The NoSleep Podcast - S21 Ep4: NoSleep Podcast S21E04

Episode Date: May 26, 2024

It's Episode 04 of Season 21. Ride the Sleepless Express into tales about medical malevolence!"Abdominoplasty" written by A.L. Simpkins (Story starts around 00:04:15)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Erin Lillis, Heather - Kristen DiMercurio, Receptionist - Nichole Goodnight, Charlotte - Ella Boone, Ryan - Mike DelGaudio, Assistant - Wafiyyah White, Specialist - Atticus Jackson"Lull Me to Sleep with Visions and Venom" written by Emilee Prado (Story starts around 00:19:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Sienna - Sarah Thomas, Dr. Tsutsumi - Marie Westbrook, Lou - Jeff Clement"Tonsillectomy" written by Sarah Robina Nicholson (Story starts around 00:48:05)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Hazel - Ash Millman, Kirsty - Penny Scott-Andrews, Porter - James Cleveland"Deus Deceptor" written by A.V. Greene (Story starts around 00:54:00)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Jessica McEvoy"Rattlebones" written by Thomas E. Staples (Story starts around 01:10:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Honor - Erika Sanderson, Mother - Penny Scott-Andrews, Lauren - Linsay Rousseau, Rory - David Ault, Nurse - Ash Millman, Bodyguard - James Cleveland"See Kamp, et al" written by Ann O'Mara Heyward (Story starts around 01:34:45)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Dr. Mallory - Nikolle Doolin, Richard - David Cummings, Nurse #1 - Jeff Clement, Nurse #2 - Kristen DiMercurio, Dr. Thompson - Graham Rowat, Anesthetist - Marie Westbrook, Ben - Mike DelGaudio, Dr. Crow - Jesse Cornett, Dr. Chiwa - Danielle McRae, Davante's Mother - Wafiyyah White, Davante's Father - Atticus JacksonThis episode is sponsored by:GhostBed – Get ready for the coolest beds in the world! GhostBed provides high-quality & super comfortable award-winning mattresses crafted in the United States and Canada. Get 50% off your purchase by going to GhostBed.com/nosleepBetterhelp – 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 René Rehn's new novel, "New Haven"Click here to learn more about A.V. GreeneExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"Lull Me to Sleep with Visions and Venom" illustration courtesy of Krys HookuhAudio 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.

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. I'm sure we've all heard stories, be they real or fictional, of a medical emergency on an airplane. Cries ring out. Is there a doctor on board? But you don't often hear

those stories taking place on a train. So I'm going to rectify that serious problem this week by combining our ghostly, sleepless express train with all manner of physicians. Yes, there will be plenty of doctors on our sleepless journey. But as you might anticipate, the doctors aboard our train won't necessarily be the most comforting. But something that can be comforting while on a train is a good book to read. And I have a ripping good book to recommend to you from friend of the show and frequent contributor, René Rain. His new novel is out now, and it's titled New Haven. Tragedy strikes in the small, town of New Haven, Minnesota, when the pastor's daughter, Claire Owens, is found dead.

Ethan Miller, the town's only self-proclaimed atheist, enlists the help of sheltered Christian boy, David Sullivan, to unravel the secrets hidden beneath the town's picture-perfect facade. As they dig deeper, doubts and dark truths emerge. Can they expose New Haven's secrets, and if so, at what cost? New Haven is a slow-burn horror mystery novel about faith, deception, and the dangerous secrets within the heart of small isolated communities. And we soon learn that some secrets are best left buried or they might consume you. Check the show notes for a link to where you can acquire and visit New Haven. It's just what the doctor ordered.

So, yes, doctors are vital to our health. We turn to them when we're ill or ill. suffering conditions that need some sort of cure or relief. We want them to help us. But when you think about putting your body and perhaps your very life in the hands of these professionals, well, you can start to understand why many people have a fear of physicians. Even when they try their best, there can be serious complications. And if the doctor is motivated not by the Hippocratic Oath, but by their own malevolent desires, well, try not to think about that as the Anesthesia starts to take effect.

So all we can do is wish you good health. After all, it's a long journey. And now, the train is ready to depart. Your journey into the darkness begins now. In our first tale, we meet Heather, a woman who has moved to L.A., and let's be honest, in L.A., there is tremendous pressure to look good with all those beautiful people around. But in this tale, shared with us by author A. L. Simpkins, Heather's efforts to look good involve a bit of medical assistance, or perhaps

more than a bit. Performing this tale are Aaron Lillis, Kristen DiMacurio, Nicole Goodnight, Ella Boone, Mike Delgado, Wafia White, and Atticus Jackson. So try not to be so critical of your That way you might not have to resort to abdominal plastic. Heather sat in a whitewashed room, fluorescent hospital lighting draining her face of any color that remained. She internally groaned as the receptionist gave her the prep instructions for her procedure, as if she had never had one before. Far from it, in fact.

No eating after 10 p.m. tonight, water is okay. Heather was somewhat of a cosmetic enhancement veteran. The move from her small hometown to L.A. had been a hard culture shock. Everywhere she turned, there were picture-perfect bodies and faces, serving her side eye at the grocery store and the DMV, as if she were trash littering their glamorous town. Don't take any of your typical medications beforehand. Bring them with you here in the morning. As a result, she had vampired her facials, threaded her eyebrows, reconstructed everything from her nose to her breasts. No longer would she be a real housewife of Fatlanta, or whatever other ridiculous names they whispered about her behind her back

in the well-to-do mommy groups she hated so desperately, but could never bring herself to quit. There was only one thing left to tuck, and that was her tummy. She was beyond ready for it. We have called your antibiotics into the pharmacy. If you have any questions, you can look through this booklet or call our office directly. Heather took the packet of information from the receptionist. thanked her and headed to her car.

Every body is a summer body, the billboard picturing round, postpartum bodies read above her as she pulled out of the parking lot. But she had never gotten used to the sagging skin, the wrinkles in every cranny as she held her baby girl in the crook of her arm. She loved her daughter, loved her with everything she had. But that was where the pregnancy love ended. She remembered the first time the thought of a tummy tuck had crossed her mind. Charlotte was sprawled across her bed one afternoon.

At four years old, she was too old for nap time, but still needed unwinding time to avoid a three o'clock meltdown. It fared better for Heather's evenings to call it quiet time and scroll Facebook while she lay next to her daughter. Mommy, where's your belly button? Heather's shirt had slid up slightly on the blanket, and Charlotte studied it now. Right here, silly.

Heather poked it with her finger. But you can't see it. Charlotte pulled her shirt up to point at her own belly button. Mine sticks out. Heather looked at her own stomach, heart sinking. Yes, you have an outy. I have an innie. A voice whispered in the back of her mind.

You haven't always had an iny. Enough stomach fat will make anyone's belly button disappear. Postpartum weight, she thought in response. Everyone gains weight after having a baby. Four years later doesn't count as postpartum. No amount of explanations convinced Ryan that it was necessary. He stood in the door to their on-sweet bathroom, brushing his teeth before bed. I just don't understand. There's nothing wrong with the way that you look now.

She appreciated his flattery. She knew that Ryan's words were as genuine and true as the diamond on her ring finger. She knew that he believed completely in what he was saying, but that didn't mean she did. I would feel a lot better if I had this worked on. She smoothed down the duvet on her lap like she wanted to smooth her own skin. This is important to me. He got into bed next to her and put a hand under the covers, rubbing circles on the stretch marks of her inner thigh.

If this is what you want, then I support that. But don't think for a minute that you need it. But she did need it, she had thought. She'd grown tired of wearing one-pieces and high-waisted bottoms, when taking Charlotte to the pool. She was tired of looking longingly at the pre-pregnancy clothes that hung in her closet, tantalizingly crisp and clean. She couldn't remember the last time she had worn anything

other than sweatpants and her husband's t-shirts. It was all she could fit at the moment. She had just wanted to be fixed. She had just wanted to be beautiful again. But now, as she was alone with her thoughts, unwrapped from her paper gown, she was regretting this decision. She had slowly awakened as the fog of anesthetic lifted slowly from her brain

to the feeling of poking and prodding and pulling at her skin, but muted and far away. Then to the realization that she was on the table and she couldn't open her eyes. Last, the sinking feeling in the bottom of her stomach when she realized that she couldn't move anything at all. She had heard of the rare instances of people who had accidentally been given a wrong dose of anesthesia and woken up mid-surgery. But this was even more horrifying

than she could have imagined. She was a prisoner in her own body. She prayed that the typically two-hour procedure would go faster than it was supposed to. She felt cold, so, so cold. The chill felt palpable, like liquid as it washed over her. It gave her a strange feeling of serenity,

shocking her senses into a cool calmness. She felt hands, massaging her as it slipped over her skin, no doubt with iodine or whatever disinfectant they used to keep her skin clean and sterile. The chemical smell stung her nose, but she couldn't decipher what it actually smelled like, just sharp and strong. She tried to flutter her eyelids to alert the surgeon that she could still feel it,

she could still feel all of it, but it was no use. Her eyelids felt stiff and hard, an insurmountable weight upon them from the anesthesia. She tried to scream, but her jaw felt wired shut. She felt fingers creeping up and down her arms, fingernails tapping along like spider legs. She was powerless to the sensation. She cringed again at the chemical smell piercing her nose

so pungent and unfamiliar. Then the pain. Sharp, cold, stinging pain, unlike anything she had ever felt. She was lucky enough to have a traditional birth with her daughter, never needing a C-section, but she imagined that this is what that felt like. A pointed blade slid under her skin

and cut around her abdomen. Dear God, this would better be worth it. She felt a squeeze on her arm and felt her muscles contract, almost twitch. Her fingers tightened around something warm and soft. Jesus Christ! She heard instruments clattering to the floor. Relax.

You squeeze an auxiliary vein. It caused the muscles to move. It felt like she grabbed my arm. She's not grabbing anything anytime soon. Anytime soon? That felt like a slight exaggeration. She could hear the receptionist's voice in her head again as her surgeons talked. This procedure will take about two hours.

Arrange for someone to drive you home afterward. But the receptionist hadn't said anything about the thick cream added to her face soon after the pain stopped, or of the sweet, soft powder that was laid on top of that. And she certainly had not said anything about being changed from the paper hospital gown to her ordinary clothes, a dress no less, stiff and starched, fresh from her closet, the very same she had eyed before she had left for this procedure, her very best dress. It was so nice, in fact, that she had decided upon buying it that it was reserved only for weddings and funerals. It hit her then, with the utmost brutality and finality.

The chemical smell that had lingered in her nostrils, she'd finally placed it. Formaldehyde. She didn't remember anything from the actual tummy tuck. She had heard the mortician and his student going back and forth, discussing how she had bled out on the surgery table, despite the procedure being fairly ruddy. and relatively safe. Terrible luck. The mortician had sighed, then went on teaching.

This is how we patch up scar tissue after rigor mortis. She pieced it together bit by bit, the poking and prodding, the liquid bath washing over her, her eyes permanently closed and her jaw wired shut. She did not suppose that she would have been able to move them anyway if she tried, with no blood rushing through her veins. no electrical impulses jumping from synapse to synapse in her brain. Still, she resented the fact that this was such a common procedure. It is torture that almost all humans will endure at some point in time, she realized.

Unless, her thoughts wandered to those who were cremated, or those lost in accidents, those who drowned and were never found at the bottom of the ocean, those murdered and hidden in ditches or under houses, do they linger? on forever like her? Do they feel the pain of their last moments over and over, not in their nerve endings, but in their very soul? The funeral was brutal. She heard the sniffles of her co-workers and the muffled sobs of her closest friends. She heard the quiet whispers from every single damned member of the mommy groups she had attended in life, and yes, they all showed up, to keep up appearances, no doubt. But the last visitor was what would have made

her blood run cold had she still had any. Her sweet, beautiful Charlotte approached the casket. She knew it was her immediately from the soft clicks that her plastic heels made on the carpet. Leave it to Ryan to let her wear play shoes to a funeral. Or a melancholy voice in the back of her head reminded her, he's too broken to fight with her to change them. She felt a pain where her heart should be. The plastic clacking grew closer. with the thud of leather dress shoes close behind. Oh, God. Please no.

I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't. Charlotte called for her, voice wobbling as she spoke. Mama, mama. She imagined her chubby little fingers reaching for her now, rushing the sky as she waited for Heather to pick her up and hold her. Charlotte began to cry when Heather didn't respond.

Come on, baby. Heather heard Ryan's jacket brush against Charlotte's dress and knew he had picked her up to carry her away. Fat tears landed on Heather's skin, and she immediately knew they were from him. She knew without seeing it, the way they slid down from his eyes and fell from the tip of his nose.

Her mouth didn't move, but she screamed in anguish, her thoughts nothing but incomprehensible pain. She screamed and screamed and screamed. The last thought she had, as she heard the casket close and the world went fully dark, was not of her friends and acquaintances. She did not think of Ryan, of how he used to kiss the stretch marks on her naked body, as she was lowered slowly into the ground. She did not think of Charlotte, of how she had loved her more than anything in life

and now will love her even more in death. Soft dirt started to sprinkle on top of her casket, then rained into a clotted mound above her. The scar from her botched tummy tuck stung as the thought looped over and over again. Hell isn't a place. Untuck your tummy for this quick word from our sponsor. For ad-free extended horror content, go to sleepless.com. The nosleeppodcast.com.

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And use code No Sleep to save 50% off your purchase site wide. That's right, 50%. So thanks to GhostBed for giving us the prescription for a good night's sleep. Now, back to the show. This next tale really is sleepless. A very common medical issue people have these days is insomnia, or just difficulty getting restful sleep. And I do apologize for our role in this epidemic.

That's why there are people like Sienna. She's a technician in a sleep clinic, working odd hours to help people overcome their sleep problems. But in this tale, shared with us by author Emily Prado, Sianna herself suffers from anxiety, which keeps her up at night. If only she could find some help at her workplace. Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas, Marie Westbrook, and Jeff Clement. So if you're desperate enough, you might echo Sienna's sentiments when she says,

Lull me to sleep with visions and venom. It's 309 a.m. and my anxiety is crawling. While I'm half-focused on watching the sleep monitors and jotting optional observations in the log, something skitters through my cortex and prods at my motor neurons until my neck tenses, my shoulders creep toward my ears, and my molars grind together. When I reach for my water bottle, I have to pry open my clinched jaw. A few drops of liquid trickle down my cracked lips, and I sigh and exhale slowly before I wipe them away. I stretch my neck to each side and my spine crackles.

I volunteered to take these overnight shifts at the lap because my anxiety fuels the insomnia that keeps me awake anyway. My co-workers joke, Sienna comes already programmed to run sleep studies and she's naturally caffeinated. I go, yeah, and ha ha, because I'm annoyed they're not wrong. I'm a jitterbug with circadian rhythms that belong to the night. I sign in at midnight to replace Joel or Pyle and leave when Luis, Kira, or Dr. Sitsumi replaces me at 6 a.m. All of them carry a coffee or tea or energy drink in their hand with such frequency that I wonder if biology might eventually have humans sprouting an extra appendage with the sole purpose of functioning as a cup holder.

3.15 a.m. and time to fill out the quarter hour report. On one of my screens, the infra-red, vaguely human-shaped image of the sleeping participant turns in her bed. I check her brainwaves on the EEG monitor. Nope, not awake, but possibly dreaming, and definitely another shifty sleeper. I note the time in her digital chart, take a few boxes from the drop-down menu, and record the Hertz range of her brainwaves. I click submit. The building air vent wears on and collides. with the hum of the computers.

This change in vibration does something to the skitter in my head. I shudder. I push off the edge of the desk and roll my chair into the middle of the room so I can stretch up my feet while reaching both arms up and back, more crackling in my spine.

I'm still not used to being alone in the control room. The whirs, the dozens of little flickering lights, and the glare of the monitors all used to be obstructed by my shift partner and their idle chat. However, Dr. Satsumi had to cut staff when we got passed over on all of our auxiliary grant applications. Our current study aims to create blueprints

for further investigation into the mechanisms that underlie dream experiences, and we're doing this by looking at how the brain creates and reacts to dreams versus nightmares. Studies like this will help us incrementally understand more about the human brain, and that's about the coolest thing a researcher could do if you ask me. But since our work won't result in direct profit for pharmaceutical companies or the

military, well, I checked the clock again, 3.22 a.m. I check my water bottle, but it's empty. Maybe it's the weather or the change of seasons, but lately I've been feeling dehydrated, inside and out. I fill my water bottle at the sink on the far wall, and that's when I noticed the peeling skin. on my forearms. For the last month, I've been sleeping days, the few hours I can actually sleep, that is, so this can't be from the sun. I pick at the loose edge and the top layer of skin curls away. Fingers held like tweezers, I slowly, carefully peel until I have a long translucent strip, which I hold up to the light so I can see the sprawling network of lines and riches. I drop the loose skin into the trash and start at another. I'm still working on my right arm, but I'm up to the

shoulder now when the beep on my watch alerts me. 3.30. I rush back to the tablet and scan the monitors. I can tell that she hasn't been awake. However, her brainwaves are in what we call the posterior cortical hot zone, and this tells me that she might be inside her recurrent nightmare now. I do my best to estimate the exact minute it started, all the while writhing in my head, self-reprimending my lack of focus and promising I'll be more careful. I can't disappoint Dr. Sutsumi. On the tablet, I click submit, and my fury to fill out the log momentarily abates into a cold sweat. My eyes automatically flick to the clock again, but then I turn my attention to the infrared image of the participant's sleeping form. Her face glows red. and her body is a segmented swirl of green, yellow, and orange. Her hands must be outside the cocoon of her blankets, because they're almost the same cold blue as the bed. I study the vaguely human face, tilted as if she's looking up at me,

and the visual effect that makes it look aflame. I wonder what she's running from in there. I wonder if she's ever fled with such urgency in her waking life. Still, me too. I'm back at it again, running inside, itching in my brain where I can't scratch. The leading experts have a few theories, but no one knows exactly why we sleep, only that the body needs to. I like to mull over the idea that we power down so the mind can transform into the real self without the influence of the outside world.

It feels like that's what happens on the rare occasions I'm able to get a quenching deep sleep. But when I awaken, it's like I part with my instinctual self, and the sense of safety and security creeps away once I'm fully conscious. When my shift ends, I leave in the dark and find that it rained not long ago, judging from the shrinking remains of the shallow puddles. The sun hasn't quite risen, and the damp gloom of the morning is exactly what I need. A sigh escapes me as I turn into the parking garage and shuffle up the stairwell, to the lab's reserved parking spaces on the third floor.

The stairwell air is clammy, and the concrete radiates cool from every side. As I round one of the landings, my shoe catches on a dirt and oil-stained piece of cardboard, and it falls from the corner where it was leaning. A fat, black spider scurries to the edge of her web. I crouch and lean in to peer at her. She's not alone.

The white of a silky egg sack quivers on a nearby thread. I don't think, only react. My hand shoots out. I seized the spider and her eggs in a quick strike before mashing the crunch and slime in my mouth. Such a savory morsel, but only a taste. I need more. I scurry back down the stairs.

I search the dark corners and then I spot the dumpsters. I'm hoping for juicy black flies, but those are vast daytime creatures, always beyond my reach. always? I don't wait because the garbage sends out strong, reeking signals. I drop to the ground and I don't think. I don't calculate. I feel.

My spine ripples as I crawl, as if each vertebrae has sprouted a pair of legs. I weave forward, reach under the dumpsters, and strike. I strike. I skittered to a corner of the garage, safely out of sight, and wrap myself around my catch. I jab. Wait now, wait. My toxin must paralyse them before I feed, or they might wriggle free.

I bite and tear through the abdomen of the cockroach, working my jaw through the folded wings and shell and spongy insides. And then I lean back into the corner, and calm trickles through me. For the first time in my life, I'm sated. Tranquility descends over me, and I relax back against the wall. I don't itch or fidget. There's no need to move because I am alone, content and fed. Maybe soon I'll wander back to the mulch and burrow below the damp wood chips.

A quiet minute goes by and headlights round the corner, catching me in their blaze. I dart for the stairs and crouch there, breathing heavily. My anxiety returns. Breathing? Respiration. Lungs, vision, and hearing. I am, am I still in the parking garage? What am I doing?

What have I done? I returned to my human body as if I'd been lost in a dream. And then comes, a memory? Yes, it's a memory. One I'd forgotten, and I can glimpse only flashes of it now. It was weeks ago. Dr. Sutsumi asked me for a favor. I remember the recorded brainwaves of the participant's nightmare,

the giant centipede. Then I remember Dr. Sutsumi taking the electrodes off my head, and both of us concluding that nothing had happened. Time passes, and eating insects in the parking garage feels distorted. Like a story someone once told me through telephone, that childhood whisper game, it didn't happen. It wasn't real, merely a hallucinatory product of my insomnia,

which has only gotten worse. To attempt a decent eight hours, I need to go to bed at one or two p.m. But my body wants to leap up the second the sun sets, so I'm only getting about half that. I could try going to bed earlier, but I need to spend my mornings and early afternoons on basic hygiene, meal planning for work, cleaning my apartment, grocery shopping, getting my car repaired, going to appointments, and all that other tedious human maintenance. There's also my dad who wants to chat on video call, and my friends asking me to meet them for lunch

because we hardly see one another anymore. The clinic appointment I made weeks ago finally arrived today, and maybe Lou will be able to give me some practical advice, even when I tell him the samples of sleeping pills he prescribed me last time all washed through my system without effect. I've met with Mr. Lou Campoy, psychiatric mental health nurse practitioner, long enough for him to joke that I'm his favorite unusual case.

He's technically my case manager, because I've never settled into one treatment plan. His duty is to ship me between psychiatrists or counselors and know my history of meds. I sit down in his office, and he says I look well. I think he's referring to the glow a few people have mentioned, how bright my eyes are, how healthy and radiant my new skin appears.

I don't plan to tell anyone how all of my skin, from face to feet, peeled away over the course of a few days and left me looking older, less girlish, and more refined. My whole body feels firmer too, more resilient, as if I'm protected by a shell. But all I say to Lou now is, thanks when he says you look well. After a minute of pleasantries, Lou asks about my most recent talk therapy session. I tried. I wanted it to work, I say, referring to a teleconference chat with a warm and well-manored certified counselor named Cass, who was totally cool and rocked a no-nonsense neopunk hairstyle, but was ultimately useless in terms of helping me. I tell Lou that I told Cass the same thing I always say. Stress and worry and fear and dread don't relate to the anxiety I feel.

Those are not good synonyms for my inner experience. What I feel is more like a separation from sentience. Like a part of me can look with consciousness and a part of me can look at it and another part wants to be separate from the noise of both. I love my job and my boss and I'm set up for my ideal career at the sleep in health innovation lab. I loved the people in my life. I mentioned that when my ex told me he thought he might be bisexual, I was relieved that I could set him free to explore that part of himself because I wanted to focus more time on my work. I tell Lou that Cass gave me the usual, hmm, and then started right

back in on rewording all kinds of questions about fears and worries and trepidation. Then it was on to advice about breathing exercises. All of the ones I know and do and could do upside down in a water tank chained up like Houdini. Finally, I said to Cass, look, my consciousness is itchy, extremely itchy, and that itch makes human things like concentrating and sleeping very difficult. The only thing that bothers me about my privileged and nearly idealic existence is the distance between who I feel I am and the reality of my waking life. That's the best way I can put it. I maintain eye contact with Lou and wait. He sees that I'm worked up, so he holds out for another beat.

Finally, he says, Sienna, I don't know what to tell you. It sounds like you've already thought about this in loops and might be experiencing some kind of overload in your neural circuitry. But hey, he puts his hands up in surrender. That falls closer to your field than mine. I give him the chuckle he's hoping will relieve some of my tension. What I've just tried to express might be too abstract to be parsed by anyone, but at least he's nice about it. Lou dips his chin.

So, what are you hoping I can do for you today? And he's right. There's nothing he can do. I tell him how long ago I made the appointment and that maybe I kept it so we could check in about my progress. I don't say lack of progress. Lou promises that he'll keep an eye out for clinical trials I might be eligible for, but I know that won't happen anytime soon.

When I get up to leave, Lou rises too. He crosses the room and opens the door for me. While his back is turned, I see my hand reach out and caress the damp sore. oil in the flower pot on his desk. I don't realize I did that until I'm outside and looking at the dirt under my nails. Our next participant woke and left early for work, so he's gone by the time Dr. Sitsumi arrives at 5.50 a.m. She comes into the control room, looking back over her shoulder toward the sparsely populated pre-dawn medical center. Oh, those dim and twisty corridors

never fail to creep me out this time of day. I'm at the sink sanitizing. the EEG lead wires that were hooked to the disposable electrodes on the participant's scalp. I'm glad Dr. Tsutsumi didn't catch me wiping water over my skin a minute ago. The air is so dry in the lab. I feel like I'm shriveling. Oh, it's like a rainforest in here. What's going on? I reach over and unplug the humidifier I brought in, and I sputter for an excuse. Sorry, it's my allergies lately. My sinuses are killing me. There's skepticism in Dr. Sitsumi's voice as she asks me to hold off on using it again

until she can check on what levels of humidity the equipment here can tolerate. She props the door open and a zap of cold shame runs through me. I avoid looking at her. But when her tone turns casual and invites small talk, I relax. She asks how the night went. I don't have much to report. It looked like this participant had at least two nightmares last night. But he left this morning smiling and practically skipping down the hall.

Dr. Sitsumi shrugs. We all respond differently to the things that haunt us. She tugs the clean electrode cap over the foam dummy head we used to store it, while I draped the spider web of wires over the drying rack. These early mornings are wigging out my brain. How are you handling the night shifts? Any crazy dreams when you get home? And any residual...

Well, we haven't really had a chance to touch base since I'm. a little experiment. Our what? Frowning, I turn, and as I study her, a cascade of images flash and merge into memory. The favor, she asked me,

the centipede, its segments and dozens of jointed legs, its pincor-like borseps under a gnashing jaw. An uncanny sensation ripples through me. Why had my brain archived that evening so strangely? It feels,

feels as if I'm trying to coax a dream into consciousness, as if everything has incubated, and now it's ready to emerge. Before our current study began, Dr. Sutsumi's latest paper had been published by a prestigious journal, and I'd been included as one of the co-authors, my first publishing credit. Her husband was out of town with her kids, so instead of going home to an empty house, she suggested we order takeout to the lab to celebrate. We figured why not spend a late evening taking a load off while also helping our poor, frazzled and swamped lab coordinator by doing some of the busy work. We ate while the photocopier spat out the new standard operating procedure manual for research assistants, and we chatted as we whole punch the sheets

and assembled them into binders. I have no idea how the conversation meandered toward me, but Dr. Tsutsumi said, you know, I appreciate how sensitive you are, Sienna. How, I don't know how to say it, receptive you are to external stimuli. And you said you practice meditation. I nodded. It was one of the most helpful tools I used to cope with lifelong anxiety. I'm wondering if you'd be willing to help me with something to test out a little side project I'm working on. Curious, I agreed. Dr. Tsutsumi collected her laptop and our equipment cart and led me down the hall to one of the participant's sleep rooms. I sat in a chair, and as she worked the conductivity gel around my hair and onto my scalp under the EEG cap, she explained. I've modified this cap to

sort of take part in a dialogue with your brain waves rather than simply record them. I see that look. No, I am not trying to tap into telepathy here. Her airy laugh made me regret my reflexive skepticism. I'm trying to develop a portable sleep aid. I'm thinking, eventually, a prototype will look like some kind of stretchy headband. Something easy to put on, comfortable, Bluetooth connected, and without all these wires. Anyway, any feedback you can give me about the experience will be incredibly helpful. I said I was happy to help. I asked her to tell me more about the device she was developing and how it would work.

She tilted my head forward. Hypothetically, if we recorded the brainwaves of hundreds of people experiencing, pleasant dreams and overlap them, average them, remove the noise, then projected the frequencies to someone as they fell asleep, it might nudge them into a pleasant dream state. You're trying to develop a cure for nightmares? I felt her hands pause. It's a lofty aspiration when we still understand so little about the sleeping brain, but, yes, I think we can get there.

Ask Dr. Sitsumi if that's what she was doing tonight, transmitting me pleasant dreams. Unfortunately, I don't have access to all that process data yet, but I'm hoping our next study will allow us to collect a few dozen dream to save for that purpose. What I do have is a few dreams, though, from old studies where the participants consented to us saving their recordings for future use. But tonight, I've selected just one. This will be a test run for the transmitter more than anything else. I asked which dream I'd be getting. Dr. Sitsumi moved around to the front again, looked me over,

and double-checked the wires. Okay. Well, to make a proper run of this, we're both going him blind. I randomly selected the file without listening to the participant's description. What I'd like to do is this. I'll leave the room and give you as much time as you need

to relax into a state of deep meditation. For tonight, we'll just mimic sleep and see how it goes. When I see that your brain has moved into those lower frequencies, I'll turn on the transmission. It's very short, but I've set it to loop. for 15 minutes. When I return, I'd like you to tell me about any physical sensations, sounds, smells, tastes, colors, or images that went through your mind. Feel free to mention anything you thought about during that time, okay? Feeling as if my head were weighed down with scuba gear,

I nodded. Then, together, we'll listen to the audio of the participant reporting their dream and see if there's any overlap. Sound good? I'm ready to go. Let's do this. Now, at 6 a.m. in the control room, I remember our experiment and how it summoned my inner self, how it gave me permission to live a simpler light. I can be free from overstimulation and urges to embark on tasks bigger than my species. Dr. Tsutsumi's concerned and confused expression tells me she's registering something odd about my face. I shift my gaze away from her and out the open door. across the hall, I glimpse a window, and through it, the outside. The sun hasn't risen.

It's still night, but only for a few more minutes. I want to tell Dr. Sitsumi that she did it. She pulled a creature out of a nightmare and into the waking world. In the participant's dream, the centipede was chasing him, but over time in my mind, its circular pursuit led us to merge. Now I am what I've been scratching to become. I've found the unnameable thing I've spent years begging Lou and all the doctors, counselors, and psychiatrists to help me find.

I feel Dr. Sitsumi's frightened gaze on me. Maybe she calls my name. I try to say thank you, but I have no more words. Dr. Sitsumi helped wake me and free me from a fate of endless thought upon. on thought. I'd been caught in the humming dissonance between existing and striving to be what I thought I should be. I'd been chasing goals and meaning as if meaning meant something, but not anymore. Thank you, I think, because I cannot speak, indebted, grateful, gift, cure. But these concepts, what are they?

The last flex of self-awareness drift away as I shift between looking at Dr. Sitsumi and the cusp of dawn out the window. I skitter out the door and out of the lab. I move down the corridor, hugging close to the wall. I'm seeking the dark. The dark, cool, down, and the urge to flee quiet and churning go still.

The need for a restful state supplants all else. The sense of softness and safeness and soil produces tranquility so encompassing it will never be disrupted again. And there is rest, an absent and satisfying stretch of inactivity. And sometime later, a ripple of legs, twitching antennae, an urge to fee. You're not going to bug you. it's just a quick word from our sponsor. For ad-free extended horror content,

you go to sleepless.com. Okay, okay, we're giving you stories about creepy, evil doctors this week. Just good old fictional horror fun. But when it comes to dealing with your body and mind, there are good, professional, and effective doctors out there, and you can connect to them at this episode's sponsor, Better Help. Life throws a lot of stress at us.

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you can do it easily for no additional charge. So get it off your chest with BetterHelp. Visit BetterHelp.com slash no sleep today to get 10% off your first month. That's better H-E-L-P.com slash no sleep. Thanks to Better Help for sponsoring this episode. Now back to the show. For this next tale, you'll need to open wide.

If you're a parent, your concerns and worries about medical procedures occur not only for yourself, but also for your children. Just like Hazel, her son is scheduled for an operation considered to be one of the safest and most routine. But in this tale, shared with us by author Sarah, Robina, Nicholson. She soon realizes that safe and routine do not apply in this particular hospital. Performing this tale are Ash Millman, Penny Scott Andrews, and James Cleveland. So don't let a scream get caught in your throat. That would be quite painful if you need a tonsillectomy. You're making the right choice.

Kirsty pulls my hand from my lap and squeezes it between both of hers. I stand over Dylan, sleeping peacefully in his toddler cot, wearing his hospital-issue gown. I've already committed every piece of him to memory. His fine, blonde hair, so unlike my own. His mercurial eyes, sometimes blue as sky and sometimes grey as steel. I place my hand gently on his tiny chest, feeling it rise and fall beneath my touch. My tears fall freely. For goodness sake, it's only a tonsillectomy.

Why am I such a mess? Kirsty smiles. That warm, sympathetic smile have become used to seeing during our regular appointments. Dylan suffered his first bout of tonsillitis when he was only three months old. He was hot as a lava,

screaming and utterly inconsolable. I honestly thought my baby was dying. I had rushed him to accident and emergency with no idea what was going on with my tiny boy. It was just me and him. Always has been. Dylan's father was never interested in having a relationship with his son,

too interested in building his career and enjoying his 20s. He sends us money, a lot of money actually, more than he needs to. The money comes with one very specific string attached. We never call him, we never contact him, he does not want to know us. I met Kirsty on that first visit. She was working on the paediatric ward. She had just fully qualified as a pediatric nurse. and she gave us the full benefit of her newly qualified enthusiasm.

Dylan spent one night in hospital on that occasion. I slept in the chair beside him and Kirsty kept me company throughout the night, updating me on Dylan's progress as they administered antibiotics and worked to reduce his temperature. That was the first of ten bouts of tonsillitis my baby has had to endure. It's very rare that doctors would even consider a tonsillectomy on a child as young as Dylan. but in his brief three years, he has spent almost as much time being poorly as he has being healthy. I initially resisted when Dylan's doctor offered surgery as an option,

but his last bite was so bad he had to be hospitalized for almost a week. His temperature stayed high for days, his body broke out in a rash. My baby was suffering. I remember Kirsty telling me, One operation, a couple of hours, and he'll be free of all this for a lot. Ever. Think of him going to school next year. Think of how much time he's going to need to take off every time he's sick. I really think you should consider it, Hazel. So he did. I thought, if Kirsty recommends it, then it is likely for the best. She has such a bond with Dylan. She's known in most of his life. So here I am, standing over my son, my only child, signing the consent form for his tonsillectomy. I hand the form to Kirsty and bend down to kiss my boy one more time.

The peachy fuzz of his cheek brushes against my lips as I feel a sharp, unexpected pain in my thigh. I lurch forward, bumping clumsily into Dylan's cot. Looking down at my thigh, I identify the source of my pain. A large needle fitted with a syringe is sticking menacingly through my thin tights and deep into my leg muscle. I feel the room tilt as I feel the room tilt as I'm. fall face first towards the green lino floor. Kirsty catches me before my face meets the ground. Easy there, Mama.

She lifts me with her hands under my armpits and eases me into the familiar chair beside my boy's cot. I am breathless. The syringe is still in my leg. My heart pounds, my hands immobile. What is happening to me? I look desperately to Kirsty. She stares back at me,

The warmth gone and replaced with baleful spite. Don't try to speak, Hazel. That drug I just injected you with won't let you anyway. You can't move. You can't speak. But you can hear. You can see. You can feel.

Kirsty takes a step towards the cot. Towards my sleeping sun. I moved to stop her, but nothing happens. My legs will not obey my brain's command. "'Get away from my son!' "'I scream at her. "'Of course it comes out as nothing more than a strange, "'strangled moan, followed by a string of drool

"'that seeps from the corner of my mouth and lands on my chin. "'She turns to me, her eyes burning with a pure hate I have never before witnessed. "'Stupid, trusting bitch. "'Don't deserve him, you know.' "'She strokes Dylan's cheek, her hand resting on the spot, just kissed. He is an angel. I am going to use him to do so much good.

It might not work, of course. There are so many things that could and should happen to stop me. Hospital protocols, safeguard procedures. Check, double check, and check once more. I have no idea what she's talking about. I feel a warmth spread beneath me. I've wet myself. You won't die.

She nods towards the syringe. She plunged into my flesh. That will wear off in a few hours. It'll be too late by then, of course. She takes Dillon's small hand in hers. This angel will be where he belongs. I hear a shuffle outside of our room. Thank goodness.

Someone's coming in. Quick as lightning, Kirsty is on me. She yanks out the syringe, causing a wave of pain, and heat to spread from my thigh all the way down to my ankle. She covers me in a hospital blanket and roughly pulls my eyelids over my blinking eyes. I can't reopen them. I sit immobilized in the chair, covered from neck to shin in a blanket. I can't see what I can hear.

The door is opening. Hello, nurse. You requested a porter for this little guy? Yes, hello there. This is Dylan. He's off to be a hero today. A candidate for organ donation. Heart, lungs and kidneys, bless him.

I am screaming, but I make no noise. I'm desperately willing my useless limbs to move, to work, to stand up and snatch my baby away from this monster and an unwitting accomplice. Oh, wow. What an awesome dude. And mum, too? Is that her? Kusty moves to me. I hear her by me. I can smell a fresh apple perfume mixed with strong disinfectant soap.

I want a gag. Yes. But please, leave her to sleep. She said her goodbyes. She's had her last cuddle. All the paperwork is there and sign. No, no, no. This gag is.

I know what happens? Once I move, I'm his mama. I need to save him. Oh, God, please someone help me. I can hear the cop beside me begin to shift. The brakes are released and the wheels squeak onto the liner as it's rolled towards the door. Two fingers are stuck roughly into my eyes as my unserviceable lids are forced back open. The room comes into focus just in time for me to see. the porter wheel my baby away to the operating theater. 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 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.