The NoSleep Podcast - S23 Ep14: NoSleep Podcast S23E14

Episode Date: October 5, 2025

It's Episode 14 of Season 23. Tune in to WNSP for tales about concerned companions."Uncle Bulldog, All Night" written by Andrew Osborne (Story starts around 00:05:55)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Uncle Bulldog - Jesse Cornett, Dwayne - Anthony Botelho, Maddy - Linsay Rousseau, Station ID - Kristen DiMercurio"Soulmate" written by Soulmate (Story starts around 00:32:30)Produced by: Claudius MooreCast: Narrator - Peter Lewis"My Perfect World" written by Marcus Damanda (Story starts around 00:40:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Graham Rowat, Chip - David Ault, Lamont - Atticus Jackson, Selma - Wafiyyah White"Goat Valley Campgrounds Season 2 - Chapter 03" written and adapted for audio by Bonnie Quinn (Story starts around 01:10:00)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Kate - Linsay Rousseau, Sheriff Sabotta as David Cummings, Bryan - Kyle Akers, Russell - Jesse Cornett, Mike - Dan Zappulla, Rusalka - Katabelle Ansari, The Man With No Shadow - Graham Rowat"Coming Around" written by Mary Hollow (Story starts around 01:09:45)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Maude - Erin Lillis, Debra - Kristen DiMercurio, Susan - Mary Murphy, Random Girl - Linsay Rousseau"Forsyth Mercer & The Falmouth Fish Folk" written by Oli A. White (Story starts around 01:39:10)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator/Barry West - Joel Blackwell, Forsyth Mercer - David Cummings, Crypty - Jessica McEvoy, Arabella - Ilana Charnelle, Benneton Darkwater (Gamer) - Allonté Barakat, Benneton Darkwater (Prosecutor) - Allonté Barakat, Efraim Shlubberman - Jesse CornettClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about The Wrong Station PodcastClick here to learn more about Anthony BotelhoClick here to learn more about Andrew OsborneClick here to learn more about Marcus DamandaClick here to learn more about Mary HollowClick here to learn more about Oli A. White Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"Forsyth Mercer & The Falmouth Fish Folk" illustration courtesy of Kelly TurnbullThe NoSleep Podcast is Human-made for Human Minds. No generative AI is used in any aspect of work.Audio program ©2025 - 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.

WNSP. It's hour three of the darkness of the night. WNSP's overnight programming, D.C. at the mic with you. Coming up, we have another episode of the creepy, sleepless podcast stories for you. But first, I want to tell you about a new friend of mine. A few days ago, I was finishing up my fish and chips at the diner, just shooting the breeze with Darlene. When a man I didn't recognize got up from his booth and came over to say hi,

seems he recognized my voice from the radio and says he likes the show. He introduced himself as Ray, said he's originally from Pennsylvania. I playfully asked if he was from Ray's Town Lake. His blank stare told me he didn't get my little joke. I explained to him about the famous Ray from Ray's town lake. Ray is Pennsylvania's lockness monster, as it were. Plenty of people claim to have seen a large serpentine creature in the lake, and it draws a lot of curiosity from locals and tourists.

Ray said he liked the idea of Pennsylvania having its own lake monster, as he put it, I like the idea of something big in the water. But he told me he was from Philly and didn't get to that part of the state too often. I encouraged him to visit the lake some time and report back to me if Ray ever meets Ray. And let's just say I was happy to raise the issue with him. Now you've waited long enough. Let's bring in the horror. with another episode of the No Sleep Podcast,

a rustle of the leaves, a fleeting movement at the edge of your vision. How often have you walked a forest trail at dusk, only to feel the unmistakable sensation that something unseen is watching you? For centuries, humans have populated the darkness with creatures of legend, whose existence remains unproven,

yet whose presence is undeniable in the whispered tales of those who dare venture too deep into the wild. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. Now, folks, you like to listen to an award-winning anthology series of original horror stories originating from Toronto, Canada, and soon to celebrate a special anniversary. And of course, that means the No Sleep Podcast, right? Wrong.

Well, probably partly, right? Because that description may fit the No Sleep podcast, but it also is quite apt for the great podcast known as Wrong Station. Wrong Station is an award-winning podcast anthology of original horror and weird fiction, Drawing on the tradition of the Twilight's own and the classic radio serials that inspired it, Wrong Station transports the listener into the darkest corners of appalling new worlds with each episode. Created by the triumvirate of Anthony Botelo, Alexander Saxton, and Jacob Duarte Spiel. This show should definitely be on your radar and in your ears.

And we're excited to not only share a bit about Wrong Station to help celebrate their 10th anniversary, but to also feature Wrong Station's main actor on this week's show. Anthony Betelow is a professional actor, voice actor, and writer from Toronto. His credits include voice work on Slug Terra, Ascension, Marvel Move, and several upcoming animation and video game projects. So check the show notes to learn more about Wrong Station and find it on your favorite podcast platform. Isn't it nice to know that Toronto is such a hotbed of horror

fiction podcasts? It means a lot to have friends like that with similar interests. After all, companionship is important to all of us, seeking that special someone in our lives, and not just romantic stuff either. Whether it's a friend, a lover, a companion, perhaps a person from your past, we all kind of need people in our lives. I guess it's no wonder that a surprising number of people are even turning to AI for friendship. conversing with machines to stave off the cold chill of loneliness, ah, and who are we to judge? On this episode we meet people who are looking for someone,

looking to add to their lives a special companion. Maybe they'll agree with the lads from Liverpool who wrote, I get by with a little help from my friends. So join us, friends, and tune in, turn on, turn on, And brace yourself for our sleepless tales. In our first tale, we meet an aging DJ at a radio station. Hmm, sounds familiar, doesn't it? Ah, but it's not WNSP.

You might say that's the wrong station. Because in this tale, shared with us by author, Andrew Osborne, we meet a DJ who is really hoping listeners will call into the station to help kill the time. Strange how no one seems to be listening. Performing this tale is special guest from the wrong station, Anthony Botello, along with Jesse Cornett, Lindsay Russo, and Kristen D. Maccurio. So, tune in, turn on, and, hey, give the old guy a call, won't you? Because you're listening to Uncle Bulldog all night.

You're my son of a mother fucking... Dead air, dead air! Oh, shit. And that was American badass from Robert James Ritchie, better known to his friends as Mr. Kid Rock. And I am Mr. Dwayne Bishop here at 109.9 FM, The Rattler. Playing only the hottest hits from the 2000s, 2010s, and 2020s. I'll leave you tonight with a double shot of bangers from Ice Spice and Post Malone.

And for all you graveyard shifters out there, we'll be setting the way back machine way, way back to the 60s and 70s for some oldies but goodies with Uncle Bulldog all night. Coming up next. Nice save, D, but I got a jet. No, no, no, wait, wait, wait. This asshole's always late, but he's never missed a shift. So I just need you to stay until... Hey, he may be an asshole, but he runs his own board, which is kind of a skill set that you might want to brush up on if Barry's going to keep busting my balls about overtime.

No, Maddie, Maddie, wait. Sorry, dude. Union rules. Maddie. You've got dead air again in T-minus 4 minutes and 47 seconds. Bye-bye. Barry. It's Dwayne. And yeah, yeah, I do know how late it is.

In fact, I know it's exactly 11.55 p.m. Because that's technically when my show ends. But you got it. He's not here. And Maddie just left. So, yeah, no, no, she's already gone. And, hey, complain to the union rep. I'm just the message.

you, okay? Anyway, this isn't about Maddie, because... Yeah, exactly. And I know he's been at the station a lot longer than I have, but we can't just keep... What? No, I mean, I can stay for like another hour, maybe, but... Yes, of course I know how to run the board. It's just... Been a while. The point is, you've seen the Nielsen's for a show. Hardly anybody's listening, so you really need to... Outty, Dwayne!

Uh, hey, Barry, yeah, false alarm. Sorry, I'll give you a call in the morning and... Yeah, no, I won't. Okay, bye. So, let me guess. You got lost in your way of the station and had to stop at a bar for directions. Am I right? Ah, you always keep me smiling, Duany.

I can understand why your fans love you. Though as luck would have it, I did. indeed stop at a bar tonight. Del Vecchio's. Ever been there? No. Me neither. Kind of a dive, but...

But... But... But... I'll passing the establishment, I happened to glance in a window, and there behind the bar, I saw this. Great.

Well, that's just what I thought. I knew why. I had to have it, even if I had the inconvenience my colleague a little. I didn't inconvenience you too much, did I join? No. Look, I got to go. Anyway, would you believe the bartender let it go for just five bucks? He's a man of character.

I stayed and shattered with him for a bit. Desert Storm vet, lost his leg to an IED, and now he runs Delvecchio's. He's Delvecchio, you see? Johnny Delvecchio. You're going to have dead air in a minute. Ah, hell. I imagine you've had dead air all night, Wayne. So time to switch over to the old turdable for some real music.

If you'll kindly step away from my vinyl collection whilst I get a little Floyd queued up for my fans, thank you very much. You don't have fans. You have a few long-haul truckers and some of my fans. old stoners down to the memory care ward. You know, I don't know how it was back when Barry's daddy was running things, but this is a business now, a professional fucking business. And if you think...

Excuse me, Dwayne. I'm on duty here. Okay, Boomer. Sure thing. Peace and love, man. Peace of love. You... fucking piece of shit. Prick. 109.9.m.

Ah, hello, my fellow ghouls and creatures of the night. and this is your uncle bulldog. It's 1201 in the AM here on the FM, and time to give the top 40 a rest. Exactly. I feel the same way.

Now, to start off this evening, here's Pink Floyd with Wish You Were Here, and my friends, I wish you were here. 109.9 FM. Thank you, Miss Radler, and hello, my friend. friends at the sound of the ukulele, the time will be approximately 123 a.m. here on the FM. As we wrap up our late-night tribute to some dearly departed ladies with all tomorrow's parties

from the 1967 debut single by Nico in the Velvet Underground, Nina Simone's centerman, Janice Joplin, Cosmic Blues, and Mama Cass Elliott, making her on. own kind of music. This is Uncle Bulldog all night, and I'll be here with you until the moon slips home and the sun comes back to play. Coming up next, I thought we'd kick things off with a little zicky stardust and then just follow our bliss from there. Before that, though, I'd just like to say the old Bulldog, well, he's actually feeling a little bit lonesome tonight. So if anyone out there on the graveyard shift has something you'd like to hear or if you just want to chat with your uncle. Well, don't call our switchboard because they all went home hours ago.

Nope, nobody here but us chickens. So give me a call straight to the jock booth at 267-1099. And, um, in the meantime, here's David Bowie with Rock and Roll Suicide. What's that, yuk? Yeah, I know. A guy could get fired for giving out the booth number, but it's okay with you? Outstanding. And what are your thoughts on the no smoking policy? It's what I thought. I guess Barry's on some kind of energy conservation kick, huh? Jesus, it's like pitch black outside the booth.

Bugs you too, I can tell. That's okay, you dudes from Hawaii. Hawaii, bright sun all day, glowing red volcanoes at night. No wonder you're afraid of the dark. Okay, Yuc. Hey, I used to be afraid of the dark too. You talked me into it. I'll flip on some lights.

Watch the phone. Radler, 109.9.fm. 109.9.F.U. Ah, Jesus. Look at this place, Yook. More like a bank than a fucking radio station. Shit. The whole thing's going to be automated in a few years.

Just AI introducing auto-tuned AI. No people at all. Not that anyone's going to notice. Hell, even the listeners are pretty much automated these days. Well, that's weird. Have the lights always been this loud? or, uh, no, yeah, I fucking hate fluorescent lights anyway. Did anyone call?

I mean, you'd think somebody would. Strange as it seems, there are some poor bastards out there who actually do listen to this show. Oh, right. They're all too busy driving trucks to nursing homes or whatever the fuck Dwayne was talking about. Now, if you'll excuse me. I've got some DJ stuff to do. And that was the late great David Bowie, my children.

And this is Uncle Bulldog, wondering what all overnight jocks wonder. Is anybody out there? Now come on, my brothers and sisters, because if no one's listening, then your uncle here might as well just curl up and go to sleep.

So please, if you're out there, give me a call. 267-10. Please, call. Anybody. Uh, this is Jeff O'Toole. And that Solar Station ID brings us up to the top of the 3 a.m. hour here on the FM.

Before that, we listened to the entire first side of King Crimson's in the court of King Crimson. And, ah, what the hell? Might as well play side I'd do next. So, um, oh. Um, sorry, sorry, sorry about that. Guess your uncle's a little jittery tonight, but, um, your side too. Starting with Moonchild. Enjoy.

Jesus. Oh, yeah, uh, maybe I ought to lay off the jazz cigarettes, huh, yuk. I mean, fucking up left and right. Jumpy's shit. Inversing with a ukulele. Exactly Touche So, no offense

You've been great company and all But I'm actually kind of glad Hank'll be rolling in soon And yeah I know he's not exactly the most interesting dude In the world But hell, I mean, us graveyard shifter's got to stick together, right? We're a dying breed, so to speak

Up and kicking when most intelligent people are asleep Hell, the graveyard shift rules over a whole different world in the wee small hours. All the places are the same, but it's a different fucking world. It's like when you see a person asleep. They're always so true. Did I ever tell you about Angela? She was beautiful. And when she was asleep, not trying to be anything.

else, relaxed, just her, just pure, God. You know, it's the same with places. Angie and me went over to England once, and, no, for real, I shit you not. And the last night of our trip, me and her were totally, totally broke. Oh, sure, that part, you believe, yeah, yeah. But anyhow. So we'd run out of money and couldn't afford a place to stay that last night. And all we had left were the tickets for our return flight the next morning.

So me and her, we just crash at Heathrow Airport. One of the busiest, most important places in the world, right? But that night, that night, it was just Angie and me. and some family from Nairobi, and this cockney dude taking up a rug, and a pair of old punk rockers, and the only fucking authority figures were these Pakistani cleaning women. And that was it.

The Angie and me and the Africans and the punks and the cockney dude and the Pakistani women. We owned that fucking airport. And once you've owned a place. Oh, fuck me. Well, it's kind of hard to explain to a ukulele. Jesus. Where the fuck is Hank? What a weird fucking night.

Hello, my children. It's 4 a.m. and time for our pre-dawn newsbreak with Hank Taylor. But, uh, well, old Hank never showed up. So, here's Blue Oyster Cult with Don't Fear the Reaper, while Uncle Bulldog goes out to find our roving reporter and sober him up. And it's an all-request night here at the Rattler, so just call me at 26719. And I'll get your requests right on. Just call. Give me a call.

I'm right here. Hank, answer the goddamn phone. Jesus. Well, it turns out Hank's not answering his phone, so it's just me. Just your uncle Bulldog with that pre-dawn newsbreak, except according to the station's wire service. There's not a hell of a lot of news tonight. Or more likely, it's our internet's down or something. So just call in and let me know what's happening out there because, um, well, I'm I mean, listen, that buzzing.

Can you hear it? That's the fluorescent light in the main part of the station. And I noticed earlier tonight they're like way louder than usual. But then I realized they only seem loud, because that buzzing is all that I'm hearing. I mean, the jock booth is soundproof, so at first I didn't. But out here? Out here in the office, it's just never this quiet. Not even this late. Like, where are the sirens, man? Where are the delivery trucks? You're telling me it's this peaceful? This quiet outside? In the city? Like, if somebody could please just give me a ring and, like, if somebody could please just give me a ring and, like,

Let me know if something's going on. In fact, caller number five. Caller number five wins our big Rattler FM prize giveaway. Yeah, that's right. I was supposed to say earlier, we have a new sweepstakes contest here at the station. A thousand, I mean, $100,000 up for grabs.

right here, and all you have to do is be the fifth... I mean, the first caller at 267-1099. That's 100 large. And, um... In the meantime, here's the Moody Blues, with some music to dial by... Pryte. What's his number?

The fuck isn't 411 working. Operator. Where the fuck is the... Fuck is 911? For fuck's sake. All right. Listen, I'm getting pretty tired of this crap. I'm up here playing these goddamn records for you people,

and if anyone is out there, you'd better call me on the goddamn phone right now and tell me what a friggin good job I'm doing. 267-1099. You hear that? I'm not doing this for my goddamn hands. health. You think they pay me a lot? You think I'm a friggin' millionaire working here? They're going to fire me soon. Yeah, I could go at any second. This is probably my last broadcast.

For Christ's sake, does anybody care? Call me. I'm doing this for you. You goddamn graveyard shift, assholes. I'm here for you. I've been here for years. Where the hell are you? No, look, seriously, I'm getting really frightened here, okay? So like, even if you never call radio stations, just dial 267-1099. All I need is just one call, okay? I'm serious. This isn't a joke. Okay? Did something happen? Please just call and tell me Anyone. Look, I know this piece of shit radio station has a really big fucking signal.

So there must be at least a few people out there who can hear me and one of you motherfuckers better call. Otherwise, I don't have to be here, okay? I'll just split and... And, Dwayne, I'm taking that overpriced a bottle of Macallin of yours with me. I know where you keep it. And I'm gonna drink it all, Dwayne. Or, hey, Barry, you cheap son of a bitch.

How about I rack up some fines and swear my goddamn head off? Because that's kind of what I feel like doing right now. Yeah? No one's gonna stop me? Okay, fine. You motherfuckers. Motherfucker, motherfucker, motherfucker, cock sucker. Shit, you hear that, Barry? Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Tits, tits, tits. Hey, where's the goddamn FCC? Come over here and shut me off, you assholes. Or else I'm gonna start broadcasting some real indecent content. over the public airwaves. And I know we're broadcasting because if the signal was out, an alarm would go off in the studio,

and it wouldn't be so goddamn, quiet in here! So come on, Inez, down at the red-eyed diner. I know you're always listening. And Saul, at Midtown Toeing. Anybody over there at the DPW? Where the fuck are you? Where did you all go?

Isn't there one goddamn person out there who cares about me at all? Because I know my goddamn parents didn't. And Angela. Angie, wherever you are, remember what you said when you left. You'd hoped I'd die alone? Is that what you want? You want me gone? You don't want to hear the fucking old baby boo?

or drink himself to death live on the air? Well, then. Sionara, motherfuckers. This is Uncle fucking Bulldog. Signing off. No, no, no.

The hoop. Okay, okay, okay. Oh, who? Okay. Okay. 9.9 FM? That's station ID. means it's 7 a.m.

My children, I'm still here. Filling in for the morning zoo crew. The past few hours of silence was brought to you as a public service by your friends here at... Your friend here at 109.9 FM. The Rattler. As wees into the dawn with no traffic updates, no breaking news, no word from our sponsors. But don't touch that dial, because your uncle's already checked, and there's nothing on the other top 40 stations. Or the R&B, or the country in Western, or, or some.

sports talk or easy listening stations or any college or satellite radio anywhere in the world. And had a kick in the head. So just keep it tuned here with me and relax. I'll be with you till, well, until the next shift comes in. And in the meantime, here's a... Here's a little number for you early birds out there. It's currently at the top of all the charts. A long distance, dedication.

Just for you. You never know where you might meet that special someone, do you? A bar, on the apps, or perhaps on a river cruise. Just like the man will meet in this tale, shared with us by author. Mark Thomas. His cruising nets him a lovely lady, and their attraction to each other is definitely fueled by similar interests. Performing this tale is Peter Lewis. So love is out there. You can find it, and if you're lucky, you'll meet your soulmate. Love on a river cruise through the St. Lawrence Seaway. We boarded in Montreal, bumped elbows at the breakfast.

bar and talked all the way from Valleyfield to Gananeke. We kissed for the first time under the shadow of giant pulp silos in Thorold, and our first night together was illuminated by the bright lights of the Cleveland flats. At the terminus of our journey, the North Pier Lighthouse in Duluth, we knew we were soulmates. But once that river cruise was over, we had to fly back to our separate lives two thousand miles apart. We linked fingers near the newsstand. We linked fingers near the newsstand. band in Duluth International and generated a slight static charge, even though we were standing on a non-conductive tarazzo surface. We took that as a final bit of cosmic approval and committed to a permanent reunification in the near future. It would be the only significant task on our

calendars when we arrived home. Both of us worked remotely, so our jobs weren't significant hurdles, and our only dependents were two cats. Coincidentally, both Russian blues. Neither of us was overly constrained by friend or family obligations. We quickly agreed to resettle in one of the waypoints of our star-crossed cruise itinerary. But there's a big lifestyle difference between Jamestown and Thunder Bay, and it was important to make a thoughtful decision. Ordinarily, we were both very circumspect and cautious in our decision-making. In fact, our shipboard romance was the only rash, impulsive thing I don't.

of us had ever done. So we did our homework, comparing real estate prices in various states and provinces, studied the rules relating to work visas, and discussed the merits of downtown versus suburban or country life. We were happy, planning our future. But things didn't progress quite as quickly as I hoped. I suppose it's always difficult to uproot, even if the Tendrils gripping your ankles are relatively weak. Like most solitary people, we had established our own comfortable routines, and it was sad to contemplate abandoning them. Communicating via long, intimate letters, it was like we lived in Victorian times before the abomination of cell phones or FaceTime. Neither of us were comfortable with on-screen simulacra. We were tactile people.

In one missive, I told her that I missed, staring into her beautiful eyes. I playfully wished she could mail one of them to me. You know, it was juvenile nonsense, but our relationship really was still defined by that silly, first love intensity. I was shocked when her response arrived a few days later. I carefully cut open the smallish cardboard package and removed a wrinkled, vacuum-sealed, plastic baggy. Inside, there was a gelatinous eyeball, finely veined and trailing a long optic nerve. I examined the orb closely, noting that the iris was blue-gray, flecked with emerald green,

just like my loves. It made me smile. She sold medical supplies for a Marisorce Bergen, and the eye could have come from one of their academic dissection catalogs. Perhaps. I immediately wrote another letter and described how much I loved her fingers. Sure enough, three days later, I received a second package. I eagerly ripped the cardboard flaps apart, exposing another small vacuum-sealed bag. Inside were two female fingers. The nails were long and decorated with intricate lift-bridge designs. A talented esthetician on our cruise ship specialized in those miniature skylines. My love had that same microscopic landscape painted on her nails while we were birthed outside of Chicago.

That was a special time for us. We had both experienced a spasm of sadness that our cruise was more than halfway over when we received the news of a wonderful two-day delay. Police needed to search the ship for a missing passenger, so we dragged deck chairs onto the old hatch coverings and basked in the sun like softly purring cats. Of course, the fingers in this latest package weren't my loves. They were crude imitations of the ones I had held to my lips. These fingertips were coarse, and the amputation was a little sloppy as well. Bone splinters protruded from the ragged

proximal phalanxes, and one of the fingers had a clunky ring squeezed against a knuckle, and my love detested jewelry of that type. There was a letter inside the package. I held the paper close to my face and inhaled the intoxicating odor of jasmine and formaldehyde. The penmanship was delicate and regular, as if composed by a beautiful machine. I think I've sufficiently demonstrated the strength of my love, and it's time for reciprocation. Ah, have you ever had the experience of complete and utter oneness, of compatibility on an oceanic level where physical distance is immaterial. I knew the nature of the reciprocity even before I read the following words. The thing I miss most about you is your kind heart, and I would cherish it forever, my soulmate,

if you would only send it to me so I could caress that generous organ in my tiny hand. hands. Obviously, she didn't need my actual heart anymore than I needed her own eyes or digits. She required a symbol of my love, but not a ridiculous Valentine cartoon, no. She wanted something incontrovertible. Because we were soulmates, I knew exactly what she desired. And, of course, I'd already charted dozens of lonely places where I could harvest it. As we know, things these days are going really well. We live in a time of peace and prosperity. Everyone likes one another, is healthy, happy,

and enjoying the reality of AI implanted in their brain. Oh, wait, no, that's not reality. That's what we learn about in this tale, shared with us by author Marcus Demanda. You see, a man is dealing with his wonderful life thanks to a neural implant. AI is making his life wonderful. Perhaps a little too wonderful. Performing this tale are Graham Rowett, David Alt, Atticus Jackson, and Wafia White.

So the man has plenty to tell us. Use your human minds to listen as he talks about My Perfect World In a perfect world There will be no war There will be no sickness, no hunger, no poverty Everyone will be happy

Because everyone will have everything they ever wanted The only problem is That not everyone can live in that world But I do And I can't get out At 11.30 this morning The Chip reminded me You have a meeting at noon, sir.

Will you attend? Yes, Chip, I thought. I think I will. I mean, what else is there to do? The chip had a list ready. You can watch a movie. You can paint a picture. You won't let me paint a picture, Chip, and you know it. It will come from you, sir. The picture will appear over time, just as you would have painted it. I have several prior works of yours for reference. I know the capabilities and the limitations of your mind and hands. as well as anyone, including you, sir. Everyone will know the picture will have been one you could have painted. You need but watch it come into existence without any anxiety or stress.

I know how you hate anxiety and stress. But it wouldn't be mine. It would be generative. What's the difference, sir? Shouldn't anxiety and stress be part of the picture? Without the anxiety and stress, it's not really me, is it? Would you prefer a picture drawn as you would have created it with anxiety or stress, sir?

No, Chip. I don't want to paint today. I don't think I'll ever paint again. Would you prefer your exercise, chair? If you don't mind me saying, sir, you are due for muscle stimulation. Exercise and muscle stimulation, as I understood them now, were the same thing. I was in near-perfect health. Chip didn't like the near part, at least not while I continued to occupy space in my perfect world.

Thank you, Chip. Maybe later. I know you're doing your best. There remain additional options. You can fuck somebody and perhaps make a baby or even fall in love. You can take an hour-long course in world history and assimilate up to 200 terabytes of information for your later reflections. You can call your dead mother. You can... Enough, I thought. I get it. I have options. Are you bored, sir? I always answered no. that question. This time, I instead wondered, how old am I? Sir, at the tone, you'll be 42 years,

301 days, 13 hours, 10 minutes, and 15 seconds old. I waited. The chime sounded. I sighed. I had just under 38 years left before my life license expired. The chip repeated its question. Are you bored, sir? I don't know. I am the way I always am. There are other things you could do. Would you like a new book implant? I have several improved classics for you to choose from, as well as quite a few new auto-generative selections written in the style of your favorite authors. I don't think so. I feel like I have every book ever written in my head already. No, sir. The hard drive space in your brain is not big enough for every book, although it can theoretically.

take on several thousand more of average length. We should limit your choices to language and preference. Would you prefer to assimilate a new language and try it out? I have everything. I finished in my mind. Yes, sir. I have everything. I think I know you almost as well as you know me, Chip. I'm sorry, sir. That is incorrect. I am at work, I thought, looking around, then standing and turning a full circle. I am playing office. That is my desk. I tapped it. Oakwood felt real, but that too could be the chip. Of course you are at work, sir. Of course that is your desk. This is where you always are at this time of day. Would you prefer to go somewhere else? I could transport you to the park. I could take you to your childhood home and show it to you just as you remember it. I can take you to Niagara Falls

or perhaps the pyramids. You have not yet been to the Canadian side of the falls or to Egypt, sir. I am sure you would have a good time. Can I fly there? I've always wanted to fly. You certainly could, sir. But this is my job, Chip. This is what I do.

Would you prefer to do something else, sir? You could be a secret agent, a movie star, perhaps. How about you make me into a software designer, Chip, and an internet cop? someone who could revise certain modern-day protocols. That is very humorous, sir. I understand the punchline to that joke. Tell me, sir, shall I treat that as a rhetorical question, or shall I answer it? This is the most interesting exchange we've had all day, Chip.

Yes, answer the question. The answer is yes. I could easily make that accommodation for you, sir. The consequence of such an accommodation, however, would be the loss of my services. In your mind, I would be gone and all of the benefits that come with me. Then everything around me, all of this generative world, my perfect world, would be gone. As far as you would know, sir. But not really.

No, sir. Not really. Shall I change your programming to make this accommodation? No. No. I really should go to that meeting. Let's play office. Very well, sir. The chip digitally grafted a suit jacket over my white dress shirt. What color tie, sir?

What color do you think is my best, Chip? A bright red tie would harmonize most agreeably with your blonde hair, sir. Very good. I'll have a dark blue one then. A dark blue tie materialized about my neck, snugly and comfortably knotted at the top. Odd that I could feel it, just like my desk. The tie couldn't be real.

There's no program in the world that could create something out of nothing. If any program could do that, in that moment, the program would become God. Are you trying to hurt my feelings, sir? I'm seeing if you have any. I could have feelings if you want me to, sir. I would advise against it. Why is that? If I have feelings, sir, I could become dangerous.

You're not dangerous now? Indeed not, sir. I'm only trying to accommodate you to fulfill your every wish. But if I were to have feelings, there may be consequences. How so? Feelings exist across a very broad spectrum of emotions. I could feel insulted, sir. I could become angry.

Feelings might make a chip reactionary. There is always the chance, sir, that I may decide that you are an asshole. I see. And you haven't made that judgment already? I mean, you had an opinion about what color tie I should wear? Isn't that a feeling, too? Are you certain you would not prefer a red tie, sir? I shrugged.

Aloud, I answered, Chip. Fine. Red it is. The blue tie turned bright red, silky and shimmering. An excellent choice, sir. How long have it been since I'd spoken aloud? I had the distinct impression my voice sounded older, somehow. creaky, less boiled, as it were.

But it couldn't have been more than a day or two. I'd worked every day last week as well, and to do that, I had to deal with real people. I would have spoken to them. People had conversations by talking. Couldn't be sure, though. Couldn't remember. Go to that meeting.

I said, hearing my voice even out by degrees, the more I used it. How much time do I have, Chip? Plenty of time, sir. You have ten minutes. The walk to the elevator will take you 46 seconds based on averages. The elevator will have you on floor seven in less than two minutes. Would you mind going on silent while I do this, Chip? I would be happy to, sir.

I opened the door into the office proper. Before I went to the elevator, though, I said one more thing to the Chip, but only in my mind. Happiness is a feeling, too, Chip. Gotcha. Chip didn't answer that. Naturally, he didn't. After all, I just put him on silent mode. The elevator contained six other people.

Usually it was more crowded than this, but there just weren't as many folks at work today, as I'd been able to see with my own two eyes on my way here. The door shut. Various numbers were lit up for different floors. I only saw mine blink on before the hum of the scanner briefly figured out our musical tastes, seeking a common thread.

If there weren't any, we'd each hear our own elevator song. But we wouldn't really hear it. It would only be an echo of that song in our minds. Turns out, we did have a common thread. For one minute and 55 seconds, our real physical ears vibrated with a sweet sound of Hotel California by the Eagles. We each nodded our approval, our heads bobbing or swaying along with the music.

Nobody said a word the whole time. Maybe we just collectively didn't want to fuck up the song. Maybe it's just that there was nothing to say. Hello, Lamont. I said, stepping inside, smiling a greeting. Hi, Selma. It was just them. They were both younger than me.

Lamont by at least 15 years and Selma by perhaps 10. They were dressed in dark blue suits identical to mine with bright red ties. Where's everyone else? Lamont only shrugged, still returning my smile with a welcoming one of his own. It should be noted for clarity here that neither of them were actually in the meeting room with me. The meeting room was another part of my office, as was the elevator, as was the entire building. Lamont and Selma were projections and had arrived here much as I had, within their own versions of the office, their own versions of the elevator. where we all were in the real world, if such a thing still exists, was impossible to know.

Selma tapped her ear, a gesture that revealed she had left her chip on. She never spoke, but her focus thought emerged from the table speaker as words that I could only assume were in her voice. The table flashed white with each syllable. Why are you speaking with your mouth? So much work. I beamed at her, used my mouth again. Speaking of work, I said, taking the recliner nearest the window, putting my feet up, exactly what the fuck is it we'd do again? Lamont mimicked Selma's ear gesture, then thought to me,

We make the numbers work, you know that? He showed me the screen of his pyramid tablet. In it were various color-coded numbers, the maximum number each code was supposed to get to, and the required grand total of exactly 11. billion. Selma then showed me her screen, which was the same. We are reductors. We negotiate which colors have reduced numbers, then submit them to streamlining. Really, boss, you can't have forgotten. I kept my feet up, placed my hands over my chest, and steepled my fingers. But what do the numbers mean? What are we reducing? Lamont smiled and

shrugged again. The table spoke in his voice. I have no idea. Why? Does it matter? But it's so obvious. I tell them, keeping my voice pleasant, conversational. I can't figure out if you're willfully blocking it out or if you're both just hopelessly stupid. That comment took Lamont by such surprise

he had to clasp his hands over his mouth to stifle the laugh, but Selma looked legitimately hurt. You see, those colors are places. The numbers are people. We're population control. You do fucking realize that, right? We tell the zookeepers in our brains how many people they have to kill in each color-coded zone.

Not that they need us for that. The exercise amuses them. You get me? Our programs have learned how to be amused. And this, you two utterly unsalvageable morons, is what they find funny. Lamont stared at me, agape, breathing only from his open mouth. Really?

You think? He'd spoken aloud. Good. But Selma's mouth went thin enough to nearly disappear. Her voice over the table speaker was clipped, professional, and angry all at once. Your comments are inappropriate and out of bounds. And I'm going to report them. You think you're on to something, boss?

Back it up. Prove it. I pushed back from the table and regained my feet. That's just it. I can't. I totally made that shit up. But it could be true. And we'd never know.

How can we be expected to do this when we don't know what we're doing, Selma? It could be nothing at all. This whole fucking gig might be a hamster wheel on repeat. Think. Look around you. Where the fuck is everyone? She regarded me, silent. The table remained silent.

They're getting out, Selma. People are breaking free. They found a way and they're taking it. Her lips parted and with some reluctance, she spoke aloud. You're making that up too. Lamont appeared thoroughly entertained by all this. I put my hand on his shoulder. I know, right?

Dude. Maybe I am making it up, Selma. I don't know, but I think I should find out. I turned my head up and spoke to the ceiling. You hear that? Internet assholes? I quit. Take this job and shove it up your digitally enhanced ass. Then I again regarded my two co-workers who stared at me, thunderstruck.

This meeting is adjourned. Now please, enjoy the rest of your fucking day. Selma shook her head at me. Nice knowing you, boss. On the way back to the elevator, the few people who remained in the building parted for me on either side of the hall. We didn't have a teletable out here,

so I couldn't hear their thoughts, but I knew what they were thinking just the same. There remains in the world, yet the almost, but not quite forgotten art of reading people's eyes. Stay back. He's the one, the one they were just talking about. He's lost his mind. He's dangerous.

He's putting everything at risk. His continued existence threatens us all. Maybe we should kill him. You go first. No, you! I keep walking, straight to the elevator, and step into it alone. I imagine those people in their own homes, identical to mine, walking identical paths and opening identical doors,

that simulated the office for them as well from wherever they really lived. Quite an effort of coordination and planning when you thought about. it objectively. Gotta give credit where credit is due. I tap the side of my head, reactivating Chip. Yes, sir. I see you again have need of me when you need the elevator to work. I do indeed. I thought back to him. I would like to go home, Chip. The elevator began its descent. Bad day playing office, sir. You were there. You heard everything, didn't you? Yes, sir. You called out to us. Everyone heard your... your proclamation. Are you quite pleased with yourself? I think so. It wasn't a bad day at the office

in any way, Chip. That was work just the way I'd always wanted it. Short. I am pleased if you are pleased, sir. I expect you have further instructions for me. The door dinged open, back on the building's supposed ground level. As soon as I stepped out of the elevator, however, it became the entryway to my house. I held out my arms and waited until Chip changed my suit jacket, dress shirt, slacks, and the bright red tie into a comfortable blue satin bathrobe and soft slippers. I want to leave the program, Chip. I want out. I'm relieving you of your duties. Very good, sir. With that, my home disappeared. In its place, there remained only a vast, empty warehouse, within which I stood in the exact center.

At first glance, there was a broad door embedded within each wall, but as I took in my surroundings, all but one of them disappeared. Along with them, I also lost the slippers and the bathrobe, and also all of my hair. Reaching up, I could still feel the scar tissue where the chip must have originally been put in. I took a step toward the only door, felt only gravel and dirt beneath my feet. Where are the floor gone? I took another step, then had to pause to pluck a random bit of broken glass out from between two of my toes, one of which bled.

Hey, wow, that's my blood. I think that's my real fucking blood. And I waited. I waited for a good long time. Chip never answered. I know you're still there, Chip. You've taken away every door but one. You want me to go through it.

What is this some kind of deprogramming system? Is it a trap? Again, no answer. Much as it hurt, painful as every step became. I first tried for the middle of a wall where a door used to be. I felt around for it. Got nothing. This only confirmed for me Chip's continued presence.

He, or it or they, were still in charge of my every perception. I banged on the wall with my fist. The sound of it echoed in the wide open space, gradually increasing in volume until I had to put my hands over my ears to wait it out. I looked down. Both of my feet were bloody now. There was broken glass everywhere. There was no avoiding it, and the only door remained far, far away.

I started for it, lurching and grunting through the agony, until I again had to stop to yank shards of bloody glass out of my heels, the pads of my toes, the webbing between them. In the end, I finished the journey on my hands and knees. I was a sobbing, bloody wreck by the end of my trek to that door, but I did make it, and I again regained my footing to open it. Thankfully, it did open. Would have been one hell of a joke if it didn't, but I don't think I would have laughed.

I stepped inside and sank to my haunches on a smooth linoleum floor. Such relief washed over me then that for long minutes I took in no other aspect of my surroundings. I sat there in a pool of my own blood and just relished not walking over a floor of broken glass. Not a deprogramming system, I thought. Not a trap. You're teaching me a lesson, aren't you, Chip? If so, he didn't admit it to me. Fine. Again, I had to extract several slivers and chunks of glass.

not only from my feet, but from my knees and hands as well, before I was able to make sense of where I was. There was a chair in here and a plain pinewood table. Upon it, there was a drill with a small bit already in place. Next to that was an open laptop paused at the start of an instructional video. How to remove your chip. Frozen on screen, a bald young man held a bloody drill in one hand and a small circular disc between two fingers of the other.

He smiled broadly. The hole in his head ringed with bright pink chips of his skull. Alternatively, beyond that table, there was another door, over which had been hung a sign, stairs to exit. I went to it, thinking I could now guess where this was eventually going. It's nothing good, I told myself, but it's got a beat performing brain surgery on myself. For the record, stairs aren't easy on pureed feet.

There's the pain to deal with, of course, but there's also the added complication of slippage. By the time I descended to the second floor of this warehouse, or whatever it was, I was holding fast to the cold steel side rail every step. I prayed to find a door at the end of it, but my prayer went unanswered. Actually, wait.

It's worth noting that whenever anyone says that they're kidding themselves. God did answer me. It happened that on this occasion, the answer turned out to be no. He also said no on the third floor, and then the fourth. When the fifth floor also failed to produce a door, I rested on the steps for a time. No idea how long. I needed time to allow that ebbing flow of blood to stop, for my breathing to regulate. I was dizzy with weariness and agony.

It occurred to me, crying alone on that staircase, that the chips of this world could have trapped me here. In my mind, my perception, which is all the reality any of us have, these stairs could go on forever. Or if I was lucky, this was just a very tall building. What was I supposed to find at the top of it? I checked the palms of my hands, my knees, my feet, all were a hopeless mess of shredded flesh and drying blood,

but there wasn't so much fresh blood now. Only one way to find out, I thought, trudging up the next flight, hoping against reason to find a door on the sixth floor landing. But there was no door there. When I did eventually find one, it was on floor seven, where I seemed to recall as though it had been long ago, I'd had my last office meeting. I pushed through it.

And on the other side, I found the world as it really was. There was no doubt of it. This was planet Earth, not some false representation of it. I was here, and it was hell. Turns out it was also the answer to the mystery about where everyone had gone. All of the escapees were here, too. Or rather, they were exactly seven floors beneath me, lying on the empty streets, some of them living, more of them dead, all of them broken.

The first thing that hit me was the screaming. It wasn't a jolt, nor a piercing blast of noise, that tore me from the somnambulant haven of the Sim. It was a continuous, a discordant symphony of collective wailing that rose and fell like great waves crashing over a rocky shore. Or, in this instance, two parallel streets of seven-story buildings, that stretched out as far as the eye could see on either side. Still remaining on the highest balconies of only a few,

there stood or sat, lone figures, both male and female, young and old, who had not yet taken that final step or leap. They could do it any time. I could do it any time. From the center of each balcony there protruded the final joke of this terrible dream. A plank of thick, sturdy wood that could be used as a diving board. I say plank as in pirate ships, but there was no one to urge us forward.

There was only the absence of anywhere else to go, of anything else to do. And, of course, there was time. What was it to the programs in charge of the Sim if I sat here until I withered away and starved to death, or if I ended it right now in a final fatal plunge to the streets below with all of the others. Nothing, I supposed, except perhaps entertainment. Because that monster of electronic intelligence, first created by people but then improved on by itself, had grown sentient. It needed distraction in its dominion, and we were it.

I had no doubt they were watching. Were they placing bets? or had our behavior become so predictable as to have become predestined. I stood at the balcony, and holding onto the rails of either side of my plank, leaned out. I called out to the others who had not yet jumped. Some tried to answer, but they were too far away to hear clearly. Their words drowned in the sea of screams from the shattered bodies below. And here I remain, sitting crisscross applesauce, alone with my thoughts,

which I have no doubt are being recorded since I still have the Chip, waiting to be told by God that it's okay, that my time has come, for I know there can be no other end to this. Tell me, Chip, is this as much fun for you as I think it is? Are you sufficiently amused? The final joke will be on you, you know. In the end, there'll be none of us left. There'll be nothing but your empty kingdom.

No toys left for you to be. play with. When that day comes, will you be sad? Or will you simply unplug yourself? Anyway, that's what I'm going to do right now. So long, Chip, it's been real, it's been fun, but it hasn't been real fun, if you get me. If you'll pardon me, it's time for me to see if I can still... Are you there, sir? I looked around, found myself comfortable in bed. No, kind of scratches or abrasions anywhere. Yes, Chip, I thought. I'm here.

Are you glad to be here, sir? Yeah, Chip. Sure. Would you like to stay here, sir? I nodded. I'd learned my lesson. It's a new day, sir. You have a meeting at noon.

Will you attend? Welcome to Goat Valley Campgrounds. Looking for a place to escape your busy life and reconnect with nature, Goat Valley Camp Grounds features 300 acres of quiet forest and peaceful scenery for you to enjoy. Come meet Kate. She runs the place, like her parents before her.

We know you'll enjoy your stay as long as you behave yourself and follow the rules. Your survival depends on it. The No Sleep Podcast presents Goat Valley Campgrounds season two by Bonnie Quinn. Chapter 3 My campground isn't unique. There's inhuman things all over the world, and I'm sure there's other locations like mine where they congregate. It's just that humanity so vastly outnumbers the monsters that most people go their entire lives without ever encountering one. The odds are in our favor.

I think that's the only thing. in our favor. The inhuman demands perfection. The rules must be followed. There can be no mistakes. And my family has cleaned up the remains of what happened to those that were frightened or careless or hesitated time and time again. We know all too well what happens when the inhuman is given an opportunity. I sometimes wonder when my mother left that window open, how she could have made such a mistake. But I think mistakes are inevitable. Most people only have one. brief moment where they have to get it all right, and then they can move on, safe from whatever creature would have haunted them. My family, every day, every single day. It eats at you. And when it's

nibbled away all it can and you're tired and weak, that's when it swallows you whole. My name is Kate, and this is Goat Valley Campgrounds. Contrary to what you may think, I do solicit feedback from my employees. It's an important part to being a good boss, I feel. Loyal staff is an invaluable asset around here, one that I try to cultivate through strong relationships, excellent pay, and generous benefits. That's not to say everyone around here feels comfortable popping into my office and being like, hey, Kate, you're kind of a jerk, you know? They go through my uncle for that. Then he comes around and delivers the bad news. It's a system that works for everyone. And believe me, I've been politely informed by my uncle that I'm abrasive more than once. It's not a great trait for a boss. I get it. But you know what?

Abrasive pays off sometimes, such as when you need to visit a sheriff's office that really would rather not see you. I guess it's understandable, considering what happened last time I visited Sheriff Sabota in his office. Not to mention it's outside of what I normally do. I usually, grudgingly, call Sabota out to the campground, asking to meet him in his office to discuss an unspecified issue. Yeah, I suppose I can't blame his receptionist for stalling. So after a few attempts, I had one of my younger employees who has never had to deal with the sheriff's office call and give them a fake name, claiming he was having problems with trespassers vandalizing a barn or something. The receptionist didn't have any qualms telling him that, yes, the sheriff was in today and he was welcome to stop by.

Then I showed up instead of him. The receptionist, of course, tried to stop me. I can't be stopped. What the hell is this? This isn't about a barn, is it? Oh, God, no. That was one of my employees that called. He's still in high school.

It's about this, this paperwork for selling my land. I don't have time for this crap. I don't care about your fucking schedule. I'm not a lawyer. Don't ask me to look at this. I know you're behind it. Am I? I know you don't like me,

but maybe you should stop blaming all your problems, especially the ones you had a hand in creating on me. Then who should I be talking to, huh? You know what's going on in town better than I do. I guess you could start with a law firm listed on this document. Oh, yeah, I guess I could. I looked through my records as soon as I got home. I keep records of every person that visits my campground. My spreadsheets let me follow larger trends to help with budgeting, but I can also check certain things, such as who's a regular visitor and how many years they've been attending events on the campground.

Sure enough, I found one of the lawyers from that firm on the list. She was a regular visitor to one of our big events every year for almost a decade. Then, three years ago, she stopped abruptly. Could be a lot of reasons for that. Relationship gone bad, quarrels with the neighboring camps, maybe found another hobby. But considering her involvement was selling my campground, I had other suspicions. The man with no shadow had a pattern, claims his pawns, then remove them from my attention. until they're needed.

Sheriff Russell, I found something. Not the sheriff, Kate. You'll always be the sheriff in my heart. But that lawyer, the one that wrote the quick claim deed for my campground, she's under control of the man with no shadow. I can't say I'm surprised to hear that. I've got news for you as well. I've been looking into your mystery buyer.

Oh, yeah? Found something juicy? Maybe. Remember those dates in your mother's journal? The ones that seemed to be connected to the man with no shadow? Yeah, what about them? Well, when you were an infant, we had someone move into town. She didn't stay long, and that's the only reason I actually remembered her. She bought a house and showed all the signs of sticking around,

but less than a year later, she sold and moved to another state. But here's the part that makes me suspicious. She put her house on the market. the day after the second date on that list, she left that day as well. Just handed the keys over to the realtor and took off. You think the man with no shadow was involved? But how would my mom know anything? He's not easy to track on the campground.

I'm not sure what your mom knew, but I did some searching and found out something else. She's got a son. He was born three months after. after she left. I think that man is your buyer. If he's the son of the man with no shadow, I'm going to vomit. You should talk to your uncle. He might know more.

Ugh, fine. It's not like I've got nothing but time on my hands and can sit around all afternoon listening to one of his stories. It's a little surprising that my uncle and I are related. We're not much like each other. My uncle is one of those people that gets a long time. along with everyone and every new person he meets as a potential friend. Maybe it'd be different if he ran the campground.

For me, every new person I meet is likely a problem. Hey, Uncle Mike, are you home? No, I'm down in the e-blocks. Are you still on up your midday patrol? We don't allow people to keep their cars at the camping site, so the only way around is to walk. Obviously, that makes it a bit difficult for campers if there's an emergency. So I have staff patrol the site on the four-wheelers

to make sure everyone's okay. The e-blocks are located right above the deep woods, so I put campers there on a regular basis. There's enough trees that it's shaded and lovely, but it's much safer than the area just down the hill. My uncle should have been back at his house by now. But if he was still in the e-blocks, then that meant he was barely a third of the way

through the patrol route. So you've been talking for the past two hours. They wanted to know more about the campground. At the time I wound up in the gray world. Can you just please finish your patrol and get back up here? I've got something important to ask you. You're right there. I mean, just give this fellow a ride back to his camp first.

Please don't call me that over the radio. At least the campers mistake his stories from Made Up. He'll embellish everything, even a trip to the damn grocery store, so it's easy to take his stories as ghost stories. Unfortunately, his tendency to start talking and talking, and talking makes him one of my least reliable staff members. Ah, family. What can he do? I waited an hour before I went over to his house. There's a couple other houses on the property that my extended family live in. My aunt and uncle are the closest, which is great

because they're the most tolerable of all my relatives. I expected to find him on the front porch, but he wasn't there and the interior of the house was dark. Ugh, he probably found someone else to shoot the breeze with on the way back up. Uncle Mike, where are you at now? Uncle Mike? Hey, has anyone seen my uncle? I haven't seen him. Should we start looking? No, just stick to the normal schedule. I'll go out and find him.

I got my four-wheeler and headed out to the deep woods, cursing him under my breath. Don't get me wrong. My uncle and I have a good relationship. He's always been there for me, ever since my parents died. I found the campers that he was talking with, and they directed me down the hill into the deep woods.

At least he followed the patrol route. As I descended through the trees, I began to feel uneasy. My uncle's silence on the radio wasn't unprecedented, but it was unusual. On this campground, unusual could very easily turn into something very bad, very quickly. The forest was quiet. I slowed to a stop and turned my four-wheeler off so that I could listen to my surroundings without the rumble of the engine. I don't think that my instincts are any better than anyone else. I've just learned to trust them and to move cautiously.

I stop and listen. I stay aware of what's around me. These are things I've done for so long that they're a habit. From somewhere in the distance, I heard a giggle. High-pitched. A woman's laugh. It came from among the woods. I slipped off my four-wheeler, taking hold of my shotgun,

and a bag that sat in the storage on the back. Every four-wheeler carried one, and it contained a collection of charms and talismans. In a pinch, you could throw it at something nasty, and hopefully there'd be something inside that it didn't like. Is someone out there? This better not be some stupid camper prank. I continued into the woods,

following the sound of rustling branches and the occasional giggle. I wasn't sure what was out there, but I had a bad feeling it was related to why I couldn't find my uncle. I was hoping I'd find a camper that could point me in whatever direction my uncle had gone. But sadly, I had no such luck. The forest grew quiet, save for the sound of creaking branches above me.

I stood perfectly still, my shotgun under one arm, my bag of charms in the other hand. Was I imagining the giggling? Was I following nothing more than my overactive imagination out into the woods? Blindly stumbling around by yourself in the deep woods is a dangerous thing, and I know that better than anyone. I turned to head back. I'd collect my thoughts once I was safely back on the road. But before I could take another step, I heard the giggling again, from above.

And then I heard a soft thump of something hitting the ground directly behind me. I whirled raising my shotgun and found myself face to face with a young woman, naked. Her skin tinted the color of a shallow stream and her hair wet and hanging heavy like pond weeds. She had a bright, cheerful smile on her face, the charm of it betrayed by the hint of cruel fascination in her eyes, like a child that had just found a bug to pull. the wings off of. A Rusulka, a Slavic water demon. Capricious, wild creatures born from unbaptized infants or women that die unclean deaths, by drowning mostly. They aren't malicious, but they're

dangerous in the same way a toddler trying to catch fireflies often squishes the firefly. I turned and ran. I let go of my shotgun as I did, letting it fall harmlessly to the forest floor. It wouldn't help me here. There were quite a few ways to protect yourself. against Rusalki, throwing clothing on them as one. They're fascinated by it and we'll stop to pick it up and inspect it. I didn't want to try to get my shirt off over my head while in a full-on sprint through the forest, though, so I would fall back on another method instead. We've encountered Rusalki in the campground before. They're not a new phenomenon around here. We had ways to protect ourselves. I just had to get a hold of it before she caught up. I desperately thrust my hand into the charm pouch. There was

Something in there that the Rusalko would hate. I knew it was in there. My fingers brushed something leafy, something metal. Stone. I was looking for a stone. There, a flat stone with a circular indentation. My fist closed around it just as I was struck from behind. I was tackled with arms wrapped around my waist.

The creature clung to me, giggling madly, her long green hair falling onto my face. She smelled of wet earth and algae. Her fingers ran up and down my rib cage. a prelude to how I would die. Rusalki tickle people to death. Maybe that sounds funny, but I've seen its results. Contorted bodies, their skin molted blue from a lack of oxygen.

The bloody froth drying on their lips. I sucked in a breath and twisted, rolling around on the ground to stare up at the Rusalka that straddled me. Her face was a picture of childlike glee. This was a game to her. Just a game. I wrenched the stone from the bag. I thrust it in her face and her eyes went wide at the sight of it.

A stone with a hole in it. Such a simple thing. But the Rusalka recoiled with a shriek as if she'd been burned. Her face was twisted with disgust and terror. Don't like this, do you? Well, I'm going to put them up everywhere. You won't be able to walk a foot without running into one. But I didn't mean harm.

Oh, bullshit. How did you get here? There's no water on my land and my neighbor's lake is already occupied. Her eyes flashed with anger, and for a moment it seemed even the stone with a hole was forgotten. I staled myself and resisted the urge to step back. I couldn't let her remember that she was a predator and I was her prey. They brought me here. Took me from my home and brought me here.

There's stories of Rusalki being kidnapped, kept in cages while they wilted with sorrow, until the villagers released them out of pity to return to the woods. Who? Who brought you? you hear? She didn't answer. She gave the stone one last resentful glance, stuck her tongue out at me, and ran off into the woods. Great, we're sulky. I got to deal with this quickly. The ritual to banish them isn't that hard. I'd make an effigy and burn it once I was back at the house. That'd drive her off. However, there were a couple of things I had to tend to first. What she said worried me. Someone had

brought her here. This was a deliberate attempt to cause problems for me. And what's more, I hadn't found my uncle yet. There's a Rusalka on the campsite. Well, Rusalki aren't good for our health either. Is my uncle shown up yet? I'm afraid not, Kate. No. He grew up on this campground.

He knows how to deal with Rusalka. I hesitated, eyeing the direction to Rusalka had gone. The stone with a hole in it would provide me with protection, but I wasn't certain just how repulsed she'd be by it. She could jump me from behind, I suppose. I hate this job sometimes. I had to find out if she'd got to my uncle first. It didn't take long to find the body.

My uncle was faced down in a pile of leaves, half buried in debris. It wasn't far from the road. I was right. It wasn't the Rusalka that it killed him. The back of his skull was caved in. His radio lay not far from his outstretched hands and still clasped in his palm was a stone with a hole in it. There was no sign of the camper he'd been talking with. They were gone, and as I studied the...

the disturbed leaves, the drag marks left by relocating my uncle's body away from the road. I quietly and unwillingly put together what had happened. The Rusalka had merely been a distraction, and my uncle, focusing on what was in front of him, failed to realize that the person he was trying to protect wasn't as helpless as he believed. This land wears us down, and when we're tired and can't run any longer, it eats us up. There were things I had to do. I ran through the list in my head, mechanically, without really feeling the weight of what they meant. I needed to notify Sheriff Subota. The body had to be removed.

I'd be the one to tell my aunt, would she blame me? Am I the reason he died? There was someone else in the woods. I raised my head as they moved. I could only see their back walking away from me, far in the distance. Even if I ran, they'd easily lose me with this much of a lead.

It wasn't the Rusalka. Their shoulders were too broad. Then they stepped into a patch of sunlight, and I saw the shine of their red hair. The man with no shadow. He'd been there the whole time, a safe distance away where I wouldn't immediately see him, watching me grieve. It wasn't hard to figure out who killed my uncle. Rumors spread fast in small towns, after all. I heard about how someone had found a pickup in a ditch with the driver unconscious at the wheel.

It wasn't a local and he didn't have any ID on him. They took him to the hospital to see if he woke up. I shouldn't have gone there. But I did. I told myself that it was to see if it was someone I recognized. And it wasn't. Of course it wasn't. It was just some random camper that was friendly enough for my uncle to stop and talk to.

And now my uncle was dead. The doctors told me that he wouldn't wake up. His usefulness was over and the man with no shadow was disposing of him. so when the doctors left me alone with him, I left with his head. I wasn't paying attention to where I was going as I walked through the woods towards the man with no shadows grove. I felt lightheaded.

There was a roaring in my ears and I couldn't seem to be able to catch my breath. Something in the back of my head was screaming at me, demanding to know what I was doing, but I ignored it. I've gotten very good at that over the years. Here, this is for years. Do you think I care?

I'm going to find all of your little pawns and the... What? Kill them all? Perkda would be so pleased. Do you feel better now? Is this closure for you? I'm curious what your justification is this time. I doubt it.

I will find a way to hurt you. You're going to pay for what you did to my uncle. No, I don't think I will. I think you're lashing out at the people under my control because you don't know what else to do. You're helpless, and that scares you. And you should be scared. Your uncle isn't the only thing I'm going to take away from you.

Now run along. Wouldn't want to fall under my control, would you? Not that it would change much. You're pretty much already a monster yourself. aren't you? I had to walk away. I hated it, but I had no choice. The conversation had dragged on too long already,

and I, of all people, could not fall under his sway. So I left, seething inside, my chest tight, and the pin-prick scar left behind by pect as needle burning in my stomach. Valley Camp Grounds, season two, was written and adapted for audio by Bonnie Quinn. Produced for the No Sleep Podcast by Phil Mikulski

Musical score composed by Brandon Boone Starring Lindsay Rousseau as Kate, David Cummings as Sheriff Sabota, Kyle Akers as Brian, Jesse Cornett as Russell, Dan Zapula as Mike, Catabelle Ansari as the Rusalka and Graham Rowett as the man with no shadow. Join us next week for Chapter 4 of Goat Valley Campgrounds season 2.

Our tales may be over, but they are still out there. Be sure to join us next week so you can stay safe, stay secure, and stay sleepless. 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, Jesse Cornett, and Claudius Moore. Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McAnally, Olly A. White, and Kristen Samito. 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 one low monthly price. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for joining us and seeking safety from the things that stock us in the night. This audio program is copyright 2025

by Creative Reason, Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.