The NoSleep Podcast - S24 Ep1: NoSleep Podcast S24E01

Episode Date: February 1, 2026

It's Episode 01 of Season 24. Enter the dark waters of the Cape Fear River as we present tales of watery horror."Rainbows" written by Kimberly W. Heiman (Story starts around 00:05:10)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Angie - Marie Westbrook, Jimmy - Atticus Jackson"Backwater" written by Peter Genoway (Story starts around 00:15:15)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Maya - Linsay Rousseau, Nathan - Jeff Clement, Brock - David Cummings, Teddy - Matthew Bradford"Mermaids" written by Sean Seebach (Story starts around 00:48:25)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Claudius MooreCast: Narrator - Kyle Akers, You - Atticus Jackson"My Coworker at the Laundromat Kept Hiding Inside the Machines" written by Kyle L. Grubb (Story starts around 01:01:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator - Sarah Thomas, Mia - Mary Murphy, Boy - Jeff Clement"The Span Man" written by Adam Sleper (Story starts around 01:15:45)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator - Dan Zappulla, Kendall - Nichole Goodnight, Span Man - Graham Rowat, Bar Patron - Jesse CornettClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about the Crimewave at Sea 2.0 Cruise!Click here to get your Crimewave at Sea discount code and bonus event!Click here to learn more about Peter GenowayClick here to learn more about Sean SeebachClick here to learn more about Kyle L. GrubbClick here to learn more about Adam SleperExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"Rainbows" illustration courtesy of Krys HookuhThe NoSleep Podcast is Human-made for Human Minds. No generative AI is used in any aspect of work.Audio program ©2026 - Creative Reason Media - 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. No part of this audio program may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. All rights reserved.

Water. It gives us life. We are drawn to it. Yet it holds immense power over us. It can bring unspeakable horror to the most familiar places. Your morning shower, a tranquil riverbank, or the endless ocean. It's time to dive deep into the abyss. From the dark waters of the Cape Fear River. immerse yourself in horror as you brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast Welcome to Season 24 of the No Sleep Podcast I'm your steadfast host David Cummings It's so exciting to be back with a new season As you heard in the opening theme This season is all about the dark fear lurking in water

It can truly be said that this season will be dripping with horror. And the intro mentions something new for the show. The podcast has relocated, and I knew there was no better place to set up shop than on the banks of a river known as Cape Fear. So the dark waters of the Cape Fear River will infuse its own southern charm to the horror as we celebrate 15 years and beyond.

And with all this talk about horrifying water and rivers of fear, I am super excited to announce a huge event coming up, which will be happening in one year's time. The No Sleep podcast is going to be taking its brand of horror to the high seas as we join the creator crews known as Crime Wave at Sea 2.0. That's right. Spend five days and four nights on one of the largest cruise ships in the world. as we sail around the Caribbean with some of the biggest podcast names

in the world of true crime and horror. We join the creators of shows like Last Podcast on the Left, Case File, Scared to Death, Sinisterhood, True Crime Garage, Unexplained, and More. Tickets go on sale on Friday the 13th of February at noon Eastern Time, and you can book for just $99 down per person. and check the link in the show notes to find out how you can sign up to get a bonus code to get $100 off your ticket and get access to a special meet and greet with the no sleep team. And which no sleepers will be on the cruise, you ask?

It's me, David Cummings. How exciting is that? What's that? Not enough? Well, there's also going to be Jessica McAvoy, Peter Lewis, Lindsay Rousseau, Graham Rowett, and the maestro Brandon Boone. So that's equally exciting news, right? I guess.

We really want this cruise to be a time of celebration of the show and our 15th anniversary. And yes, the cruise is happening eight months after the anniversary date, but this will be an amazing opportunity to gather with like-minded podcast fans. There is such a great sense of community on a cruise like this. You can be yourself, be your freaky, crazy, crazy, nutty self and fit in with other fans of the world of macabre stories.

The other creators are just as fun, friendly, and kooky as we are. So even if you're not already fans of those podcasts, you will be by the end of the cruise. We really hope you'll join us for CrimeWave at Sea 2.0. You can find all the details in the links found in the show notes. So go to crimewaveatc.com to learn all about the crews. We'll see you on the ship, fully braced. So that's a lot of exciting news for this new season, new year, and new chapter in the life of the podcast.

So put on your swim trunks, your bikini, or prepare to go skinny dipping. Because it's time to plunge into the horror of our sleepless tales. In our first tale, we meet two people who have devoted themselves to the study of the creatures of the Ah, marine scientists are great, aren't they? And they seek to learn more about life by studying death as well. And in this tale, shared with us by author Kimberly W. Hayman, a dead beached whale demands investigation, and the cause of death, it turns out, isn't that deep.

Performing this tale are Marie Westbrook and Atticus Jackson. So look up when you're at the beach. You just might see some rainbows. The pale, slothing skin and the bloated body radiated more than stench across the beach. A tingle danced across my skin, making my arm hair stand on end. Do you feel that, Jimmy? What? The heat of rotting whale flesh?

Isn't it glorious, Angie? Dr. James Howard inhaled the salty breeze, hand-gripping the handle of the blue pelican case containing his necropsy kit. His blue eyes twinkled, and his sun golden cheeks dimpled with his grin. He set his case on the dry sand and inhaled dramatically,

toned chest stretching into his well-worned Santa Cruz surf shop hoodie. The olive-green toes of his extra tough rubber boots peaked out from under foul weather overalls. He unlatched the clasps, creaked open his case, and yanked out a fresh pair of bright yellow, heavy-duty dishwashing gloves. No, uh, it feels almost electric. Like after a lightning strike or something. I dropped my gray waterproof case next to his and sniff the air.

Even upwind, I could smell the decomposing whale mixing with my mint gum. But under the reek, I swore I smelled the unsettling tang of ozone. It stormed yesterday. Maybe lightning hit nearby. He tucked his gloves under his arm, picked up his kit, and strolled toward the gray whale, case swinging, whistling a sea shanty. I rubbed my arms, fleece rolling across my goose-bumped flesh, and glanced out to sea. The haze of coastal fog clung to the shore.

The whale carcass looked heavy on the beach, waves lapping at its dead sides, dragging a slick of foul oil to the horizon. A crowd gathered up wind on the bluff, sitting on carhuts. Several people lounged in beach chairs. Someone passed out beers. A news crew unloaded camera gear from a large white truck with a Channel 49 decal. Besides the eerie tingle creeping across my skin and the burnt electric smell, nothing seemed abnormal about the day. The beach didn't even look different than the last time I'd been here over two months ago.

And beaches were zones of change. Collecting rack with the tides. Dunes moving with the wind and waves. and changing of dominant shell debris with the seasons. The lack of change felt significant, like a warning in a movie marked by a close-up zoom and a couple of notes from a bassoon. Creeping toward the dead whale,

I pushed my nagging on these aside and searched for signs of why it died. But there were no killer whale bites, no gashes from a run-in with a ship's propeller. It wasn't underweight, but its abdomen was bloated more than could be accounted for by decomposition. Maybe it was pregnant, and there had been deadly placental complications.

Jimmy pinned down one end of the transect tape in line with the whale's snout and unspooled as lengthy measuring ribbon as he walked back toward me, glancing at the measurement and whistling. He stopped at the whale's tail, pulling my clipboard out and made a wide circle. 45 feet. Noting every mark on the whale's flesh as if surveying a rental car for dents. Jimmy crept beside me. snapping photos and gleefully noting each barnacle and louse clinging to the whale's leathery hide.

The whale looked surprisingly healthy, with a lower parasite load and fewer wounds than I would have expected given its size. There were even a couple of old scars that looked better healed than I'd observed in previous whale carcasses, almost as if they'd been treated at some cetacean hospital scar center. The combination of small oddities kicked my scientific mind into gear. The unsettled feeling pushed to the back of my brain as the puzzle grabbed my full attention. Do you see this gleaming here? I pointed to an iridescent patch near the whale's eye

as if it had cried rainbows and they dried onto its skin. Jimmy grabbed a sampling swab from his pocket and leaned in front of me. He probed the color, coming away with a sweet-smelling goop. Oil? The sticky slime didn't look like any oil I had ever seen. It was more mucusy, and though the sheen had a similar iridescent hue to petroleum products, the rainbow coloration wasn't just a surface phenomenon. It coursed through the gel.

I stared at the enchanting tide-s swirl, my thoughts ebbing into nothingness as if I were being hypnotized. Jimmy's movement forced my gaze away from the nebula-colored slime. Hunched by the whale, he pried its eyelids open, goo spilling onto his gloves. He shrieked, a high-pitched, almost feminine yelp I wouldn't have expected to come from his blonde surfer body. He leaped backward, crashing into me.

We fell in a tangle of limbs. My clipboard jutting in the sand, waterproof paper flapping in the wind. What the shit? Dammit, Jimmy. Watch what you're doing. Did you see that? No, you stepped in front of me, remember?

Something moved in the whale's eye. He turned, grinning. It's got to be parasites. Fuck yeah. It looked like a worm. But there's no record of warm parasites in gray whale's eyes. Slapping my knee, he climbed to his feet and waltz to his case while he tested out howardus and then Howard Dia has the new species names. I gazed at the whale's eyes.

The iridescent ooze looked fresher than it had a minute ago. The skin bubbled around the eye socket. It must be from Jimmy's probing. I pulled myself to my feet, dusting the sand off my rubber pants and clipboard. The disturbing electric tingle intensified, rolling through my hair, along my skin, pricking my lips. Instead of running, my scientific training insisted I lean close and examine the goop. Returning with his entire necropsy kit, Jimmy sprawled it out on a tarp beside the whale's eye. His toothy grin thinning into concentration.

Take pictures. waved at the camera and started cutting along the skin folds. Rainbow gel poured out of the incision. Sweetness overpowered the stench like cotton candy wafting at a county fair. I snap pictures, standing on tiptoes, angling around Jimmy's hands. What the hell am I looking at? No body fluid I knew I'd had this consistency or color. Did something poison this whale through its eyeballs?

Maybe Jimmy's idea of a new unidentified parasite had merit. He squatted close to the whale's head, filled a sample vial with rainbows, and then started palpating the eye. Ready? Thudded against my ribs. Jimmy cut into the whale's cornea, and the world exploded into technicolor. Flat, glowing worms erupted out of the exposed pupil smacking my face. Sticky, wet, writhing, and scented with sugared electricity. The worms sucked at my skin, cold and vibrating with the same energy I felt in the air.

air. I yelped and tried to brush them off, but they sank through my flesh like water into sand. I felt them inside me, pushing my sinew aside, seizing my muscles, crawling along my bones, wrapping around my spinal column. They yanked on my brainstem and my body was no longer my own. I stiffened. My voice quieted and the world filled with wavering colors. The camera dropped from my hand as my fingers flexed. But I hadn't told them to move. I screamed inside my body for my limbs to respond, but it was like trying to give instructions to a toddler from a sound booth in a different building.

The horrifying tingle that had crawled over my skin was now crawling through my consciousness. And my body began to move to the impulses of the worms. Trapped in my mind, viewing the world through a multicolored filter. I couldn't even croak out a sound. Jimmy and I, if he was even Jimmy anymore, if it was still myself anymore, turned slowly. My feet shuffled in the sand, distant uncontrollable appendages. Then my body strolled toward the crowd, mind shouting soundlessly at my helplessness. Jimmy's body moved beside me, whistling an otherworldly tune.

How I fondly recall the summers I spent up in northern on top. Ontario, camping, canoeing the rivers. Outside of the black flies and mosquitoes, it really was an amazing experience. Just ask Maya, working at an outfitting company up north. You see, in this tale, shared with us by author Peter Genoae, Maya quickly learns that the wilderness can have a disturbing effect on people, especially the customer whose wife got lost. I helped perform this tale along with Lindsay Russo, Jeff Clement, and Matthew Bradford. So stick to the well-marked waterways when you're out there. There's nothing but trouble to be found in the backwater. I was relieved when the regional police finally arrived because I wasn't sure how much more of this man's wild rant I could stand. Not my wife.

Not my wife! The first officer remained by the door as the man paced the wood-paneled room. Sir, please calm down. Calm? The man spun, his hair wild, his eyes bulging. But she's still out there! After a long year at the University of Toronto, working at Ward's wilderness outfitting

was supposed to be a cushy summer job. But it was only the first week, and I had no taste for this kind of drama. So when the police arrived, I gladly stepped aside and watched as a second officer, a man much younger than the first, charged past the canoes and camping equipment to confront the man face-to-face.

All right, sir, that's just about enough. But as he reached out, the stranger spun past him and headed straight for the door. Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. The older officer sprang into action and caught the man in a bear hug. The man squirmed like a caught fish and began to whimper. Teddy, get your ass over here. Teddy, I noticed, was tall but baby-faced, and he moved like a clumsy teenager crossing the room. He sneered, grabbing the stranger by the back of the neck.

Let's see you try that shit again. With the situation temporarily under control, the sweat-slicked older cop turned to me. Where's Dougie? Mr. Ward's on the water, I said, surprised to hear my boss referred to by his first name. He won't be back until later tonight. The officer nodded and went back to thinking through the situation. I'm Maya. Nice to meet you. I'm Sergeant Brock.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead. Guess Dougie hired you for the summer? Yeah. Well, Maya, you got some place we can sit this guy down? Uh, there's a lounge in the back. Perfect. Brock turned to his partner. Teddy, you good?

But Teddy didn't respond. He just stared at the man in his clutches with a sadistic glint in his eye. Teddy. The young officer snapped to attention. You good, officer? Yeah, sure. Brock turned away from his partner and stepped into the stranger's eyeline. We'd like to sit you down and have a chat.

The man was panting like a frightened animal. Would that be okay? Saliva dripped from his mouth in a glistening trickle. I noticed the cops had gone silent. His name's Nathan. Well, at least that was the name on his credit card. I stepped behind the counter, grabbed a couple sheets of stapled paper, then handed them to Brock.

He rented a canoe and bought a camping permit four days ago. Brock studied the invoice, then glanced at the man. Nathan Upshaw. That you? The man's trembling jaw refused to form words, but he managed to nod. I'm Sergeant Brock, and this is Constable Penn. We're here to help, okay? No response. Okay?

Yeah. Brock glanced at me. So, how about that lounge? Right. I led them through the space, past stacks of paddles, life jackets, and miscellaneous survival gear. Just an hour earlier, my only stress had been not knowing how to use all of the wilderness equipment I'd been entrusted to rent. But now my anxiety was so ramped that I wished nothing more than to be back in Toronto, sprawled on my futon watching funny TikToks with Pashma.

The girlfriend I'd left behind to take this job in the northern Ontario wilderness. The cops followed me through a door and into a sunroom at the back of the building. Beyond the windows, the lake sparkled pleasantly in the early afternoon light. They stepped past a coffee table and sat Nathan down on the tower. couch in the corner. He sank into the supple cushions, seeming to take on the proportions of a frightened child. From the other side of the room, I collected two folding chairs and set them up for the officers. By this point, I felt like an unofficial deputy in the investigation. So I asked what seemed like the most obvious question. You guys want some coffee? When I returned with four

mismatched mugs, Nathan was already spilling his guts. I had to leave her out there. It was the only thing I could do, because if I stayed there, if I stayed there with her. He bawled his fists and slammed them into his thighs. Fuck, fuck, my fucking God! He sank into the couch and covered his face with both hands. I put down the coffees. Teddy gave a wink and a flirty smile. Thanks.

Brock didn't say anything. Didn't even look at his coffee. He just resumed his investigation. Mr. Upshaw, I can see that you're upset. And I know this is difficult. But before we get carried away, we just need to get some basic information straight. Nathan dropped his hands from his face. His eyes were red and wet.

Let's start with your wife's name. It's... It's Kim. She used your last name? Yeah. So Kim Upshaw. That's right. Riveted to the unfolding mystery, I sipped my coffee while Brock continued to extract ever more basic information about the missing woman.

28 years old, 5 feet 3 inches, 110 pounds, blonde hair, blue eyes, average. Nathan meant average body type, but Kim Upshaw was not what I would have described as an average woman. Four days prior when the couple had first walked through the door, the bland and chubby Nathan barely made an impression. But the striking woman on his arm commanded the spotlight with glossy makeup, garish jewelry, and skin-tight athleisure wear. She didn't say much. But while I discussed potential canoe routes with Nathan, she pranced around the supply shop, clacking her acrylic nails on the canoes and inspecting packets of freeze-dried camping food like she was shopping for designer shoes. Opposites attract is one way of putting it.

But couples like Kim and Nathan made me think of that song from the 1950s. Love is strange. Once again, my mind returned to Pashma. The summer apart would undoubtedly be difficult. It already was. But we had agreed to resume things in September, with Pashma even suggesting we move in together before the semester began. Four years, my senior, she was a graduate student in the geography department

with a silly sense of humor, but serious plans for our future together. I was only 21. And while I did love Pashma, this was my first serious relationship. And to be honest, I was nowhere near ready to grapple with what she was. like to call, the modern woman's three M's, money, marriage, and eventually, motherhood. Teddy?

The younger officer was slurping coffee from a slouched position. Yes, sir. Phone this one in. Notify search and rescue. You know what to do. Teddy nodded and excused himself to make the call while Brock returned his attention to Nathan. We're going to get a

search party started, Mr. Upshaw? Boats, helicopters. No. No search party. Sir, we need to send someone out to retrieve your wife. No, no, you don't get it. That's why I took the canoe. That's why I came back without her, because something happened to her. His hysterical tone sent a chill down my spine. Sir, what are... For the first time, Brock appeared genuinely flummoxed. Did you and your wife have some kind of dispute out there? Nathan laughed, making a sound so absurd it sounded like a cackle.

Dispute! Yeah, I'd say we had one hell of a dispute. Call's mate, Sarge. Teddy reappeared from around the corner and returned to his chair. Okay, Mr. Upshaw, let's start at the beginning. Tell us what happened out there. But Nathan held silent, rocking back and forth, trapped with his spiraling thoughts. After watching this stalemate play out, I finally stepped forward, picked up Nathan's untouched coffee, and put it in his hands.

Try taking a sip. It'll warm you up. He did, as I said, flinching at the heat. But his eyes seemed to clear. Just a bit. We came out here to do five days of paddling. I'd been on a few trips myself, Ongonquin, Killarney. But this was her first time. We decided on May because Kim wanted to see the spring thaw. She wanted to see the ice melting on the lake. He took another bracing sip. Everything started okay. Lots of sun, water, like a sheet of glass. We were actually having fun and making good time.

But that's when the rain started. So we set up camp early that first night. Then in the morning we packed the... up and got back on the water. That was Tuesday? Yeah. Rained harder that day. Yeah.

Heavy winds, too. It was so bad we couldn't make it to Diamond Lake, so we stopped. Set up camp on, I think it would have been... Arrowhead Lake? Nathan's eyes shot up. We'd passed Arrowhead. You sure? Yeah, I remember seeing the name on the map.

In the pause that followed, all three men steered their... gaze towards me. Just a sec. I went to the office and came back with a large map of the local waterways. I spread it on the table and traced the surface with my finger. If you were past Arrowhead, but before Diamond, that means you were somewhere along Barron's Pass. I pointed to a winding blue line connecting the two larger bodies of water. Yeah, that's it. We were in the twisty bit when it started to get dark. Then you never made it to Diamond? I don't know. Oh, all those bends in the river? I kept thinking it had opened up after each turn.

Finally, we decided to just pull up to shore and set up camp. That's impossible. I know this area. He turned the map to favor his perspective. I've fished in Diamond, and I've paddled through barons. It's basically a swamp in there. There's no bank to pull up to. And as far as setting up a tent goes, forget it.

You're not listening. We didn't get out. Out in Barrens, we turned off one of the chutes and paddled past the swamp. Shoots? Rock looked at the map. There are no shoots. He grunted, then looked at me. Right?

Not on the map, but Mr. Ward said that in heavy rain, the water level rises and sometimes that opens up. They must have made it to diamond. It was so dark. I was getting confused. Yeah, it happens. I just wanted to set up camp. So it must have been Diamond. Diamond has campsites.

Nathan sighed and turned his palms up. Look, wherever it was, we found a spot to pull the canoe out of the water. I got the fire started, and Kim set up the tent. Then we changed into some dry clothes, had something to eat, and tried to make ourselves comfortable. But it was so cold, and we were so tired. hired, so we just decided to hop in our sleeping bags and try to get some sleep. But that's when I noticed something. Something in his eyes.

A strange, almost hopeful look. Like he wished the story ended there. But before I could get a better read on his expression, he continued. I fell asleep pretty quickly. But at some point, Kim woke up. She had to go to the bathroom. Last thing you want to do when it's raining like that, but she had to go. So I gave her the flashlight and my yellow rain jacket.

I told her to stay close. I mean, I knew she would, but I told her anyway. And then she just, she just disappeared. No answer. Nathan? He looked up. There's no judgment here. So please keep talking.

I told her not to go far. What? Didn't go with her? She just had to pee. I figured she'd be back in a couple minutes. Teddy flashed me a weird look. If it was my girl, I'd have gone with her. Constable!

I didn't know what else to do. So I just waited. For how long? I don't know. But when she didn't come back, I called out to her. Over and over and over and over. Okay, Nathan, we can appreciate how difficult it must have been out there. It's dark, it's rain.

You're in the woods. Did you eventually go looking for her? Of course. But I didn't have my raincoat and I didn't have a flashlight, so I just put on what I had and got out of the tent. Oh, it was so dark, and it seemed to be raining harder. I called her name, but I couldn't hear anything above the wind, so I walked behind the tent because I thought that's where she'd be.

That's when I saw something. a distance, like a streak of light. So I walked towards it, stepping over branches, stepping through the mud until I saw it on the ground for flashlight. My stomach tightened. So I picked it up and waved it around and all I saw were trees. So I called out again. Still nothing. So I kept on walking and walking, trying to stay in a straight line, but the ground was wet and soft, and there was like a horrible stench in the air. You know, like that smell when your car gets stuck behind a garbage truck?

Because the whole thing was a swamp, everywhere, and I was right in the middle of it. But then I saw something, a flash of color. I thought I'd found her. but then I realized it was just the yellow raincoat dangling from a branch and not like it was hung carefully but more like it was... Once again, this brought silence to the room and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.

But then I started to hear something. Almost sounded like drums. It couldn't be drums. And it wasn't until I got close. that I realized it was actually frogs. They were croaking, and not like 10 or 20, because it sounded like hundreds of them. I never heard anything like it.

Thumping and thumping and thumping and thumping. It was so fucked up. But I couldn't turn back, so I kept on going, pushing through branches and bushes and God knows what. That's how I got these. He rolled up his sleeves and held out his arms. They were covered in scrapes and welts. They were red and raw, and they definitely looked infected.

Eventually, I came to a clearing, and the frogs were even louder. It was deafening. And when I waved my light around, I could see them everywhere. And not hundreds, but thousands of them on rocks, on lily pads, on logs, even on top of each other, flopping around and croaking like insane children. but in the middle of it all. Nathan's eyes widened. He began to retch and recoil.

I thought he was about to throw up, until finally he found the words. I saw it. Brock leaned forward. It? Nathan's haunted tone brought a hush to the room. I glanced at Brock. I guess I was looking for some sort of rational response.

But he remained stone-faced, processing the situation in his own private way. Was it some kind of animal? I thought it was a rock, like a really big rock, because it was round and wet and just poking above the edge of the water. But it was, it was moving.

Like it was breathing. So I pointed my light and, and I saw its skin. It's slimy skin And it had these Like these blisters Big pulsating blisters They were going up and down

And up and down like a heartbeat Until Until they Until they popped And started to ooze out More of those fucking frogs I saw Teddy and Brock exchange a quick look So I screamed

Or I got Or I made some kind of sound because then the thing was gone. Yeah, it must have gone underwater because I saw the surface ripple and I felt something touch my leg. So I ran. No, they could just panic. I raced through the muck and the water and but that thing was all around me, slithering against me like it was everywhere. Like the swamp was alive. And the frogs, fucking frogs just get... croaking louder and louder and louder like they were enjoying it.

Like they were in a frenzy, like a sexual frenzy. And all I can think about is the tent. I just want to get back to the tent. I don't even care about Kim anymore, so I kept running and running until I tripped on something, something that felt like I thought maybe I'd found her. My Kimmy. But that thing was everywhere.

It was rising from the swamp and oozing all over me, and it was biting me. The thing was fucking biting me, or gumming me or sucking on me. So I held out my light, and that's when I saw her. Nathan jolted upright and screamed. I'd never heard a man scream that way. It was a horrible sound, truly the sound of an insane mind. Then he wobbled back and forth, eyes darting, every which way, until his gaze found me.

Kimmy! Kimmy! Before I could react, he launched himself over the table and grabbed me. All at once, I collapsed beneath his weight. Brock leaped from his chair and grabbed Nathan by the belt, while Teddy caught up and grabbed the wild man's collar. Not my Kimmy! Not my Kimmy! Up close, his eyes were portals into the mind of a sick animal,

and his mouth in open sewer, carrying the horrid reek of that hideous swamp. Let go of her. God damn it! While Brock and Teddy continued to wrestle with Nathan, all I could do was hold up my left hand to block the saliva and stench dripping from Nathan's gaping mouth. And that's when he bit me. I screamed and pulled my hand free,

then watched Teddy change his position and deliver a stiff knee to Nathan's head. It connected with a dull thud and toppled him sideways. Finally free, I wiggled away, gasping in horror and wiping Nathan's foul saliva from my hand and face. Cough him. From a safe distance, I watched the messy struggle continue until the two police officers finally had Nathan subdued.

I went to the bathroom and cleaned the wound as best I could, then reconvened with the cops outside in the parking lot. Teddy was already seated in the parked cruiser, with Nathan secured in the back seat. Walking past them, I saw Teddy's mouth moving, but I couldn't hear what I was sure were his sadistic taunts. I found Brock standing by the open trunk, sealing a Ziploc evidence bag containing a substance that,

having gone to enough parties, I recognized on site. Magic mushrooms. Found him in his pocket. Guys probably high as a kite. Is that why? I mean, do you think that explains his... His story? Swamp monsters? Brock chuckled as he closed the door.

trunk. I've seen kids on this stuff who think they're Captain fucking America. I didn't laugh. How's your hand? It's fine. Want me to drive you to the hospital? I said it's fine. He didn't even break the skin. You sure you're okay? Yeah. I sighed and brushed a strand of hair away from my face. I'm going to try calling Mr. Ward again. He's due back tonight, but maybe I can get him here earlier. Brock reached into his pocket and presented his card. If you need anything, just give me a call. I took the card and watched him walk away. What's going to happen next?

Brock stopped and looked over his shoulder. Gonna get Mr. Upshaw some help. Then we start the search and rescue. Right. But my obvious skepticism made Brock turn around. What? Well, I know you're convinced they made it to Diamond Lake, but like I said, in swamps like barons,

everything changes in the rain. The water rises and, passages open up, maybe even passages to places no one's ever been. Brock nodded, but I got the distinct impression that he wasn't really listening. Then his radio crackled, and he switched his attention to the walkie clip to his shoulder. As he did, I looked past him, back to the cruiser, where Teddy and Nathan were still in the thick of it. But the dynamic had changed. Now Teddy was listening, and Nathan was talking. I couldn't hear a thing, but Teddy's expressions spoke volumes. His mouth,

hung open and all the color had drained from his face. I didn't last much longer up north, just a couple more weeks, in fact, because shortly after the Nathan incident, I decided to call Pashma to ask about job prospects back home. Excited for my return, she found me a restaurant job on Queen West by the end of the week. Luckily, Mr. Ward was sympathetic to my resignation. When it came to his seasonal workers, people come and people go, was his zen-like mantra. As a send-off, he treated me and the rest of the staff to drinks at the local tavern. It was a bittersweet farewell, and the steady stream of local logger put me in a sentimental mood. I realized that once I returned to my life in Toronto, I'd likely never visit this small town

or its quirky inhabitants ever again. But as emotional as I was, I wasn't nearly as distraught as the poor soul I saw slumped over at the end of the bar. Teddy. Not wanting to involve my group in the ongoing drama, I waited until they left at the end of the night before slinking to the other side of the dim room and taking a seat next to the same. the off-duty cop. He was staring at the basketball game on TV like a man and a trance. Uh, Teddy? When he turned, I was shocked to see how gaunt his baby face had become.

Hey. He didn't sound the least bit like a cop, more like a Randy Wino. I saw you sitting here and... Oh, you saw me sitting here. In what? I guess I just wanted to say goodbye. Goodbye. Why? Yeah, I'm going back to school. He tilted his head and furrowed his brow. School?

University, I mean, back in Toronto. Oh. He teetered on his bar stool and steered his body towards me. Why so soon? Summer's just getting started. I know. I just felt like I should get back, you know, with everything that happened. When he chuckled, I caught a whiff of his boozy breath. You don't know the half of it, sweetheart. I didn't like the comment

Or the weird way he was leering at me But I pushed forward with a direct question So how's the investigation going? Investigation After that day I never saw you again He nodded, then took a long swig of beer Oh, that's because Brock Sandlinger By himself?

Yep What about you? Well, I'm on what you'd call a leave of absence He downed the rest of his beer than held up the bottle. You want to drink my tree? Nah, I'm good. Oh, come on.

In a clumsy effort to groom himself, he raked his free hand through his greasy hair. That day at war, it's I saw you, and I thought, she's a cutie, but too bad I had to meet you on the fucking job, right? Again, ignoring his advances, I asked another question. Do you think they'll ever find her?

Fuck if I know, I mean, I hope so, but I know one person who doesn't want her found, one person who hopes she never comes back. Unexpectedly, he laughed, and I felt to chill, because I'd heard that sound before. It was Nathan's mad cackle. Her husband? Teddy ordered another beer.

Why wouldn't he want her found? Teddy didn't answer. He just turned back to the TV and waited for his drink. When it arrived, I broke the silence. That day, just before you took him away, I saw you sitting in the car with him. Teddy put down his beer and began peeling the label. He was in the back seat.

He said something to you. Even though he was looking away, I could tell Teddy's expression had changed. I could feel it. What did he say? Teddy remained disengaged, pretending not to hear me. So I reached out and touched his shoulder. He was rigid, like every cell in his body had gone tense. I gave him a squeeze, but he didn't respond.

Teddy? I gave his shoulder a gentle tug. His body remained stiff, but his barstool began to rotate towards me. Eventually we were face to face, but he refused to meet my gaze. What did he say? Come on, I'm leaving tomorrow, and I need to know. You need to know. Yeah. He slowly lifted his head. Our eyes met, but his were shaded by the shadow of his brow. All right, he said that he saw them in the swamp. When he held up the light, he said he saw both of them. What do you mean both of them? Teddy leaned closer and tilted his gaze. The pink light from the nearby jute box caught the glassy surface of his eyes.

That thing was on top of her. And he said it looked like it was either eating her or else it was... But instead of finishing the sentence, he twisted his face and disgust and shook his head in disbelief. The best part about returning to Toronto was reuniting with Pashma and actually enjoying the rest of the summer, far away from the dark mysteries of the northern Ontario wilderness. We kept busy biking along the waterfront, drinking on patios, and making out in Trinity Bellwoods Park. So busy, in fact, that by the time September returned and classes resumed, I barely thought about Barron's Pass, Ward's Wilderness Outfitting, or even that strange final conversation with Teddy.

That's why, on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, it was a very time. with such a surprise to receive an email from Sergeant Brock. It read, Dear Maya, I hope this message finds you well. I've got some news to share, and I wanted you to hear it from me before you saw it on the news. We found Kim Upshaw, alive. After almost five months in the woods alone,

turns out she was quite the survivor and had managed to live off the land all that time. What can I say? In all my years on the job, It's the damnedest thing I've ever seen. And I'm ashamed to admit it, but you were right. We found her in swamp land, behind Barron's Pass, exactly where you thought she'd be. Anyway, thanks again for your help with the case.

Sincerely, Sergeant Paul Brock. I closed the message and immediately did a Google search. Nothing had been reported, but by the next day, the story had made the local papers. and by the end of the week it had gone national. I continued to follow the story for several weeks, which included an item about Kim returning to her life in Ottawa. The article even included a photograph of Tim and Nathan standing in front of their suburban home. Kim was smiling, appearing just as I remembered her, maybe even prettier.

But Nathan had changed, having lost some weight and grown a ragged beard. Love is strange. And I knew firsthand, having gone through my show, of ups and downs with Pashma. But they were usually resolved by her unique love language, an unfailing ability to apologize with the funniest memes the Internet has to offer. In fact, it was after one such petty argument,

while I was getting some space in the campus library, that I received a message from her. So I eagerly opened it, expecting an apology paired with a weird gift for a cute animal video. But instead, I found that Pashma had texted a single enigmatic question. Isn't this that guy?

It was followed by a link. I clicked on it. And it sent me to an article from the Ottawa citizen. Tragic end to extraordinary story. Nathan and Kimberly Upshaw were both dead. Their charred corpses were found in the burned out remains of their house. It seems that Nathan had shot his wife in the head before torching the house and turning the gun on himself.

And if that weren't grisly enough, amongst the couple's remains were the bodies of five infants, all suffering, it seemed, from severe birth defects. My phone chimed. Pretty fucked, huh? But instead of answering, my hand went limp and I dropped the phone. And not began to form in my stomach. As that fateful day up north replayed in my mind's eye.

The cops, the commotion, the swamp, the story, the bite. The swelling and discoloration on my hand had long since faded. But occasionally I still felt phantom pains. A strange and sporadic reminder of that disturbing encounter. It had been a while, but upon reading the tragic news, my hand started to tingle. So I lifted it to inspect my palm. The wound was long gone. But there was something else in its place.

Something that definitely wasn't there the day before. A single festering blister. The ocean is often used as a metaphor for our life. The tides ebb and flow in cycles like seasons. There are moments of serene calm, contrasted by tombs. mulchuous storms, and like our lives, the ocean is unpredictable. And in this tale, shared with us by author Sean Seabach, you're dealing with your cousin, a man with a life marked by anger and violence.

Perhaps the ocean itself holds the power to restore him. Performing this tale are Kyle Acres and Atticus Jackson. So don't fear the monsters of the deep. Not when you can think of the sweetness of mermaids. A quick internet search finds a photo of your face, choked with hard and sunken features I don't recognize. I told my phone to my chin to make sure it's you on the screen, and not some doppelganger from a cosmic wasteland. Your identity is confirmed, however, by a reputable news source. Caption below the image, Daniel Jenkins is wanted on domestic battery charges, related to a Christmas Eve incident in 2018.

Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. Allegedly you grabbed your girlfriend by the neck and used a closed fist. In this article, you denied this, of course, and went on to say they wouldn't get me for that. Tid for tat, whatever. Whether or not I believe you isn't what's bothering me. It's the arrogance of your statement. I picture you shrugging in an orange jumpsuit

as the words come out of your meth mouth to the reporter sitting across from you inside the correctional facility. for an unrelated drug charge. As if to say, even if it happened, I'm off the hook anyway. I fled Vegas five years ago. Was your girlfriend a mother to one of your several children? Or just some strange you picked up at the casino? Should have seen the other guy, I hope she said,

when asked about the bruising on her face. If she had made that affirmation, the deserving twin shiners in your next mug shot for a traffic violation doesn't prove otherwise. the memory of you taking a swing at me, the only person in your life who always stood by you even when you soiled yourself, strikes me instantly. You were so drunk you would rather claim failed memory

when you called me from the side of the highway that night. For the record, I'm still happy I answered your call. Better you were passed out in the back of my Toyota than hunched over in a jail cell, right? You fed the wolf, and the wolf kept coming back more ravenous than before. and you continued feeding and feeding until it should have been too bloated to move. Yet it yearned for consumption, and you obeyed its cries even after the law intervened.

Eventually you became part of the underground, a member of the dark side of humanity, making kinships with the likes of the world's bottom feeders who leach off a sympathetic ear, latching on and taking, living for the thrill of any moment, never once considering the consequences, or the ones who love you. Here's a photo of you before that, arm and arm with your two brothers. Your teenage belly showing because your family had always been too poor

for new clothes on a whim and waited until a new school year to go thrift shopping. The polo's collar is huge around your neck. Someone is straddling a bicycle. I believe it's Ray. With those horned glasses everyone ragged on him for. Last September, you and he wore one. in relation to the death of Emily Davis, who passed away due to fentanyl overdose.

Your two younger brothers wearing graduation caps inside your parents' small kitchen fills the screen next, and you're not even smiling. Perhaps because a year earlier you were expelled for truancy, and there was no reason to have such a celebration. Your mother's notorious strong backhand lays upon your shoulder, while your father's denying gaze catches something off camera, or it's just been trained that way. These glimpses of your youth punch pinholes of melancholy

through my curiosity of your troubled past, and yet they're only glimpses, and here I am still struggling, still trying to understand why exactly I should be mourning. A glass pendant filled with your ashes feels cold against the pads of my fingers. Archaic symbols crafted from my blood are swathed onto the stone because this is the final rescue, the ultimate rescue.

One more spin on the wheel of life In hopes you land a spot clear of the lurking thunderheads tailing you in every moment Or maybe you had it easy, numbed by narcotics until your heart quit. I haven't decided which yet. Because, despite my reservations, goodbye is forever. The ground is soft beneath my knees. With the moon at my back, I hunch forward and swiped the blade across an open palm. Just enough to produce a thin red line to complete the ritual.

Using a finger as a brush, with your remains, I complete my own painting. One void of talent, yes, but a talent I had fostered more than you ever did your own. The baseball bat you hit 42 home runs with freshman year, rests like a jaded fossil in a museum against the corner of my bedroom wall. I tell people it's for protection. Maybe armor is a better word for it. Rather than bringing on memories of your glory days on the diamond, It reminds me to stay sober.

Keep myself on the straight and narrow. Not to wander, so I don't end up pushing crabgrass instead of flattening it underfoot in my late 30s like most people. You said you'd quit? Get help. I'm never talking to those people I got mixed up with again. The old proclamation, as always.

Coming late, only after testing your limits. A promise made in a hospital bed where the cleanest thing is supported were the sheets. I imagine your liver and kidneys resembling something that had washed up after a violent storm. Riving and puckered with deep furrows. I sometimes wonder what terrible shit one had to have done to end up with organs better reserved for jars on the shelf of a mad scientist's laboratory. They say karma's a bitch. To be honest, karma is nothing but fair.

Reput you so and so on. Tandums come to me in waves. The ebb and flow of nature's movement. Rejecting the bad only to digest it again, as if unsure to be rid of the awful in the first place. It could be said that you were like the ocean, and that the tides of your life eventually took back too many things, resulting in a dried-up, washed-up existence. The flopping fish and beach turtles are the loved ones you kept at a distance, and the jellyfish die a slow and painful death. Yet they still sing. Then you materialize, between the redwoods. Before a great mist, you examine your arms. Touch your face. Yes, flesh and blood. and from purgatory you saunter forward, wearing a smirk visible by the glow of my phone,

and then we embrace. Your new baby's smell singes a Polaroid image in my mind. A picture from a photo album locked away in a relative's attic. It's us in mid-roll on Grandpa's lawn. Our wide, toothless smiles facing heavenward, your mother's shadow looming over you during a time when that hand of hers created better life memories. Our heels dig into the white sand. You turn the sea turtles over, give them a pat for good luck as they head into the water.

I snatch perch like grounders between the second and third. Heave them back to where they belong. And that's just us under a sickle moon. The remnants of a smoldering fire, cackling like a witch at midnight, you reach from my hand, and your touch sends warmth to my heart. You could be a poster boy for crest. Your smile is so white, so perfect. your sores have healed and you're not pale like the moon anymore,

but golden is the sun. Through conical shells, your laughter carries across the ocean side. It's clear and genuine, and not the raspy sniggering, I remember. I smile back, and the tide is cool between our toes. Dampens the bottom of your blue jeans. You didn't bother to roll up yours, too caught up in the moment of writing your wrongs. See, I want to say. A junkie will never always be a junkie, but your eyebrows raise and I bite my lip instead.

Are there any sharks in the water? No, only mermaids who sing and give you breath if you go under for too long. Do you remember mermaids? You nod, looking longingly to the horizon, where it seems the world simply ends. Your daughters still love them. They say they see them in their dreams. Keep the monsters away. This makes you smile again, but I don't smile back this time.

You squeeze my hand, once for each daughter, for each of their mothers, for your brothers and your mom and your dad. No squeeze for me, and that's okay. I don't deserve one. It's not like I talk to any of them anyway. They show up on my social feed from time to time as all. We negotiate through eel grass and a breeze musses your hair, like whenever you were on my handlebars coasting down cemetery.

Terry Hill. Remember how my neighbor said we'd break our necks doing that? We never did. No, it's my turn to nod at agreement. Funny how adults warn of worst-case scenarios, yet ignore them when one is front and center. I guess the same could be said about distant cousins of the same age, too. To be fair, but you cut me off with a finger to my lips. Invite me to listen. Far off, a wails moan, peals under constellations, over the ocean's gentle roars. Be in the moment. I've always had a hard time being in any moment. You remind me that's what life is about, by closing your eyes and letting your shoulders fall back.

And all I can think about is how no one cared enough for me to be present anyway. The water is salty as it caresses my lips, washing away the sulfuric flavor from your finger. the slit on my hand burns. Our eyes are just above the surface when you start pulling me back to the shore. Your pained stare says that no one cared until you died, but not really. They cared, the ones who still believe in mermaids, and are learning to write, and do dream of a father without missing teeth and open sores on his face. One without a violent hand like his mother's.

One who acknowledges, rather than to do you knowled. disregards, like his father, one whose hands aren't scorched by butane. Um, I'm cold. Your tightening grip around my hand is probably necessary, but I don't like it. There's aggression in that hold, and you show your teeth, scrunch your eyebrows, flare your nostrils. You look just like your mother, like the old you. I pull back and grab you by the old.

oversized collar and move you close until we both go under, where I keep you until your eyes bulge. Bubbles ascend, and you break free. We drift to a sandbar and you cough up ocean water. This was a mistake. Your fist connects with my mouth and the constellations explode, as if I'm seeing them up close through Ray's horned glasses. Driftwood connects to my skull, and Home Run 43 is in the books. You hoist me over your shoulder. and release me to the deep. I drift long and far, trying to catch my breath,

hoping your daughters still dream. And if they do, those dreams have always been true. Sink beneath the waves, we claw our way back onto dry land. Join us again next time when we plunge into the chilling depths where water hides its darkest.

Secrets. The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical scores are 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, Ollie A. White, and Kristen Samito. I'm your host and executive producer David Cummings. To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us, just visit sleepless.com to learn about the sleepless universe. 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 taking the plunge into our dark waters. This audio program is copyright 2026 by Creative Reason Media. 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. No part of this audio program may be used. or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies

or systems. All rights reserved.