The NoSleep Podcast - S22 Ep8: NoSleep Podcast S22E08

Episode Date: February 2, 2025

It's Episode 08 of Season 22. The voices are calling with tales of horrifying homes."Rocky Road" written by Zoe Hathcoat (Story starts around 00:03:00)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator - Nichole Goodnight, Mom - Marie Westbrook, Dad - Elie Hirschman"My Favorite Streamer" written by Arvee Fantilagan (Story starts around 00:15:50)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Danielle McRae, Farmer Fran - Sarah Thomas, Chatter #1 - Marie Westbrook, Chatter #2 - Kristen DiMercurio, Chatter #3 - James Cleveland, Chatter #4 - Allonté Barakat, Goat #1 - Dan Zappulla, Goat #2 - Mary Murphy, Goat #3 - Jeff Clement, Andre - Graham Rowat, Andrea - Erika Sanderson, Voice - Elie Hirschman, Pascal - Matthew Bradford"I Can Sleep Anywhere" written by Dan LeRoy (Story starts around 00:41:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Atticus Jackson, Bobby - Graham Rowat, Ty - Jeff Clement, Rita - Kristen DiMercurio"The Hook" written by Will Rogers (Story starts around 01:10:55)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Claudius MooreCast: Narrator - Linsay Rousseau, Grandma - Erika Sanderson"Only the Turtles Know" written by Austin Hill (Story starts around 01:25:45)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator - Jesse Cornett, Tortoiseshell Girl - Mary Murphy, Backpack - Matthew Bradford, Driver - Allonté BarakatThis episode is sponsored by:Rocket Money - Rocket Money is the app that helps you identify and stop paying for subscriptions you don't need, want, or simply forgot about. Stop wasting money on things you don't use. Cancel your unwanted subscriptions by going to RocketMoney.com/nosleepClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Arvee FantilaganClick here to learn more about Dan LeRoyExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"My Favorite Streamer" illustration courtesy of Jen TracyAudio 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.

ringing. Message from an unknown caller. Unisable. Ancient, much older than the rest of our house. Our home was estimated to be from the 1960s, but the cobbled rocks in the stairs descending into shadow look to be... Home is where I want to be.

Pick me up and turn me around. I feel numb. Born with a weak heart. I guess I must be having fun. And I guess home is where most people want to be. But some people aren't having fun in their home. If home is where the heart is, then we should be able to feel safe there. But that's exactly what horror stories want you to believe.

When you're at home, you let your guard down. You relax. But whether it's someone in the house with you or in close proximity to your home, you can find so much horror to burst your safe home bubble. And we know all too well. Sometimes being safe at home means you turn to online interactions. Surely nothing bad can happen when interacting with people on the internet, right? Not with the trolls, twitchers, streamers,

and certainly not with creepy dudes who make horror podcasts. Ah, but horror has a way of finding you one way or another. And so on this episode, we take you home. We take you into your bedroom. No, no, not that kind of trip to the bedroom. We fluff your pillow, tuck you in, and check under your bed for monsters. And then, well, we make sure you're fully braced for the dark hours when you dare not close your eyes. And speaking of what you dare to do, do you dare to pick up your phone?

and listen to the voices calling to you. In our first tale, we meet a young woman who encounters something wonderful. Well, at least it should be wonderful. I mean, why is it that horror has turned the beloved ice cream truck into something menacing? Perhaps we should ask author Zoe Hathcote, because in this tale, the truck isn't where it should be,

at least not in the dead of winter. Performing this tale are Nicole Goodnight, Marie Westbrook, and Ellie Hirschman. So drive to the store for your favorite flavor. You don't want to go down that, Rocky Road. I shivered and pulled the thick blanket tighter around my shoulders. The freezing winter air made me sluggish, like a lizard in need of a heat lamp. I pulled my legs up onto my desk chair and hug them against my chest. Hugging in my headphones, I turned up the music on my computer and tried to forget about

the cold. Time passed, tracked only by the clacking of a keyboard in the cycling playlist. As the last song faded, I began looking for a new distraction when a faint sound stopped me. I frowned and searched through my tabs for the video or ad responsible. Coming up empty, I removed my headphones. Immediately I could hear the sound better. Music. Upbeat twinkling like a music box drifted through the air. I moved towards my window, pressing an ear to the frigid glass. It was definitely coming from outside in my front yard, but I couldn't see the source from my room's angle.

I walked to my living room. A welcoming warmth met me from the kitchen. My mom glanced up from the stove. Oh, hey, dinner's not quite ready yet. Much more interested in the strange music, I wasn't listening. What's that sound? I made my way to the windows looking out over the yard. My mom paused listening, then shook her head.

I don't hear anything. Is the TV on? No, it's something outside? How could my mom not hear the music loudly playing in front of the house? I pushed the curtains aside and my jaw dropped as I gazed out. An ice cream truck sat parked sideways in the driveway. It was a perfectly generic, nondescript ice cream van, plain white, a red and white striped awning above the serving window,

and a blaring megaphone on top. The window was pitch black, so dark I wouldn't be able to see inside if I was standing, right in front of it. The only notable feature was the menu. It hung to the left of the window. Eleven items were listed. Ten, which had dark red lines drawn through them. The last, the only one on crossed, was Rocky Road. My favorite. Mom, there's an ice cream truck outside. A lump formed in my throat, and I tried to swallow past the cotton in my mouth. What? She came up to the window and peered out. Her eyes flitted around for a moment before.

looking at me with raised eyebrows? Where? Instantly, my blood froze in my veins, and not because of the frost creeping at the edge of the window. I looked frantically between the truck and my mom. She made no signs that she was joking, and there was genuinely no recognition in her eyes as she stared outside. You don't see it?

Why was my heart hammering in my chest? Why couldn't I breathe? Why couldn't my mom see the truck that made me feel like throwing up whenever I looked at it. Why couldn't she hear the music that was splitting my skull open with each warbling note? My mom frown, noticing my trembling. Are you okay? If you're cold, then go lay down while I finish cooking.

My mind raced, but I couldn't see any way to explain myself without sounding insane. Instead, I laughed shakily. It must have driven off right before you came. Her concerned expression suddenly disappeared. Oh, I get it now. Made you look, right? Okay, you're real funny. With a scoff, my mom turned and went to call my dad for dinner.

I don't know why I fell for that. It's not like ice cream trucks come here anyway. It was true. We lived half an hour from the city. Our house situated at the end of a long dirt road with few neighbors along the way. It wasn't the kind of place that an ice cream truck would put on its route. And yet, here was one parked in my driveway showing, no intent of leaving, and no one else seemed to know. The music changed. Instead of a lullaby,

I heard a carnival. My head snapped back to the van. Someone, something, stood at the window. It looked like a man wearing a classic ice cream parlor uniform. White shirt with puffy sleeves, black suspenders, and bow tie, and a red apron. Its head disappeared behind the top of the window frame, so it could only be seen from the neck down. One hand stretched out of the window. It held a double-scoop cone of Rocky Road. I stood there for a long time watching, waiting. I was afraid. Afraid to move, to look away.

Every muscle tensed as if a single movement or breath would break the stalemate. The thing at the window never so much has twitched. It was waiting, too, for me to take the offer. There were no prices listed on the menu, so I could only guess what the thick red lines drawn through the previous flavors had cost its other customers. As I watched, the truck's music changed again. The carnival tune slowed and slipped in quality, as if I was listening to a broken carousel through a tin can.

The thing's skin always looked so gray. A heavy hand fell on my shoulder. I screamed and nearly jumped out of my skin. Behind me, my dad jumped as well. Oh, geez. Sorry. Dinner's ready. I glanced back once more, then reluctantly closed the curtains and shuffled to the kitchen.

I swallowed the food without tasting. My parents chattered about nothing. but I didn't hear any of it. Outside, the music grew louder. The rhythm changed, picked up the pace, becoming pounding and incessant, until I could no longer hear my own thoughts. My parents continued to talk.

A cold beat of sweat trickled down my back. I murmured to my parents about being tired and washed my plate off in the kitchen. I tried to head straight from my bed, but something urged me to look outside. Stupidly, I obliged. Just before I obliged. open the curtains, a new sound pierced the air and sent chills of horror down my spine.

I ripped aside the thick fabric. Night had fallen and the moon cast cold, indifferent light onto the scene. Shadows swallowed the surrounding forest. Only the light from the truck broke the darkness and created a small circle of visibility. Laughing and plying a group of children stood around the truck. Ten and all, they each held a different flavor of ice cream. The thing inside the truck had it moved an inch. Its hand remained outstretched towards me with a perfectly maintained cone of Rocky Road. Sticky red stains appeared on its uniform. I didn't think it was strawberry syrup. When they noticed my presence, the frolicing children immediately stopped in place. Each turned to me with a completely blank expression. A voice inside my head screamed at me to close the curtain,

lock every door, board up every window, but I couldn't. Pure horror kept me rooted in place, unable to breathe, let alone run. The kids began to eat their ice cream. They devoured the dessert with such voracious desperation like starving animals. As they did, they rotted like corpses. Their skin grade, one lost an arm, when a tongue, another their eyes. They cried. Dreadful, screeching wails of agony drowned out even the horrible siren on the truck's roof.

Screaming turned the bestial growling, and the mingled bodies shambled and ran towards the house with frightening speed. I had never experienced such terror, and it was enough to break me from my fearful trance. Tripping over myself, I tore through the living room in the hallway, flew into my room and slammed the door shut. I frantically made sure my window was locked, closed the blinds, then dove into bed, wrapping the sheets tightly around me in a defensive cocoon. Quietly, I sobbed and trembled. Minutes or hours passed, my jackhammering heart and roaring blood prevented me from sleeping. The sound of heavy footsteps sent a fresh wave of icy fear over me.

I held my breath. The thudding stopped right outside my window. The thing outside knocked twice. I bit my tongue to prevent a scream from escaping my throat. A few moments later, it knocked again. So hard I thought the window would shatter. The sound of ten small hands clawing at the glass followed. The noise threatened to drag me mad even more than the credible music.

is it growing louder by the second. Still, I did not move. Eventually, everything stopped. The clawing, the banging, the music, the footsteps returned, but this time, they turned faint, fading into the distance. An engine struggled to life. Tires crunched over dirt. For the first time all day, I was only deafened by silence.

Still, I remained tense, listening. However, the non-stop stress proved too much for my body, and at some point I fell unconscious from fatigue. When I awoke, pale winter sunlight streamed into my room. I sat up, my entire body sore. I wondered if the previous night's events had been a fever-induced dream. However, when I dared to peek out my window, I knew it had been real, terribly real. A single, large pair of footprints surrounded by dozens of smaller ones, were imprinted into the fresh snow.

On my window was a piece of paper, tacked on so that. that I could read it from the inside. It was a list of dates and times, a route schedule, and my address was written on every line. When you're safe at home, it can be fun to watch live streams. There's almost unlimited kinds out there with people doing almost anything you care to watch. But in this tale, shared with us by author, R.V. Fantalogan, we meet a woman who enjoys watching a farmer and her animals. That is, until things on the farm become weird.

Performing this tale are Danielle McCray, Sarah Thomas, Marie Westbrook, Kristen Di Maccurio, James Cleveland, Alante Berwickette, Dan Zepula, Mary Murphy, Jeff Clement, Graham Rowett, Erica Sanderson, Ellie Hirschman, and Matthew Bradford. So let's find out why the woman tells us about the person she calls my favorite streamer. My Corgi Pascal has been howling like mad to make me pick up my phone. This chunk of fur and goat pajamas rattling my bones with his eerie cries.

Grieving, pleading. But I actually felt it too. The sinister aura that had been emanating from my phone since Farmer Fran's latest live stream began. For my sanity's sake, I really didn't want to watch it. not after the last two. This one she was doing, I felt like it might just rip my heart out,

which was insane, considering the lovely oasis she'd cultivated in her corner of the internet over the years. Once a day, or twice if we were lucky, she'd treat us. The couple dozen of her loyal followers to a joyful tour of her hobby farm

and its residents, goats, ducks, chickens, and pigs living their best lives. Even Pascal loved her streams. His short, fuzzy ears would perk up an amusement whenever Andre the hog snorted to the speakers. And the chat box. No arguments, no politics, no bad vibes, just dozens of curious animal lovers with farmer Fran trying her best to reply to each one. Although, I would have.

I wouldn't have blamed anyone who unsubscribed from how disturbing the last two days have been. The first ordeal in the morning, as she'd like to joke, was unlocking the chicken coop at the start of each stream. She would heard a quacking and clucking parade of birds towards their inflatable pools outside. Then hid inside to clean up and collect any eggs. It was like ASMR, her cheeriness amidst their squawks. But when she merrily opened their door two days ago, no one came out. She stuck her phone inside.

I remember squeeing in how politely those birds parked their butts all over the straw. So cute! Everyone in the comments agreed. It took us a while to notice they were all facing the wall to the left. Motionless. Not a cackle. Not a cluck. not even a twitch among those usually chaotic birds.

Even Derek the duck, the biggest of the bunch who genuinely believed he was a rooster, who would usually holler like a siren as soon as the door got opened. He just sat there, so well behaved that day. Beak wheeled it shut. His beady eyes swelling and trained far away. Y'all sleeping in today? We thought that was funny. Laughter and emojis filled the screen.

It got a lot quieter when we realized the silence had infected everyone else on the farm too. Her fully grown micro pigs used to rush the gate squealing when farmer friend dropped by their pen. The trad box would be in glee once we caught sight of the massive Andre plotting forward. Nearly the size of a fridge. followed by Andrea and her curly little tail wagging behind her. Not on that day. Farmer Fran dumped food into their trail, but the two of them just stayed right next to each other,

right next to the fence. A pair of fleshy boulders, backs turned against her. Hey, Andrea! Andrea was her favorite. The one she used to hold to her cheeks as a dainty piglet before she grew into the tank she was now. Come get it before Andre gets greedy. No response.

Andrea simply remained in her corner, rooted to the grass. Her eyes bulging toward the cluster of trees in the distance. Andre was just as aloof. I thought I'd only imagined it at the time, but I was pretty sure now that his jaws back then were contorted into a sneer. Worry started to set in when Farmer Fran reached the barn. By that point, you should be able to hear the rowdy chorus of goats yodeling from the inside. Everybody calm down.

Wait till I've unlocked the door. She would yell in vain as those stubborn, rectangular-eyed idiots repeatedly rammed the wood without a care for their owner. Then, when released, they would pour out like a tsunami of hoobs and horns toward the pasture. with farmer Fran chuckling behind them. There they go, directed by their single communal brain cell. But on that stream, she found those same goats petrified in a semicircle, packed like mushrooms beside a wall. Have you guys all been conspiring with the chickens or something?

Are we playing animal farm? Farmer Fran caressed them, one at a time. A smidge of concern in her voice as she tried to get a little. a n-a-b-a-b out of them. They just stood there like mannequins. They barely even breathed. Even people in the chat stopped pointing out how cute everyone was. Are they sick?

What's going on? In the end, she resorted to dragging the goats by their collars toward the door so she could go about her day. I got to clean the barn. All of you. Get out. After the third goat got pushed out, the elderly gray beard commas. The herd finally understood the message and filed out, not running or skipping away as we'd come to expect.

Instead, they crossed the grass in these halting footsteps as if they just learned how to walk. Farmer Fran attempted to address the unease in the comments. It is a little weird. I'm hoping they're just sleepless from that crazy thunderstorm. last night. The screen follow the goats on their way to the pasture, limping on noodle legs. Their head strained as if they all looked to the west.

She flipped the camera back to herself, her eyes, welling. But I might have to call in a vet if this sticks around, just to make sure there's nothing dangerous going around again. But it's also nice to have some peace and quiet around here sometimes, you know? It felt like our own mother was tearing up in front of us. The normally rowdy chat box united in tone and emojis, reassuring her that tomorrow would be better.

We were all dead wrong. Her chickens and ducks were already perched atop their coop right at the start of her next stream, the waking sun on their feathery backs. How do you guys get out so early? Good morning. The birds twisted their necks toward, order. Long sprawling veins throbbed across their heads, not a single sound from any of them.

Farmer Fran grabbed a hose and filled up the inflatable pool nearby. If she was ennerved by their behavior, she didn't show it, unlike us in the comments who quite certainly were. Can't she see those things on their faces? What's wrong with them? Um, did her husband with them out? Over by the pen, her pair of pigs seemed to be just as brain dead as the first, starting at the trees and indifferent to the bucket of food she just poured into their trow. You guys giving me the cold shoulder today, too? Farmer Fran pointed the camera at them. Hearts and infatuated emojis crowded the screen as these chubby pigs often inspired. The difference was, when she was panned,

By Andre, the hog started to smirk. Andre looks scary. But Andrea was nearer, so Farmer Fran walked up to her first. Reaching for those floppy, leathery ears, we all would have loved to caress ourselves. Then, the colossal Andre suddenly marched toward her on two legs squealing. Fuck! The screen blurred into chaos as Farmer Fran tried to avoid getting charged. trampled. Maniacal shrieks back dropped the haze.

Oh, m.g. Is she okay? Miss Fran! The stream came back to life after a few seconds, zoomed in on the back of the behemoth Andre creeping away. My phone rumbling with his deep grunts. Farmer Fran was gasping for air, her voice shaking the camera. I don't appreciate you startling me like that, mister. What is the matter with you? Andre just stopped towards the trees.

Andrea stayed at the corner. Her pupils were pulsating. Some of the comments said there were things squirming under her skin, but the video moved too quickly for me to notice. Yeah, something is going on with them. Andre can be greedy sometimes, but nothing like that. He's usually quite the gentleman. They won't even growl when I'm going on.

bring his breakfast late. Her footsteps were heavy and distressed. She was struggling to breathe. You guys remember Noah? My chest sank. Noah was everyone's favorite donkey. He used to occupy the Western barn, but Farmer Fran was forced to put him down last year.

The start of that stream still haunted me. How her typically bright eyes just completely broke down in front of us. But she powered through. She explained in tears how Noah had been acting weirdly hostile the last few days. And that their vet thought it was some sort of neurological disorder. And that it would be kinder and safer just to let him go. I remember the emptiness of that week. She stayed off social media to mourn him like I did.

In fact, I still rewatched old clips of that adorable donkey running across the farm, braying and neighing for farmer-fran's scratches. Just a mild-mannered, gray sweetheart who broke all of our hearts. He also went silent in his last days. You all remember? He wasn't braying, he wasn't eaten. And when he moved, it was to bite at someone nearby. She wiped her eyes.

But for everyone to start acting like that now? It felt like a knife twisting. into my chest. We're going to ask the vet to come by tomorrow for sure. I'm going to ask my husband to... She stopped mid-sentence. Her mouth dropped open at the sight of something beyond the camera. What?

What's happening? Show us, Farmer Fran. She looked at us. Her anxious audience through the screen. And without another word, turned her phone toward the edge of the farm. The goats were lined up in that bizarre semi-circle again. They were standing up straight in their hind legs. Their furry heads convulsing up.

They were bleeding at the trees. Goosepumps spread like a plague across my face. Farmer Franz stomped towards them. The trees in the background swayed. The leaves rustled and a tall silhouette flickered among them, with pointed ears and a thousand limbs. But the camera instead centered on the goats dropping back to all fours at the sound of her approach. They started screaming into the air, not like hysterical bucks in heat or kids bleeding for food.

They were screaming, human words. Terror swamped the chat box. And as if with a single brain cell, their necks coiled towards us, wriggled out of their eye sockets. Then, heads down, horns out. They lurched toward the camera. The panic in Farmer Fran's voice sent shivers through me. But the goats just charged forward, stubborn and uncaring. The cruel spikes on their heads coming closer and closer to impaling their owner.

And then they dispersed. The screen went amok with Farmer Fran grimacing back to her feet. moaning a prayer. And when everything steadied again, the goats were already in the distance. For their barn like nothing had happened. The chat box was overflowing. The comments buraging her,

asking if she was okay, saying that she would call a vet soon, her husband, the police, that they should arm themselves. But she didn't read any of them. Her face had withered. She was pale. mortified. She looked like a skull. That was when the broadcast ended. That was yesterday. I woke up this

morning, doused in sweat, and with a pounding right inside my chest. I didn't dream at all. I just remembered my eyes overwhelming me for the night, then opening in them again to sunrise and dread. There were no smirking pigs, no vainy eye sockets, no chanting goats. Just six terrifying blank hours. I knew I had to avoid farmer friends next room. Chores, online classes, and homework helped me with that, despite the bright red notification on my phone. And the insane howling of my boy Pascal.

I also topped up my dopamine with animal clips on YouTube instead. Like compilations of cats getting startled by cucumbers and jumping to the heavens. A cockatoo, chorusing with a ukulele, red pandas eating from a bowl, then bowling over to the floor for no reason. I hope they were adorable. It had been a while since I'd last looked for other cuteness out there to feed my cravings. I thought I wouldn't need to tune in anymore to the haunted TikTok that had been tempting my soul all day long.

But then this video of a cute pony somewhere suddenly sputtered, then lagged, then froze, right as the pony was turning its head to the camera. The corners of its long mouth pulled all the way back, sneering at me. My thumb closed the window in a hurry, shaking. Then I nearly jumped out of my skin when Pascal howled at me again. Dude! I regretted the rebuke almost at once. The poor guy's head was already bowling in shame. Then out of my phone screeched a distressing cacophony of animals.

Squawking, cackling, bleeding, snorting, and barely audible in their midst, farmer friends' distant, raspy voice pleading out to them. The pitch black live stream had, had opened by itself. My thumb trembled on top of it. Julesell. A red a curdling screams pierced my heart.

Vomit filled my throat. There was another gunshot. And another. And another. And the animals hysterics grew louder and louder. All I could do was tap the screen with my cold numb fingers until Andre the hog's stout face exploded all over my phone. The left side twisted in that sixth smile from yesterday,

and the right excavated into a large, blushy wound, oozing with blood. But the pig just continued grinning. The jagged hole across his face now stretching to his ears, he lumbered forward on two stumpy legs. Beside him, the massive sow, Andrea. her chunky face, a cobweb. Breakfast. And as the camera went past them,

I saw the silhouettes of Farmer Fran and her husband by their porch in the distance. Shotguns in hand. The chat box was blowing up. People could not keep up with the insanity and folding on the screen. Call the cops. Somebody help.

I could only sit in my chair. blood running cold, still and disbelief at the carnage in my loveliest corner of the internet. Behind me, I could hear Pascal yelping non-stop. Just as he did when he felt terrorized by the vacuum cleaner or angry thunderstorms or fire trucks passing outside. Or by the shrieks of animal carcasses in the stream I was watching. There was another shotgun blast. and the red mist suddenly burst out of the goat in the front, the elderly Tomas. It tore a chunk of my heart as well.

The aging Tomas, who would dumbly stare at the sky while Farmer Franz centered him on the camera, now stumbling on two legs with a lone jawbone above his neck. But from inside that crevice crawled out ropes and ropes of pudgy gray tongues. spilling out of his throat and down his hairy body, then fossilizing up his bisected neck. The tongues merged into the lumpy head of a donkey. Farmer Fran and her husband cried out in terror. The ducks and the chickens flailed on the grass,

shredded to pieces by the gunfire. But huge tendons squirmed out of them, pulsating and alive, pulling them all together into sneering lips or flabby ear lobes or sad massive eyeballs creeping along. Chunks of meat splattered out of them after every gunshot. Yet the army of donkey heads kept inching forward, glued to each other, growing thicker and bloodier and soupier in their march toward the farmhouse ahead. Cusses littered the chat box.

What the fuck? What the hell is going on? Fuck! Everyone report this stream. This is insane! Who the fuck is filming this? Go and help them, please! A cold breeze breathed down the back of my neck.

That was right. It wasn't Farmer Fran holding the phone anymore. It was someone at least ten feet tall. Neighing. Please! A lonely voice from behind the camera so chilling and so clear. The horde in front of the house paused their savagery to glance behind him. To glance at me.

For you! The screen glitched right there. Right on the blob of goat horns and chicken feathers and donkey jaws and human faces. Everything was quiet again. save for the insides of my brain, neighing inlessly. Please. The live-stream window finally shut down and left in its wake was Farmer Friends' profile page. It was empty underneath.

The hundreds of joyful little dips of farm life I'd watched and re-watched and delight over these years, the emptiness gnawed at my chest. All that remained was her profile picture, her beaming face, against Andrea's chubby piglet cheeks and the bio under her name that now only said. Next, a sad howl swept through my bones. I turned around, a foreboding lump in my throat. And I saw my beloved corgi in the corner, fuzzy and stout and hugable, still in his goat pajamas.

He was facing the wall. Pascal? He sat, lifeless like a taxidermy. I could hear him, though, wheezing out of his mouth. That was stretched all the way to the side of his head. He was sneering. I reached my hand out softly calling his name in the hopes of snapping him awake from whatever trance he was in.

Pascal? From the corner of my eyes, a pair of scissors seemed to call out to me. tearing me apart, even worse than all I'd witnessed in the last two days. I got off my seat, legs unsteady, and walked up to my best friend of five years smirking at the wall. I could see thick long rope swimming under his fur. His eyeballs nearly popped out of his skull, but as gently as I could, I still reached for him and wrapped my arms around his body, letting him know that Everything was going to be all right.

He felt like a boulder against my skin. He felt colder than meat. I love you, Pascal. I refuse to give up. His smile, stretching past his ears, he swiveled his head around to face me. Noah, as someone whose life consists of trying to scare people sleepless, It can be annoying to meet people who find sleep comes to them easily.

They can just sit or lie down, close their eyes, and snap their sound asleep. But in this tale, shared with us by author Dan Leroy, we meet an easy sleeping man, someone who soon discovers that while he's sleeping, he can experience a rather unique kind of existence. Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson, Graham Rowett, Jeff Clement, and Kristen D. MacKirio. So don't taunt people who suffer from insomnia. They'll be jealous when you say, I can sleep anywhere.

You ever hear one of those people bragging about how they can sleep anywhere? You know what I'm talking about. Some guy says how he can get some zies any place. Don't matter how noisy it is, don't matter how uncomfortable it is, He'll say how he can get a great sleep on a plane, in a chair, next to an open window with a construction crew and a jackhammer going outside. Nothing bothers him. Wakes up and feels like a million bucks.

I never used to pay much attention when people said stuff like that. Always sounded like bullshit to me. Then, it turned out, I became one of them people. one of the people who could sleep anywhere. Not like what you might think, though. I never bragged about it for one thing. And my way is sleeping anywhere. It's a little different.

Which is why it seems kind of... Is it ironic? Is that the word? I never paid much attention to an English class either, but yeah, I think it's supposed to be ironic that I can sleep anywhere. and yet I can't sleep anywhere now. Or maybe I should say I don't want to sleep anywhere.

That's why I've been up about 75 hours straight now. Been drinking coffee pretty steady. Switched over to some five-hour energy drinks sometime yesterday. Been lining up the little bottles on the table in front of me. I've done that plenty with beer cans in my life. another dead soldier and all that. But I never figured I'd be doing it with energy shots. But I have to.

Don't have no choice. You probably wonder why. And I'd be glad to tell you. Well, not glad exactly, but it'll help keep me awake at least. And that's the most important thing right now. Going to sleep, uh, you have to hear the whole story to understand. But the bottom line of it is, I ain't so much worried about going to sleep as I am about waking up. Hey, you can even crack one of those five-hour energy bottles if you want.

After you hear what I got to say, though, I doubt you're going to need it. At least not as much as me. It all started the way most stories seemed to start. Boring. This was probably, I'd say three months ago. I don't remember the exact night, sometime around the end of summer. It was one of those nights that wasn't just hot. The air was like peanut butter. Thick.

Gross. I just got off my shift over at the college. I worked security, nights mostly. Sometimes I drive the van for kids who have a late class. Not much, but it's a living. and that kind of thing. Some guy's my age. I'm 33 next month if I make it that far.

It can't even keep a steady job. So it's about one or so in the morning, and I can't sleep. No central air in my apartment, of course. I got a window fan, but it's weak. Runs like a couple of hamsters in a wheel are giving it all the power. I toss and turn. Sleep for full. 15 minutes, wake up and toss in turn for another 15.

That kind of night, you know. In my apartment, there's one decent piece of furniture. A lazy boy recliner. Used to be my dad's. I got it when he passed. It's old, but it's made good. Sturdy. Not like the crap they make today.

And man, is it comfortable? Many times I've fallen asleep in it just like a baby. So at some point, I think, I ought to just get up and go lie in the recliner. I could probably sleep better there, even without the fan. But I'm too lazy to actually get up and do it. I just keep thinking about it, about how nice it would feel, and how many times I've gotten 40 winks or more in that recliner. The next thing I know, it's morning.

And when I wake up, I'm in the recliner in the front room of my apartment. The sun's shining right in my eyes, but I feel good. Rested. Now, I know what you're thinking. Boy, you sure were right about this being a boring story. You think I got up in the middle of the night and went to sleep in the recliner. whoop de effing do. And that's what I thought, at first.

But the thing is, the same thing happened again the next night, and the next, because it was hot all that week. And after it kept happening, I did what I guess you'd call an experiment. One night, I taped a couple of strings across the door of my bedroom. I wanted to figure out how I was getting into that recliner when I didn't remember it. So, I set a little trap for myself. No way I could duck under it or step over it. The next morning, I woke up in the recliner again. First thing I did was go look at them strings.

There they were, taped right up exactly how I left them. It was muggy that morning, but I admit, I felt that. a little cold when I seen that doorway. I just went back to the front room and sat in my recliner thinking for a long time. I wasn't smart enough to figure anything out, but I was sure as hell smart enough to know that something was going on. Was it bad or was it good? That's what I kept turning over in my mind. There in my old recliner, and I still couldn't figure it out. It took another couple weeks before I thought I had my answer. By then it was the end of September.

No more worrying about it being too hot to sleep by then. I turned off the fan. One Thursday night, me and Bobby and Ty, friends of mine from the security company where we all work, went out for a couple of beers. Sports bar, in between my neighborhood and the college. You get a few of the college crowd there and occasionally enough college chicks to keep it interesting.

But not so many kids that it's annoying. Not a whole lot of fraternity, lunkheads, thank God. The three of us are sitting at the table half watching the Jets and Patriots, and Bobby's telling us about what he found right there on the desk of this guy's office in the bank building where he works. Some people, I tell you. Then Bobby takes a peek over my shoulder. Looks like Rita and her friend just came in.

Rita is my ex. I hadn't seen her at that point since we'd split up right at the beginning of the summer. What was it over? I don't mind telling you that it was the usual stuff. She said I was too jealous, possessive, that I checked up on her too much, that I was stalking her on Instagram. Is all that true? I mean, if you look at it in a certain way, maybe.

I just think there's a way men and women show each other that they care about each other. And sometimes we just don't understand the ways the other person shows it. Anyways, Rita sure didn't. But she sure didn't look good that night. She'd lost a little weight, and she dyed her hair away light or blonde. I didn't recognize the clothes she had on, so those were new, too. I did recognize her friend, Carla Thomas, who was always a bitch, and no doubt still is. I know Carla never had any use for me.

I tried to be cool about it when they walked by our table on the way to the bar. I held my hand up, casual, and said, Hey, hey, Rita, looking good. She and Carla stopped. Hi there, Bobby. Hi, Ty. Neither one of them looked at me. Then they left.

I just swiveled around the watch. They both leaned up against the bar and stuck their asses out. Ty just looked at me with big eyes. Damn. He giggled and ran his hand over the top of his big head. Now that is cold. Old, ice cold. Bobby just shrugged his big shoulders.

I could feel my neck getting hot, and my face was burning too, but I just let it ride. I wasn't going to give Ty any ammo. If he knew how pissed off I was, he'd have given me shit the rest of the night. He's a real jokester, Ty is, especially if he knows he's got you going. Did it ruin my evening, though? Well, yeah. I was still mad when I got home and went to bed, or tried to go to bed.

It was another toss-and-turn night. I kept thinking about Rita, of course, about her little apartment, which is only four blocks over. About all the nights I spent there last year around this time, when a guy hasn't been with anyone since the... the chick he broke up with. Hey, you know how it is.

I couldn't stop all these thoughts. They were just running in a loop as I drifted off. At some point, I start having this dream about me and Rita, about how it was when we were together, there in her bedroom, with the nice smelling candles she used to burn, and her grandmother's old quilt, and the blackout curtains she has to have to sleep,

and the way her body felt. She must have lost some weight, but she's always been thick in a way that does it for me. I don't know exactly when it was that I figured out that this wasn't just a dream, that I was actually back at Rita's place, that Rita was actually right there next to me, with her eye mask on, snoring every now and then in the deep, deep dark.

But I knew, and I sat up in bed like I was hit by lightning. Rita rolled over and put her hand on my leg. She mumbled something, and I stuck my head down to hear what it was. I need to rest a little more. Give me 20 minutes, and I'll make it worth your while, Ty. Anything that got me excited about that off, just wilted when I heard Ty. Ty?

Son of an effin' bitch. I was so confused by everything that it just happened. How I got here, being with Rita again, and then somehow not being with Rita. Wondering about a guy I thought was my friend, that I just lay back down and stared at the ceiling. My head was spinning. And somehow...

I must have fallen back asleep. When I woke up again, I could tell even before my eyes focused that I was back in my apartment. From the smell, from the feel of the sheets, from the air. I know what you're thinking. How could I know if this was all just a dream? The dream was some horny guy who wishes he could get back together with his ex. And that's a great question. I couldn't know.

Unless I did another experiment, this is the part of my story where I figure some people are going to get mad. And maybe they're right. Some people are going to find out that I did do my experiment, that I did try to dream myself back into Rita's bed, and back out again, to prove it wasn't just some fluke. And they're going to find out that while I was in Rita's bed, that I... Well, I guess you'd say that I had to conduct the full experiment. And if she was half asleep with her mask on in the darkness and thought I was Thai, then I got to admit, I had a hard time feeling too bad about that.

I sure didn't feel bad about backstabbing a backstabbing friend. I also got to admit that I did a little plan in the head. I wasn't going to take a chance on being a friend. found out. When I was done with the, um, experiment, I didn't take a chance on getting back to my own place by just falling asleep. I let myself out, very quiet, and walked the four blocks back. Sure, it was cold in my PJ pants and bare feet, especially, but I told myself I was doing it for science, and I hoped I wouldn't see a cop. As far as the people who'll say there's no, there's No way Rita would mistake me for Ty.

Well, all I can say is that we're built about the same. I'm just better looking. And if you don't believe this part of the story, no way you're going to buy what happens next. So suit yourself. Yeah, yeah, I know what some people are going to say. Forget about Ty. What about Rita?

You were taking advantage of her, you scumbag. You basically broke into her apartment and assaulted her against her will. You're disgusting, and you ought to be locked up is what they'll say. Look, I ain't proud of myself, and I ain't a lawyer either. I'm at least smart enough to know you can't win this kind of argument. So no way I'm going to even try to make it. I won't even try to tell you I was temporarily insane, or whatever the lawyer term is. What I will say is that if you're one of those kinds of people,

and maybe you'll like the next part of my story. Now we're at the end of October, right before Halloween. I'm not a big reader these days, but when I was in high school, I used to like scary stories, just like a lot of people do. One of my buddies told me once about this guy, H.P. Lovecraft. Said he was the best scary storywriter there was. I don't know about all that. Give me that guy Clive Barker first.

But I borrowed a book of Lovecraft stuff from our English class, and I did like it a lot. I liked it enough that I forgot to ever give it back. There was one story in particular that made a big impression on me. It was called the Dreams in the Witch House. Basically, it was about this guy, a college kid, who rented this room in the musty attic of a weird old house

in Massachusetts. The room was haunted by the ghost. I think it was a ghost anyway. This old woman, Keziah Mason. She was accused of being a witch back in the days of the Salem witch trials. And they were Right, she was a witch.

A really mean one. The thing in this story that got me, though, was that Kezaya Mason had this pet. The name for it was a familiar, and they could talk to the devil. It was a furry thing called Brown Jinkin. It was kind of like a rat, but it had human hands and a human face.

Not going to spoil the story for you if you've never read it, but let's just say Brown Jinkin plays a big part in how it ends. A big bloody part. And it was Brown Jinkin that creeped me out more than anything, just like he did the college kid in the story. I would have rather come face to face with the old witch a hundred times rather than seeing Brown Jankin once. That was the part of the book that used to keep me up at night, especially when the weather was bad out and the wind was blowing through the cracks in my bedroom windows. I still kept that old paperback with that story in it. And every year, sometime in October, I'd get it out.

I didn't read all the stories. I'm not much for the sci-fi stuff Lovecraft did sometimes, but I always made sure to read the world. witchhouse one. Kind of a ritual, I guess. So, anyways, I'd been reading this story right before bed in my recliner. It was a windy night, and then it started to rain hard, rattling against my windows, which kind of added to the vibe. I don't have a lot of lights in my apartment, saves on the electric bill. And it wasn't too hard to imagine that the shadows in the corners of the room were getting bigger, while I read.

At some point, I woke up, or I thought I woke up. This was in my bedroom, and it sure as shit wasn't readers. The ceiling was super low, and the air was super heavy. It felt hard to breathe, like when the pollen gets thick in the fall. The walls were slanted in a weird way, too. In one corner, there was a ladder under the wall. underneath what looked like a trap door up in the ceiling. But it was the hole in the other corner that I couldn't stop looking at.

It must have been a rat hole. And it looked like somebody had tried to plug it up. But the rats had eaten through the plug. It takes me a few minutes before I realized that this is the room from that witchhouse story. And I'm staring and staring at this rat hole because now I know what lives in it. You know how when you're having a bad dream and you get paralyzed? Like, the worse it gets, the more you can't move? It was like that.

I don't know how long this lasts, but at some point, there in the dark, I start to hear scratching. Real soft, coming from that corner. I'm focused on that rat hole so hard that it feels like my eyeballs are going to pop out. And then it stops. I wake up in my own bed. It's gray and rainy and cold. And I'm about as thankful as I ever have been before. But I'm also scared, too,

because this felt as real as the recliner and Rita's bedroom. But this wasn't something I meant to do. At least, I don't think I meant to do it. And this is one experience I don't want to experiment with. Not even once. For science or for anything else. Right after that night, I started trying other experiments, though. I started to realize that if I made sure to think hard about the recliner as I was falling asleep,

then I'd wake up in the recliner. And yeah, I thought hard about readers a couple times, too. I got scared, though, because the last time I was there, she started to take off a sleep mask. And I realized that if she saw me and not tie, or whoever she thought I was, she'd probably freak out and call the cops. I don't need that hassle. Or maybe I do need that hassle. Maybe jail would be safer than my bedroom.

Because the nights I didn't think hard about another place. I woke up in that goddamn attic room. And every time I woke up there, it got worse. First, the scratching got louder. Then I could see something standing on its hind legs just outside the hole in the wall. Then the thing got closer. And the last time, there was a thump on the corner of the bed. Then I could feel the weight of something, down by my feet just like a...

cat. But I knew this was no effing cat. From the corner of my eye, I could see it, sitting up, watching me. And it looked like it was rubbed its little hands together. I didn't want to look too close and see what those hands looked like. Didn't want to see if that old Lovecraft story was true. So,

I realized I had to really focus on something else. Some place I'd slept before Most nights, that was the recliner A couple nights, it was Rita's. One night, just as an experiment, It was the chair in the security office at the college Where I sometimes take a nap when I'm on the overnight shift. Not very comfortable,

But it beat the hell out of the witch house. Lucky I kept a spare pair of shoes in the office to wear on the walk back home. Until the night, late last week, when the experiment stopped working. I was in bed, starting to zone out, so I thought hard about the recliner in my front room. I put every other thought out of my mind.

And as I drifted off, I could almost feel myself being transported, or whatever you'd call it, into the chair. But when I woke up, I was back in that effing attic. Next, I felt the thump on the bed. And this time, I could actually feel something climb onto my chest. I kept my eyes shut as tight as I could.

Just feeling the weight of that thing. His sharp little feet. Oh, God! And the worst thing was, I felt it's breath. and a little puff right in my face. That close. Now I didn't blow chunks at the stink of it amazes me. It smelled like a garbage can with a bunch of meat in it.

It's been left out in the rain for a couple of weeks. And if you never smelled that, me, I've changed the liners in a few of those kinds of garbage cans. Believe me. Just try to imagine. No idea how long that awful moment lasted. It only seemed like forever. But when I finally woke up, I went right down to the 7-Eleven and stocked up on coffee and five-hour energy.

I knew there was no going back to sleep. At least not until I figured out how to turn off this sleep-in-anywhere thing. Somehow. But it's 75, probably 76 hours later now. and I haven't figured out a thing. Just that I feel like shit. And that it's about time to go get another 32-ounce mountain dew and some more energy shots.

I've done all kinds of stuff, of course, to fill up the time. I went to work. I went to the park a couple blocks over. I went to the bar. I went on one of the longest walks I've ever taken. The last couple. late, late at night. I also threw out that Lovecraft book.

I felt a little better afterwards when I took the trash bag and dumped it a couple blocks over. But somehow, I knew that wasn't the answer either. Somehow, I knew this thing was a little too far gone for that. Some of you, of course, are probably thinking that I'm only getting what I deserve. That a guy who does what I did the reader ought to be stuck. stuck in some nightmare, if it actually is a nightmare, from this book he read. You people might shake your fingers at me, like some teacher or church lady, and say that

somebody tried to give me a gift, the gift of a good night's sleep wherever I wanted, and I went and abused it. Well, if you're one of them people, who am I to tell you you're wrong? if I think you are wrong. Although at this point, after being awake three days straight, I'm not really sure what I think. About that, or anything else. Anyway, I might have the time for a moral debate, but I sure ain't got the energy. I can see what's left of the sun slipping down below my window frame, and the wind is picking up again.

They say it might rain again later. Maybe even turn to sleet. Don't want to turn on the heat yet, but... It sure is cold in here. I don't have to work tomorrow. Even though I volunteered. Hell, I practically begged for an extra shift. And I can already tell this night is going to be the longest one yet.

It's weird. Ain't it? Our time's kind of like silly putty. or the same amount of it can just stretch and stretch and stretch way past what ought to be possible, especially when you don't want it to. You weren't going to try taking that last five-hour energy, were you? Give a guy a friggin' brink, hand it over here.

I know you surely can't be bored by my story, and I need to take that shot a hell of a lot more than you do. Unless you want to run down to the store and get some more. Ah, well, second, I don't. Stick around for just a little longer, as a favor to me. I got a lot of hours to chew through tonight. And it'd be a little easier with some company. I do appreciate your listening.

Although I'd wish you'd stop rubbing your little hands together that way, It kind of creeps me out. Hmm. Ah. Sorry, I must have dozed off for a second there. I'm glad you're still here. I probably should have let you sit in this recliner. It always has been hard to stay awake when I'm sitting here.

But hey, this chair ain't made for two people. How about a little personal space, huh? Oh, did you get off my chest, please? Really hard to breathe when you do that. I'm awake. I'm awake. Oh, God. Do you have to grind your teeth? Like that.

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