber, lift, or who vary people from place to place for a living, please heed my caution and pass these words along to those who need to hear them. They could be in grave danger. They need to be made aware of this threat. I narrowly escaped with a few broken bones. My co-worker was not so lucky. When I first collected that client, I had no reason to suspect anything sinister.

We really do serve all walks of life driving the city routes at night, from actors lying low to low life's acting up and everything in between. This guy sat in a dead zone on my social radar, late teens or early 20s, Blue jeans, slate grey hoodie drawn up, black trainers, black backpack, nothing branded, all plain. The definition of anonymity. He asked me to drive straight. Didn't specify a destination. He slumped forwards a little and kept his head down for the whole journey.

All three minutes of it. I tried to spark up a conversation, but the guy was a vacuum. Busy night. Yes. Where are you headed? Along here. Where are you from? Elsewhere.

Nothing unusual in that, in and of itself. We're an especially sociable species, drivers. But we respect that not everyone works the same way. Some distance along the road he asked me to stop, paid and got out. No thanks, no acknowledgement. Transactional. I thought little of it until I collected my next fare, a poorly shaved 30-something middle manager riding high on powder and a promotion.

In the midst of his excited rambling, he let out a sudden yelp, like a kick puppy. There's blood back here? He lifted his foot from the floor to look more closely. You can get blood out of suede, right? I didn't know, but I already had plenty of experience washing it out. out of my car. Five years of city routes will do that. What I couldn't grasp was where that blood came from. It had been an uneventful shift. No drama, no bar brawls, no hospital trips, and yet here in the footwell sat an undeniable puddle of violence. I was talking it through with

the other drivers at the depot when one chimed in to say my story sounded familiar. They suggested I speak to Doug about it. A quick word about Doug. Scummy. That's the quick word. His uncle owns the taxi firm, so he feels like he can get away with a lot of sketchy stuff. Free rides and spy cameras, that's sort of sketchy. Sure enough, he dragged me over to the company computer station as soon as he heard my story, telling me I needed to see something. In two minutes, he'd flick through files and folders more organized in the firm's accounts and pulled up a grainy recording. From the angle we were looking at, the camera must have been embedded low down in the back door of Doug's taxi. If we had an HR department, they would have had a field day with Doug and his

niche interests. I'd tried to ignore his commentary about the ankles on show and who they were attached to and encouraged him to fast forward through the day. Sure enough, a pair of nondescript black Trainers slid into view, with a black backpack dropping between them and the far door. My mystery rider was on board. Wait till you see what he does, it's messed up. The passenger reached into his backpack with a gloved hand as a car started to move. Out came two items, adding fuel to my burning intrigue. First, a bundle of straw in the vague form of a doll.

the limbs and chest tightly bound with red ribbon. Second, a set of garden scissors. This is messed up, man. I couldn't tell if his tone was masking discomfort or if he was genuinely enjoying this footage. On the screen, the figure pulled off one of his gloves to reveal a hand wrapped in scarlet smeared bandages, which he began to quickly unravel.

A knot formed in my stomach as I saw that he was missing the two shorter fingers on his left hand. The wounds were bright red, raw and recent. The doll was dropped into the footwell, and he held his stumps over it. Steady-handed, he slipped the blades of the garden scissors around the base of his middle finger and closed them. He directed the ensuing flow of blood directly over the straw. dull. I don't know how long my hand had been clamped around my mouth for. Doug was watching me with gritted teeth as he stopped the video. We stayed silent for a while, soaking in the horror of this

experience. My skin felt ready to crawl off my shoulders. After what felt like an hour, I picked up the company phone. The police didn't want to know. All they offered was a welfare check, but with no identifying features and no way of figuring out this guy's address, the idea was quickly dropped. Let us know if anything else happens, they said. A token gesture. In reality, we were on our own with this. I called around every taxi firm operating in the local area.

Someone else must have seen him. He'd clearly removed two of his fingers before getting into Doug's car to take the third and a fourth in mind. The message was passed to. round. I hardly slept before signing on from the next shift, dragging myself to the depot like a boulder was tied to each ankle. Doug was waiting for me at the office door, bags under his manic eyes, stinking of sweat and cigarettes. I doubt he'd fared much better overnight. He said he had news, and I saw he'd been busy. On the office wall hung a massive map of the city, of all. Of

which Doug had drawn four thick red lines. He'd heard back from two other companies about the missing trips and had plotted their routes over the map. They overlapped at regular intervals. An enormous pentagram was being painted across the city in blood. One line was remaining. Doug told me the lines had been drawn on consecutive nights. We could see where this kid was going to draw next, and it was going to be tonight. He told me he'd already pleaded with the police for help but was dismissed. He asked for my help in putting a stop to whatever this kid was trying to do. Truth be told, I had no idea what was going on.

Some sort of ritual? An art project? Political activism? Regardless, it fell wrong. It felt sinister. And we were the only people in the position to do anything about it. Um, we had to move quickly. We left without even discussing a plan. I radioed the rest of our working drivers and called every other company in the area while Doug drove us to the start of the fifth line. We scanned the street for any sign of our mystery man. Chances were he was going to be wearing the same get-up, dark and anonymous, hood raised, with that black rucksack. It was a busy part of the city at that time. a night. Bars were taken in and turning out in equal measure. The traffic flow was a steady river, pedestrians weaving through like spawning salmon fighting a current, either blinkered by a haze of booze and drugs or keeping their heads down for fear of being noticed by the first group. Still, it barely took five minutes to spot him. Doug was out of the cab and darting between cars before I'd undone

my seatbelt. He wasn't subtle in it. his approach and the kid took off with a sprint. I barged my way past pedestrians, trying to keep them both in sight. Maybe it was the blood loss, but the kid didn't have much of a lead. They disappeared into an alley between two shops closed for the night. My phone was ringing as I rounded the corner after them. Doug was looming over the kid. His fists clenched. The kid was on the floor, his nose bloody, feebly scrambling away from his assailant between two industrial bins. Doug took another step. I shouted at his name to stop him in his tracks. He looked back over his shoulder at me, adrenaline nodding his features into a furious snarl. I held up a hand,

signaling for him to hold off as I took the call. The kid wasn't going anywhere. It was another driver on the phone, working for a different company. They'd been given my number by their boss who told them to keep an eye out for our sinister passenger. They'd found him. They'd dropped him off a few minutes ago. After a wordless, straight line journey, they found blood in the foot well. My words caught in my throat. We had been waiting on the wrong side of the line. The massive blood-painted star sigil had already been completed. I didn't know what that meant, but I felt the deep and primal fear gripped my stomach. Behind Doug, the kid was reaching into his bag with his good hand, muttering something unintelligible.

He poured out that scarlet-stained straw doll and threw it across the floor. It landed at Doug's feet. I've been telling myself that what happened next only took a few seconds. I've been telling myself that freezing in the face of danger is a natural response. I could have rushed to help, Doug. I could have ran to seek help. I didn't. I froze.

Maybe I was struggling to make sense of what I was watching. Maybe I was watching my whole understanding of the world unraveled. the flailing threads bearing a darker and more intangible reality than the design they first presented. The straw doll reached up and grabbed Doug's ankle. Its little fist was growing. Its grip clearly tightening as Doug let out a stream of shrill profanity. It stood, its shoulders rising to the height of Doug's and beyond. It lifted its size.

massive arm, holding Doug aloft by his ankle, his head and flailing arms fully twice his own height above the concrete. Still, the thing was swelling, the bulk of its straw shoulders, trying the limits of the alleyway. The kid was clinging to this creature's back as it expanded, whispering at the side of its head. It looked like it was feeding off his words, taking nourishment. Doug's panic. It shouts gave way to a wild shriek of a scream as the thing took hold of his other leg, pulling them apart with a steady, deliberate motion. Doug's torso gave way like torn tissue paper, offering little resistance to this creature's immense strength.

Vane spasms of life shook his two halves. Their jagged split spilling crimson and yellow. Warm blood splashed my face from the impact of his organs on the concrete. I stared aghast at this blood-stained colossus of straw and its hooded rider. My feet were anchored to the floor. But the legs of this giant were not so shackled. I watched transfixed as it raised an enormous limb of straw and brought it down upon me. as if crushing a bug and a foot.

I am told I was unconscious for three days. Both my arms were broken in multiple places. My left leg had an open fracture. I broke three ribs and both shoulders. Somehow, I survived. The investigation in the Doug's death is officially still ongoing. Of course, the police didn't believe my story in the least, but it was even less likely that I'd have been able to rip my co-worker in half

and then crush myself as a cover story. The footage from Doug's car and corroborating testimony from several other drivers was enough to point them in the direction of our fingerless passenger, and I gather they found his blood at the scene. But so far, there's no sign of him or his straw gollum. This is ultimately a warning. to all of you who ferry people around for a living. Be cautious who you pick up

and what they get up to in the back. The blood in the footwell, the straight line journey to nowhere. If any of this sounds familiar, call the police or contact me directly. Now that the kid knows this thing works, there's no telling what could happen next or where. Stay safe.

These days, technology has done, a lot to make us feel safe and secure in our own homes. Cameras in our doorbells, our homes wired for intruders, all manner of devices to keep the bad guys away. But in this tale, shared with us by author K.G. Lewis, we meet a couple testing out a new security system, and it's safe to say that this service uses more than technology to protect them. Performing this tale with me are Mary Murphy, Kyle Acres, Atticus Jackson, Jackson, David Alt, Aaron Lillis, Graham Rowett, and Jeff Clement. So understand that security means it's both the bad guys and yourself who are under surveillance.

My phone began to rhythmically chime and buzz, startling me awake. I picked it up from the nightstand and had to wait for my eyes to adjust to the brightness of the screen before I could figure out why it was making all that racket. Two words, written in flashing red letters, scrolled across the screen of my phone. Intruder alert, intruder alert, intruder alert. The phone continued to vibrate and chime in my hand. I jumped out of bed. This is really happening.

What's going on? My wife, Elity, rolled over from the other side of the bed. The phone had woken her up, too. Someone's trying to break into the house. I showed her the message flashing on the screen of my phone. What? She propped herself up on her elbow and stared at me. Why aren't you calling the police?

We signed a contract, remember? Shortly after we moved into the neighborhood, Elity and I were approached by a new home security company, asking us if we'd be willing to help them test out their new security systems. If we did, they'd pay us $100,000, and we'd only have to use the system for a year. It seemed like easy money, so we agreed. If we want that money,

I opened the drawer in my nightstand, searching for the card the security company had given us. We have to follow the protocols they gave us. Once I found the laminated card, I pulled it out and examined it. On the back of it was the company logo, Chimera Systems, along with their phone number. On the front was a magnetic strip with the following instructions.

In the event of an intruder alert, proceed to the safe room. Below that was the following series of numbers. 3733366. Let's go. I said to Elity, carrying the card over to the swipe pad that had been mounted on the bedroom wall. This better work. The first time I had tried to use the card, which was the day after they'd installed the system, it didn't register.

When I contacted Chimera Systems customer support line, I was told that the swipe pad only works when there is an active intruder alert. I argued with them about how stupid that was, and they responded by reminding me that I had signed a contract to abide by the system's parameters, and that if I no longer wished to do that, they would gladly remove it and find someone else that would. Not wanting to lose out on that $100,000 payday,

I quickly shut my mouth. There was a little red light on the swipe pad. As soon as I swiped the card through it, there was a beep, and then the light turned green. Right after, the door to the safe room, which was made to look like part of the bedroom wall, popped open. Once the door swung open, a signal must have been sent to my phone because it stopped broadcasting the intruder alert. The absence of the alarm made the room eerily quiet all of a sudden. I motioned for Ality to enter the safe room before me and then followed her, shutting the door behind me. I had been assured by the security company that the likelihood of an intruder finding the hidden door was slim,

but if they did, there was little they could do to open it. What's all this? Ality motioned at the bank of monitors on the wall of the safe room, each one showing a live video feed of a different room in our home. Did you know they put cameras in our house? No, I didn't. And I wasn't concerned about that at the moment. I was more concerned with the three men I saw pictured in the bottom right screen.

That's the basement, right? I pointed at the monitor. Looks like it. The three men must have come in through the bulkhead door on the side of the house. What's up with that guy? Elity leaned in close to the monitor showing the basement. Two of the three men were on the basement. and stairs, making their way up to the kitchen.

While the third guy was just standing there in the corner of the room, staring up at the camera with a smirk on his face. Yeah, there's something different about him. I leaned in next to her so I could see better. It looks like he's wearing a robe. She wasn't referring to a bathrobe. She was talking about the kind of robe monks would wear. The other two guys, who had made their way into the kitchen,

were wearing hoodies and jeans. My phone rang, causing Elity to jump back and yelp. Jesus Christ, that scared the shit out of me. It's the security company. I showed her the caller ID. Answer it. I swiped my finger across the screen to accept the call. Hello?

Hello, Mr. Hale. My name is Brian. I'm a support agent with Chimera Systems. I'm calling you because your intrude alert system has been activated. Since this is the first time that's happened, I'm going to walk you through the operation of your system. system, but first I need to ask you a couple questions. Okay. Are the intruders still in the house? I looked at the monitors and watched as the two men left the kitchen and entered the

living room. Yes, they are. How many intruders are there? Uh, three, two in the living room and one down in the basement. I looked at the basement monitor briefly to see if the third man was still standing there, staring at the camera. He was. Your basement is not an intruder.

Thing? What? thing. The rope figure you're seeing is your security system. I didn't know how to respond to that. Are you still there, Mr. Hale? Uh, yeah, yeah, I'm here. How can he be the security system? I'm afraid I can't give you any more details than I already have. The rest is proprietary information. Proprietary information? I wanted to know who that person was and what they were doing in my house. I opened my mouth to protest, but Brian stopped me before I could get a word out. I know you have a lot of questions, Mr. Hale, but you signed a contract.

If you don't want to be in breach of that contract, we need to proceed with the activation of your system. I took a deep breath and exhaled. Fine. Is there anyone else in the house besides the intruders? Just my wife and me. Is she in the safe room with you? Yes. Any pets?

We don't have any pets. Then we are ready to proceed to the next. step. Do you see the tablet? Yeah, I see it. There was a narrow desk pushed up against the wall beneath the monitors. Lying on it, plugged in, and charging was a tablet. On the card you used to access the safe room is a seven-digit code. Use that code to unlock the tablet. As he waited for me to comply, he continued. If you can't get the tablet to work, I can show you how to access the system with your smartphone. I tapped the screen of the tablet, waking it up, and then did as he instructed. Okay, it's unlocked. On the upper left hand of the screen should be a system status icon.

The icon should show that the surveillance system is active. Yeah, it does. I need you to toggle the status so that it is inactive. Won't that turn off the cameras? It will. And then your security system will be armed. That doesn't make any sense. Shouldn't we keep the cameras on so we can keep track of the people who broke in? This system isn't like the ones you're familiar with. It's something new and unique. That's why we asked you to be part of our test group. Just turn off the cameras.

Elity had evidently gotten tired of listening to the exchange between Brian and me. I tapped the corner of the screen. The status indicator for the surveillance system now said inactive. As soon as I had done that, all the monitors on the wall went black. Okay, what now? Now we wait. A few moments later, we heard someone run into the room and slam the door shut. They're in our bedroom.

Something suddenly banged against the wall, startling the two of us. Please don't hurt me. There was no reply. I'll leave. The rest of what he was going to say became one long, choking gasp. And then there was silence. Elity and I looked at each other. Mr. Hale.

Ryan's voice sounded far away. Mr. Hale. I looked down at the phone. Mr. Hale. I lifted the phone to my ear. Yeah, I'm here. I just got the all-clear notification. You may turn the cameras back on.

I reached out with a shaky hand and tapped the screen toggling the surveillance status button from inactive to active. The monitors came back online. Elity yelped and pointed at one of the screens. He's in our bedroom. The two of us stared at the monitor and watched as the robed figure turned to face the camera. The intruders are gone. You can leave the safe room now.

What? No, we are not going anywhere with that thing out there. That's what Brian had called it. A thing, not a man. The security system cannot harm you as long as the surveillance system is active. When I didn't respond, he said. It's been in your house for the past six months, and nothing has happened to you. You have my assurance. No harm will come to you or your wife. What is it? We've been over this, Mr. Hale. I can't divulge that information.

What I can tell you is that tomorrow morning, a representative from chimera systems will be stopping by your home with a check for $100,000. But it hasn't been a year yet. You didn't read the fight print, did you? The terms for your contract were for one year or until your system was activated. Since the system was just activated, you fulfilled the terms of the contract. Really? And if you'd like, we can remove the system from your home if it makes you uncomfortable. Just keep in mind that the non-disclosure agreement you signed means you're barred from ever discussing the system with anyone outside the company.

I'm okay with that. I had already made up my mind to get rid of the system ASAP. Is it safe to go out? He said it's safe as long as the surveillance system is on. I nodded toward the monitors. Well, then, let's go. I'm starting to feel claustrophobic in here. Are you sure it's okay to leave the safe room?

I asked Brian while looking at the robed figure on the monitor. I'm positive. If you like, I can stay on the line while you check for yourself. Um, how would I do that? You said the security system is in your bedroom, right? Open the safe room door and take a look around. If you can't see the system, then you're in the clear. I walked over to the safe room door.

and eased it open far enough to peek out. The bedroom was completely empty. Where'd the intruder go? Something had happened to him while he was in our room. Elity and I heard it, but I didn't see any evidence that he was ever there. I stepped back and looked at the monitors, checking all the camera feeds.

The intruders were nowhere to be found. Maybe they left. What happened to them? Intruders, all I can tell you, and that's all you need to know. What if they come back? I had a million questions I wanted to ask him, but I knew he wasn't going to answer any of them in any meaningful way, so I kept them to myself.

If there's nothing else I can do to help you, I'm going to let you go now. Should you find that you need further assistance, you can reach to set the number on the front of your access card. He hung up before I could respond. I took a step out into the bedroom and waited to see if anything would happen. When nothing did, I took another step, and then another, until I was standing in the middle of the room. I called out to Elity. It's okay. You can come out now.

When she didn't appear in the doorway, I called out again. There was still no response from her. Elity? I started to walk towards the safe room door, only to have it slammed in my face. Open the door, Elity! I slapped the wall with the flat of my hand. Why'd she lock me out? I got the answer to my question

when I heard something hiss behind me. Intruda. I whirled around and found myself face to face with the robed figure. The representative from Chimira Systems pulled a check out of his briefcase and slid it across the table towards Elity. $150,000?

She was surprised to see the amount. She was only expecting a check for $100,000. The extra $50,000 is a bonus from our quality control team for bringing to light a flaw in our system. The representative closed his briefcase. A technician stepped into the room and nodded to him. We're all done here. After what Mrs. Hale had done to her husband, the executives of Chimera Systems had decided to pull the plug on the current testing cycle

so that a resident recognition program could be installed to the surveillance system, preventing it from being disabled if one of the residents was outside of the safe room. The representative stood, picking up his briefcase in the process. We'll show ourselves out. That's it? Elody got to her feet. She'd expected some kind of punishment for what she'd done to her husband, not a reward. That's it, provided you stick to the script.

He pointed at the document on the table in front of her, inside of which was a detailed story concocted by Chimera Systems' loss prevention team, explaining the disappearance of her husband. Elidae picked up the check and smiled. As the train 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 Sleeppot 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, ad-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. 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.