The NoSleep Podcast - S24 Ep12: NoSleep Podcast S24E12

Episode Date: April 19, 2026

It's Episode 12 of Season 24. Enter the dark waters of the Cape Fear River as we present tales about anatomical angst."The Indignities" by Christine Lajewski (Story starts around 00:06:40)Produced by Claudius MooreCast: Narrator - Nikolle Doolin, Dan - Atticus Jackson, Jamal - Kyle Akers, Lisa - Sarah Ruth Thomas"The Twenty-Ninth Day" by Andrew Welsh-Huggins (Story starts around 00:38:45)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Dan Zappulla, Brower - Mike DelGaudio, Kara - Tanja Milojevic"How Do You Stop Your Teeth from Growing?" by John Simpson (Story starts around 01:11:15)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Jeff ClementCast: Narrator - Reagen Tacker, Papa - Jesse Cornett, Mama - Erin Lillis"Watching the Crawl" by Clint Smith (Story starts around 01:24:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Jesse CornettCast: Narrator - Peter Lewis, Gwen - Mary Murphy, Ashley - Ella Boone, Officer - Graham RowatThis episode is sponsored by:Betterhelp - This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. Take a step towards a better you. Our listeners get 10% off their first month at betterhelp.com/nosleep.Mars Men - With Mars Men, your natural ability to forge usable testosterone is optimized. Mars Men supports healthy T levels, energy, and stamina. Get 50% off for life plus free shipping and 3 free gifts at MenGoToMars.comClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about this episode's host: Kyle AkersCheck out our NEW MERCH!Click 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 Andrew Welsh-HugginsClick here to learn more about John SimpsonClick here to learn more about Clint Smith Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"The Indignities" illustration courtesy of Jen TracyThe 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. Emmerse yourself in horror as you. Brace yourself for the No Sleep podcast. Wait, really? I can come out? I can come out and host the show?

Oh, right now. I don't, okay, I don't have time to get, okay. Yeah, we can do that. Uh, oh, okay, yeah. Um, oh, oh, yeah, okay, okay. Um, um, okay, host the show, host the show. I can host, yeah. Hello, everyone.

It's me, a scary guy. No, we can't do it. Um, what if I try to be your host for that? No, that's not good. Uh, uh, hey, it's, it's me, scary guy. No, I don't think we do it in character. I think we do it, I think we do it, I think we do it naturally. I think we just be ourselves.

Yeah. Yeah, I'll just be myself. Okay, here we go. Hello, everyone, and welcome to another episode of the No Sleep podcast. It is lovely to see all of you. My name is Kyle Akers. I get to be your host today and take you through four stories. But before we do that, I want to talk a little bit about myself.

Let you get to know me because you've heard my voice for this long, but I have not really been able to be here out of character. So I am very proud to be the second longest tenured voice actor here, and I'm still going to figure out a way to get James Cleveland out of here and become the number one. But James, just know I'm coming for you. My first story was all the way back in season two, episode 12 for a story called Strigoy. Back then, if you've been a listener for that long, and you never have seen behind the curtain, it's actually really fun.

We used to pick our own stories and submit them to David and say, hey, is this one okay to read? So I had been a fan. I had been listening since the beginning. And I reached out one day and just said, hey, do you need more voice actors? I was a musician at the time. So I had all of the gear at home. And I had been doing some local underwriting for radio stations around Kansas City, where I'm from.

And I reached out to David out of the blue and said, I am a big fan. If you have any room for more actors, I would love to read something. He said, give it a shot. I picked a story. He said, go for it. And I sent it in. And the email I got back. David said back, is that what you call acting?

Then after like three lines, he said, I'm just joking, that was fantastic. We'd love to have it. And I have been a part of it ever since. And it has been such an amazing through line for me since all the way back in season two, all the way now to season 24. I have been on this podcast for 23 seasons, which to me is unfathomable, that I have been lucky enough to be alongside all of these. amazing actors and writers and all of the wonderful contributors in every single way to the No Sleep

Podcast. When I am not voice acting, I am in school to be a certified registered nurse anesthetist. So that is a three-year program. And I'll end up with a doctorate afterwards and I'll be practicing nurse anesthesia, which depending on where I am, either I'll be your full-blown anesthesia guy doing all of the anesthesia from when you go to sleep to when you wake up back home. Other places, there's a whole team doing it. So we'll see where I end up. But I am about to finish up my first year, so I will graduate in 2028 and then become a full-time CRNA. I'm very excited for that. My favorite memory that I've had with No Sleep, I was honored to be asked to perform with the No Sleep podcast at the Stanley, which was, if you don't know, the hotel that inspired The Shining. So being able to perform alongside so many wonderful actors twice, I got to do it two times, which is unbelievable to me, was so much fun.

We had big long weekends the whole time I got to share meals with everybody. We got to go on ghost tours together. It has been an absolute joy to have been a part of those and to be a part of everything that I've been able to be a part of up to this point. So to everyone listening, I've met some of you at events like that. I've been able to chat in Discord with you and online with you. It is an honor to be a part of this podcast. I am so thankful for all of you for everything that you do to send us love and support.

and I know that we have just recently rolled out some new merchandise, so if you haven't got a chance to go check that out, definitely check the link in the show notes to see all of our new designs. They look amazing. We've got a lot more designs coming soon. And thank you so much for having me be the host of this episode. Okay, okay, we'll get into character. Putting on my no-sleep voice.

Putting on my no-sleep voice. All right, here we are. While that wonderful merch won't cost you an arm or a leg, In today's stories, something just mine. Our bodies, are they our vessels, or are they our prisons? What does it mean to live in flesh that fails and inside of a body that betrays us? Brace yourself, as we find out together this week, with stories that explore the horror of the body. So let us take each other's hands, if you still have one, and jump feet first into the horror of our sleepless tales.

We're all growing older, and sometimes facing that isn't the easiest. In our first tale brought to us by author Christine Lageski, our narrator asks, how do we stay relevant? How do we live life to the fullest, holding onto our routines while the world changes around us? Performing this story are Nicole Doolin, Atticus Jackson, Sarah Thomas, and, oh, and me. Let's listen in to find out if we are all just doomed to grow old and suffer, The Indignities I was cutting down the personal care aisle, my cart full of raw meat and kale,

towards the checkout when I felt that strange prickling in my gut. Shit, this shouldn't be happening, not so soon. Hobbled by missing toes and limping, I sped up to get away from the shoppers blocking my path. Wet were seeping through my sweater from my navel to my groin. I buttoned my black coat and how. hunched over the handle of the shopping cart. If that bought me a little time, the blooming odor did not.

Heads jerked up, twisted this way and that, searching for the source. A package of adult diapers sailed through the air and landed on top of the meat. There you go, Boomer. The lumpy stock boy had been shelving goods for the weak of bladder. The young man working with him at least had the decency to be offended on my behalf. Jesus, Dan, shut up. What's wrong with you? It was no use trying to be invisible now.

I stared at that big moon face, memorizing the details. I felt nictitating membranes slide over my irises. I blinked them back, but not before Dan glimpsed the pewter sheen on my irises. His face drained of color, and with equally pallid bravado, he sneered at me. What are you looking at, Grandma? I'm studying you, so I'll remember. Then I hurried around the corner. I stuffed a few trays of raw beef under my jacket,

abandoned my card, and rushed to my car. No one stopped me. I am not incontinent. Aging is filled with indignities just the same. This humiliation was so cruel it was breathtaking. I fought back tears as I unlocked. my car. I would have to find a new supermarket. This one was 20 miles from my house. I didn't want my neighbors seeing how I shopped, pounds and pounds of raw meat and a few bags of leafy greens.

How much farther would I need to travel? As I drove, tiny brakes spread across the stiff skin of my abdomen, all dripping fluid with an awful sweet sour smell not unlike for Malda, hide. Even as it soaked my clothes through to the car upholstery, I nod on a raw steak trying to properly fuel the change that was bearing down on me much too quickly. Once I reached the safety of home, I left the empty meat trays in the car and hobbled down to the hollow, chiseled out behind the furnace. Dark, warm, and private, wiping away the burning sting in my eyes, reliving. Reliving. my mortification at the hands of that awful boy, I shed every piece of clothing and squeezed into the space, just in time too. Two lacerations rent both sides of my torso, and everything oozed out.

Pieces of skin fell away. A thin rind formed on my wet organs and bones, then quickly hardened into a chrysalis of sorts. Inside the brittle shell, everything was white, and, and it. And so I'm My eyes, barely attached to my brain, bobbed in a broth of amino acids, watching bits of myself, teeth, fingers, liver and heart, float by. Little blue spheres that had formed from my tears rotated as they drifted past. They would alter the mix as my body reformed, as would my bitterness and rage. It was best to let oneself hover in a lucid dream, a pleasant one. that anticipated renewed life. But every tiny sapphire orb spinning in that white slough reminded me of that blobby young face and his nasty flapping mouth.

Finally, I felt something like a cool, damp sheet settling and forming a new skin over my refurbished organs, nerves, and muscles. It was actually a flexible sort of carapace, and it was growing thinner with each molt. When it had toughened and dried, I emerged from the alcove and viewed myself in an old full-length mirror. I had already lost all the toes on my left foot during a previous metamorphosis. I had to style my long gray hair, so it covered the chemically amputated earlobes on either side of my head. This time, I found my body had carried out a mastectomy on itself.

My right breast was missing. So was the little finger on my right hand. I was down to one killing claw. I trudged up the stairs to find my daughter waiting for me. Lisa's eyes were red from weeping as she wrapped my bathrobe around my body. She guided me to the dining room table, served me tea, and brought out a plate of honey and sesame seed candy. This one took two days.

You lost a breast this time. and this is only supposed to happen once a year. This is the third time in what? Eight months? Nine months? Nine. My voice sounded thin and wispy. The change was supposed to be a renewal.

I felt so diminished, so damned tired. Please don't be hurt. I have to say this. No one in our clan has ever lived to see 70. Our men never make it past three. 50. I know, I know. I miss Daddy every day. I will miss you every day. But you keep hunting, and for humans, too. Not for a long time, actually. I haven't been all that successful. She was right. I no longer hunted within our clan, even though our own kind provided the best

support for our transformations. The last time I ate one of our own was eight years ago, when a certain mechanic cheated me. I picked up my car just as he was closing, bit off his head and gnawed the rest of him down to his shoes, right in the service bay. I was slower than I used to be, however, and that meant I could easily have the tables turned on me. It also seemed that I was a test case for what, if anything? supported my deteriorating DNA in my advanced years.

Lisa reached across the table and squeezed my hand. I know your generation did things differently. You took the head off your first mate. He was such an asshole. I didn't elaborate, nor did I share that I also ate every one of her half-brothers and sisters long before Lisa was ever born. They were growing up to be jerks, too. It's not like that anymore.

I mean, you don't want some female doing that to Paul, do you? Of course not. However, my son, like all males of our kind, was smaller and weaker than his mate. The women of Lisa's generation were not as strong as her forebears either. Counting on animals for fresh kills and a greater reliance on human food took its toll over the course of a lifetime. Mom, it's painful to watch what you. you're going through. I know you're not happy. Why are you hanging on? What else is there? She fussed over me, suggested I see our doctor, but our physicians are not like human doctors.

I know mine, a middle-aged male, would look me over and calculate how easy it would be to take down a wise and old female. Before I went back to the supermarket, I paid a visit to the burial grove. where my mother, my aunt, and some of my cousins had gone to die. It was a cold November night, but I took off my shoes and socks, sank my nails into the bark of a white pine, and climbed to the top. I sat on a branch opposite the one where mother's fragile husk still hung, fluttering and twisting in the wind. She had curled up in a fetal position, so the shell resembled a giant locust with a human head. I have human friends. When we go out to lunch, I eat rare burgers and steak tips. Many of these women are old with their share of ailments. They like to talk about their spiritual beliefs.

I miss my dad so much, they might say, but I feel him watching over me, or I know my sister's waiting for me. They like to describe their ideas of heaven or reincarnation. It all sounds so lovely. so full of hope. Here in the death grove, I asked mom and Aunt Francis and cousin Barbara if they could hear me if there was anything they could tell me about death. I heard nothing but the rattle of frail husks of what they once were.

I'm so afraid. I don't want to die. I climbed down the trunk head first and drove to the supermarket where I suffered my great humiliation I didn't know blobby boy's work schedule, but I would return as often as I needed to. I drove into a field near the store, crept to a tree that hung over the roof of the building, and climbed high enough to survey the parking lot and the dumpsters in the back. I was in luck.

Young Daniel came out the rear door, laden with flattened boxes for recycling. After he re-entered the store, I snuck down to the dump. dumptor, undressed and hid. I would have to overcome him with only one killing claw. That meant less venom and more time needed to incapacitate him. He looked like he spent all his free time in a chair, playing games and binge watching something or other. Even so one good punch through my flexible but thinning carapace

could cave in my sternum and ribcage. On the other hand, I would get to watch the dawning dread on his fat face as I stretched open my jaws. The door opened again, and Dan emerged with his young friend, the kind boy who had called him out on his cruelty. I waited for the boy to dump his trash and turn away. Then I shivered violently,

which made my arms, fingers, and legs rasp like a giant cicada. Hey, you hear that? What is that? But his friend was already back inside. the store. As Dan peaked around the corner of the dumpster, I stepped forward. He gaped at my naked body, the stringy muscle of my thighs, my chest with one breast sagging, the other completely missing. Nictitating membrane slid over my eyes as I swung my left arm, clawed finger extended against his neck. Flem gurgled in his throat. His eyes widened and he turned. He turned. He was a

sagged heavily. Even in my decrepitude, I was stronger than a sedentary human. I caught him under the arms, gritted my teeth, and dragged him into the trees behind the store. There was a kettle hole where I had bundled my clothes. I released the boy's body and let it roll to the bottom. His friend called from the rear door. Hey, Dan? You coming over? Dan? Dan? Dan? He waited a few beats. Don't screw around. I'll see you there. Moments later, I heard the cars departing, then silence.

I straddled my prey, enjoying the terror shining through his tears. His breath was turning weasy and shallow. Anything you want to say to this, boomer? I dropped my lower jaw, stretching the cartilage binding the mandibles. The tough mouth parts lowered over my anthropoidal teeth, as the orifice yawned impossibly large. I fit the entirety of Dan's big head inside and snapped it off as easily as shearing dandelion tops. I'd read somewhere that a decapitated head is aware of its surroundings for nearly 30 seconds before the lights go out. I hoped that was true.

My throat widened to accommodate that first mouthful. Then I turned my attention to gnawing away the rest of his body. It took hours. The distension of my stomach made me look eight months pregnant. I lay back in a bed of dead leaves, listening to my gut purr as it digested. It had been months since I'd had a meal this satisfying. I could have slept for days. But as the moon set, I bathed in the black water pooled at the bottom of the kettle hole.

Wiped my body free of blood with Dan's shirt, dressed and crept through the woods. Mindful to avoid the cameras mounted at the corners of the grocery store. I found my hidden car and drove home. Danny Boy had provided a huge quantity of luxuriously fresh and nutritious meat. It took more than a week to digest it all. I felt more vigorous and alive than I had in a long time. I followed the news about his disappearance. His car was still parked in the store a lot

when the manager opened up the next morning. Police found his torn and bloody clothes in the kettle hole. Testing found Dan's DNA alone. No doubt there were traces of some non-human saliva if they bothered to look for it. The search expanded to local ponds and swamps. On the day it was called off, I heard a knock at my door. On my front porch stood Dan's friend, the other stock boy from the supermarket.

Mrs. Weber? Yes, but how did you... I'm sorry. My name's Jamal. I wanted to talk to you before you left the store last week. I felt so awful for what my friend did. You took off so quickly, I just had time to grab a photo of your license plate. I found your information at the R&B website. He paused waiting to hear what I had to say.

Why did you do that? You had no right. I really don't want to talk about that day. I know. I know. It was wrong. But I wanted to do a wellness check. I could see you weren't well and felt someone owed it to you.

Jamal's eyes filled with tears. I want to make you an offer. Danny's my friend. He's a good guy. He really is. But sometimes he's an idiot. I don't know. I wanted him to apologize.

But now... He paused and took a few deep breaths. Now he is missing, and no one can figure out what happened. And it just seemed important to make things right with you in case he... In case he never can. I could feel my indignation softening. Jamal nodded. I wanted to do something for you.

Like if I could do... the right thing, maybe it helps Danny somehow. Maybe we'll find him. He was a young human with a simple earnest faith. If he did enough good deeds, God would return Dan, dead or alive to his loved ones. It was touching. All right. What did you have in mind?

I noticed you have a lot of leaves in your yard. I watched from the windows as he spent several hours raking and bagging leaves. Although sight of build, he was strong. and tireless, like most active teens. He took off his jacket as he worked up a sweat, and I could see how muscular he was. I offered to pay him, which he refused, then ordered a delivery of pizza and soda,

which he happily consumed. He asked polite questions about my children and grandchildren. My dad died young, too. His eyes missed it over, and so did mine. I'll come back soon. finish in a yard cleanup that needs to be done. Jamal wiped grease off his mouth as he rose to leave. No, you've already done too much.

He waved my protests away. You remind me of my grandma. I used to help her all the time. I watched him drive away, weighing how easily I could take him if I let him come back, continue to see me as a frail old woman. trust me is utterly harmless. Sizing him up as a potential meal did not make me proud. Most predators don't live side by side with prey that they genuinely like.

Jamal returned two weeks later just as I was on my way out to meet Lisa. I can finish up the yard work today while you're away, if you're okay with that. Tomorrow's Thanksgiving. Doesn't your mom need you to run errands or something? We're a big brood in my house. I'm the baby. If I annoy everyone else enough, they tell me to get out of the way. Is that by design? The boy grinned. I'll never say. Are you having company tomorrow? I'll be at my daughter's house with my son and his family. Also a big brood.

I didn't tell him that our Thanksgiving included a roast turkey with yams and stuffing. Lisa and Eric wanted their children to be exposed to the traditions of their human. and schoolmates and friends. But the star of the feast would be an entire haunch of raw beef, meat sliced thin and piled high on an enormous platter. It gave the family the basic nutrition they needed to grow. However, my grandchildren, even the girls, were spindly, weak and pallid, like veal calves. My daughter and son-in-law, like most of their generation, insisted the old ways were dead.

I kept my mouth shut, but I grieved, knowing this could well be the end of us. I returned from my outing with a nice autumn bouquet for Jamal to give to his mother. I asked him for news on his missing friend. Jamal shook his head. He's vanished, without a trace. If it weren't for the bloody clothes, you'd think he'd been abducted. Dan is dead. I'm so sorry, Jamal.

I extended my hand and thanked him. I'll come again if it snows. I didn't protest this time. As much as I liked the young man, I knew by the first snow my body would need a fresh kill to keep going. Why did he have to be such a sweetheart? Early in December there was a six-inch snowfall. I could drive over it to run errands,

but I didn't look forward to shoveling it. I came home to find the walkway had been cleared and my front door was wide open. There were footprints in the flower bed where I hid an extra key under a rock. The key was where it belonged, but that didn't mean he hadn't used it. I knew I had locked the door. When I stepped back on the paving stones, my foot slipped right out from under me. I landed hard on my back, banging both elbows against the ground. Ah!

I must have cried out because... suddenly Jamal bolted out my front door, a bag of ice melt in his arms. Oh, oh, I am so sorry. You left your door unlocked. I came in to see if you had any salt for your walkway. I found some in the basement. I had locked the door. I knew I had but kept my suspicions to myself.

Are you hurt? He extended a hand and helped me to my feet. I winced but shook my head. I eased my arms out of my coat sleeves. The carapace on one forearm bore a finely webbed crack, almost like an eggshell. A trickle of plasma leaked through the abrasion. Jamal stared at it.

His brow furrowed. I quickly pressed a damp towel to it and went on the offensive. What were you doing in my house? I was wrong. I thought it would be a nice surprise if I had everything shoveled and salted by the time you got home. Where else did you go besides the basement? I wanted to ask what he had seen down there, such as a cozy dark alcove chiseled into the foundation behind the furnace.

Just the right size for an adult to sit cross-legged, or maybe a trail of dried, flaking body fluids from my most recent molt. Only the basement, Mrs. Weber, I promise. I wasn't snooping. There was no salt in the shed, so I thought I would check inside. Like I said, the door was unlocked. I didn't contradict him. I reached out and squeezed his shoulder. It's okay, Jamal. I appreciate all you've done.

My anger evaporated, although I still felt uneasy. I really liked this boy. His kindness was so touching. Just the other day I had resolved not to eat him after. I realized now I could not let him live. He went outside to finish the shoveling. I set out cookies and made some cocoa, inviting him to sit at my dining room table when he came back in.

Jamal sat across from me, gave me an appraising look as I raised my own mug. What happened to your little finger? I never had one. I lied. I shouldn't have asked. I'm sorry. Not a problem.

Would you mind helping me with one more thing? I want to bring my Christmas lights down from the attic. Sure. I'll put them up for you if you like. No, no, Jamal. You're doing too much. I'm sure your mom has plenty of things you could help with. I pulled down the attic ladder and climbed up.

Jamal following as I pulled boxes toward the entrance. Why don't you... Do your mults up here rather than in the basement. Stunned I whirled around. There was a pewter sheen in his eyes. My heart thudded as I raised my one killing claw. I swiped at the air. Missed the boy completely and stumbled forward falling to my knees.

He slapped both fists against either side of my neck. His killing claws delivered a pair of hornet stings. Then all sensation bled into the floor. You're nothing like... All the males, you know? He squatted in front of me. As soon as I saw what was happening to you in the supermarket, I knew what you were. You're one of the boomers holding onto your place in the world.

Taking everything you can from the younger generation. You're living in such misery. But you won't just go somewhere and die. There was pity in his eyes, even though his smile was a sneer of condemnation. My muscles were growing slack. It was all I could do to raise my eyes to his. My parents rejected the old ways, hunting only animals and buying from the butcher shop. They're wasting away.

But my brothers, my friends, we want to go back to our roots. Just not exactly the way you all did. I wanted to ask the details, how he grew to be so robust a hunter. Who was the equal of any future mate? My mouth cracked open, but no sound came out. The best prey is our own kind. But my girlfriend doesn't want to mate with me just to bite my head off. She wants someone who can go kill for kill with her,

while we raise a strong brood of nymphs. So how can we do that? I suspected I knew. But Jamal was eager to tell me anyway. There's a lot of you boomers out there. We're eating your generation just to guarantee we don't go extinct. Seriously, you should have offered yourself to us a long time ago. He opened his mouth, dropping his lower jaw to his chest.

The horny mandibles slid over his teeth. My little head fit neatly inside his mall. Apparently reason does persist in a decapitated head. I feel my face pressing against Jamal's velvety throat, sliding down into his stomach. I feel the burning of acids on my skin, and as the lights go out in my brain, I accept my fate.

It makes perfect sense. Let's take a short break for our sponsors who help us, keep our heads above water. For waves of ad-free horror content, join our sleepless universe by going to sleepless.com. No matter how old we are, we're grateful that this episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. April is a month when our financial situation hits hardest. Tax time puts extra strain on all of us. Financial stress affects far more than our bank accounts. It can take a serious toll on mental health and relationships with 88% of Americans feeling some form of financial stress at the start of 2026. This month, we want to normalize the emotional weight of financial stress and remind people

that struggling with money doesn't mean they've failed. Sometimes it's just about accessing the right kind of support. For me, struggling financially on both the personal and business level has shown me how therapy can really give me a better perspective on things. And with better help, There are over 30,000 therapists as part of one of the world's largest online therapy platforms. You just answer a short questionnaire to identify your needs and preferences, and their 12-plus years of experience and industry-leading match fulfillment rate means you'll typically be matched with the right therapist for you the very first time. When life feels overwhelming, therapy can help.

Sign up and get 10% off at betterhelp.com slash no sleep. That's better H-E-L-P.com slash no sleep. And financial health is important, but even more important is our physical health. And turning 60 has made me focus more on what my body is telling me. And it's important for men to understand more about testosterone in the body. When your T-levels are low, it can really make you feel old and weak. That's why I started taking Mars Men. You see, your body's testosterone.

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And it's also available on Amazon. After you purchase, they'll ask you where you heard about them. Please support our show and tell them the No Sleep Podcast sent you. Now let's plunge back into the deep waters of horror. When the world collapses and there's no time to react, how do you survive? In this next story, brought to us by author Andrew Welsh Huggins, Our narrator has tried to survive, but must take shelter with someone he hates to do so. Performed by Dan Zepula, Mike Delgadoio, and Tanya Milosevic.

We find out if our hero can make it to the 29th day. I emerge from the woods, adjust the deer's body on my shoulders, and stare briefly at the pale circle of daytime moon over the compound. The cars and outbuildings sit maybe 200 yards above me, on the other side of the road. What was once the road? Overlooking a wheat field returning to nature.

Thick now with feathery goldenrod. Bunches of Queen Anne's lace, a few saplings, shoulder high. Though I'm eager to proceed, I wait a moment for my presence to register. Even this far away, I know I'm being watched.

He'll keep lookouts. I would. When I'm alive, after two minutes, not struck down by a slug from a rifle extended through a distant opening, I readjust the deer and trudge on and upward. For the moment, the ball is in my court. Whatever my intentions, they'd be mad to ignore a visitor with a dressed deer with that many mouths to feed, from babies to elders. One more won't matter in the short term. If they're watching, they'll also guess I'm clean. They will have seen. They will have.

spied the desicated hand hanging at the end of the lanyard around my neck and drawn the obvious conclusion. When the first cases appeared, hardly more than blips on police blotters, authorities blamed drugs, magical meth, super fentanyl, wacky fiend, wacky weed, brains cooked by toxic chemicals, it was no surprise that victims lashed out in uncontrollable rage, biting chunks of flesh from colleagues, passers-by, family members, cracking open brain pans, desperate for the spongy muscle within, feeding an insatiable hunger. Not drugs, it turned out. Not a lot of five-year-olds cooking smack on spoons, and a lot of five-year-olds turned. The Chinese were blamed next, of course, and both political parties,

and climate change, no one knew. Did it matter? All along, incubation remained a mystery, an understandable puzzle in a way. History up to that point showed us two basic manifestations of debilitation outside the lightning strike of heart attacks or aneurysms. One, what the talking heads dubbed the pox confluence, gradual decline, infection followed by symptoms followed by weakness, aches, sores,

followed by a last-ditch display of agonal fever and death. The slow, observable road to death repeated in so many cancer sufferers and others. Not the case here. The other, named the Plague Conundrum, by armchair historians who'd read Barbara Tuckman, Fine in the morning, dotted with postules in the afternoon, dead by evening, bodily stock market crash. Also not the case here. Transmission, infection, dormancy, all eluded analysis. Epidemiologists weren't around to provide answers because most were pulpy mounds of flesh in their labs by the end of the first week. A common transmission source was suspected, but no one could identify it.

People who became overnight hermits and avoided all human contact, and people who cared closely for the injured survivors of infected attacks, each ran the same risk of transformation. Or not, physically fine individuals and newly emerged monsters breathed the same air and drank the same. water. The only consistent observation was that after a presumed but unknown incubation period, madness hatched with lightning speed on a host's final day. You didn't become ill. You evolved instantaneously into a new species. Stories abounded of split-second transformations, smiling one moment,

face twisted into a rictus of hungry fury the next. The result, people worked and cohabitated with their killers, until, with no time to escape, it was too late, as on the day that Brower's son ran to our door, healthy as an ox. It takes me 20 minutes to ascend the hill. The slope is easier than some in this region, but my legs are no match for the weight of a deer against the, the steepness of the grade.

Catching my breath, I look left and see across the hills the northernmost tip of Kinesis Lake. One of the Finger Lake's jewels, though few people, me among them, risk a visit now. Too many infected between here and there, and the stories of what awaits journeyers are too grim. The deep lake proved an inviting dumping ground when the morgues burst at the seams and the cemeteries overflowed. I returned my gaze to the barrier before me. A wall of vans and SUVs end-to-end ring the property. Most sag on rims, tires long deflated, but a few look not worse

than something rolled off a used car lot. Gaps filled by pallets and chairs and widescreen TVs and additional assorted junk, all bound tightly with barbed wire. I have to give Brower credit. He built a fortress out of civilization's detritus in not very much time at all. He had to. When you bear responsibility for that many souls, for that many wives to protect, you can't take any chances. A sound to my right. The creek of metal, the protest of long dormant hinges. The door of a black SUV opens toward me like a wing extended before flight. Nothing happens. Then, a boot.

Two boots. A boy emerges from behind the door. No, not a boy, but not so long a young man. He shares Browers' high forehead, shoulder-length hair, and blue eyes that match the color of the chickery flowers hugging the edge of the road's crumbling asphalt. Was it this boy's brother or half-brother who ran to our door? A second pair of boots.

A woman in a long dress appears, a red cap covering her hair. The resemblance is overwhelming. Mother and son are greeting me. I have little time to dwell on the conclusion. The rifles in their arms are as new looking as weapons purchased or looted. Only yesterday or the day before. She speaks but a single word. Hand.

I nod, take a step forward, then another, and collapse, the deer falling before me. My efforts at projecting strength are over. She waits, impatience on her face. I count to ten, fifteen before rising. When she's certain I'm up for good, she hooks the bottom of the lanyard with the tip of her rifle and tilts it upward, inching me close as the lanyard tugs against my neck. She examines the hand, the dried flesh, the ridges of finger bones, the crusty blood. When?

Several weeks. Who? I don't know. She raises her eyebrows. I asked. She was too busy begging. She considers this, nods. I discreetly examine the hand around her.

her neck and the one around the boys. What passes for passports now? A hard calculus. But what choice do we have? She studies the deer. How much? I was hoping for accommodation. Eyebrows up again. We're full, I'm afraid. Please. It's gotten so much worse out there. I gesture at the deer. That must be worth something. She hesitates. One night. One? She studies the desperation in my eyes, my lean frame, my tattered clothes.

She looks once more at the deer, at the bounty I've delivered. At least three. Two. Two. I lower my head in a display of dejected acceptance. She nods at the door of the SUV they emerged from. It's an unwieldy process, but I manage it. Me first, then the deer which I dragged through unaided.

I catch my breath as I finish, turn, and see Brower. He stares at me, his face giving away nothing. The cobblestone house was a godsend at first, perched atop a hill with the view of the Genesee Valley sweeping below us. Unseen approach from any side, almost impossible. Initially, Fern and I took turns splitting watchguard shifts,

picking off the infected stragglers with our diminishing supply of ammunition. Eventually, exhausted, we rigged makeshift alarms, wires strung between posts, cans tied to the wires, candle wax melted onto the cans.

The wax helped fires we lit beside the ensnared trespassers burn hotter and faster. The sizzling of flesh shiny from adipose rich diets dripped onto the cans and wires and posts, replenishing the snares, and so on. It couldn't last forever. We weren't fools. But what choice do we have? We were wrong. We had a choice. His name was Brower. He arrived one day and shouted across the yard, keeping his distance from the alarms. I can protect her.

I eyed the small hand around his neck. 17 is too young to marry. Once, maybe. It's not natural. One man, so many wives. It is natural. Natural now. You're old enough to be her father.

I wouldn't be her father. The comment aimed at my little. sister was enough to turn my stomach because of the implication and the underlying truth. Safety in numbers was everything now. Ironically, Browers' presence at my doorstep alone confirmed this. Stand-alone dwellings meant death. McManchens became morgue's. With his well-protected compound, Brower offered a respite from danger. Because of that, who he took to bed, he took to and how many was his prerogative. I'd heard whispers that he implemented his own version of Doua du Signor.

Instead of Vassel's brides on their wedding nights, though, it was the female companion of anyone seeking refuge. The same whispers said male travelers who refused lost that appendage most precious to us now, a hand. And Brower gained the woman's bed regardless. Difficult to say if all that was true. That many gardens, livestock, and guns are difficult to manage one-handed. The hands had to come from someplace, though.

In the end, I refused his offer. Fern was a shy, introverted 17, always hunched over her diary. Bookish when we had schools, head filled with dreams of science experiments. physically she might have presented as a woman, but her thoughts and experience were far from what Brower had in store for her. I won't ask again. You're on your own after this. I understand. I hope you do. He spoke with compassion, though, not malice, which is why I was willing to help when the boy appeared a few weeks later, 11 or 12 at the oldest. eyes wide, limbs skinny like winter branches, crying that Brower, his father was in trouble. He was cornered and needed help.

His father was willing to rescind elements of his previous invitation, the boy said, though he didn't say rescind. He said, he says he won't touch the girl. I hesitated, thinking of our food stores, three weeks left at most. I might be able to survive alone, but the two of us? I brought the boy inside, locked him in the pantry, locked Fern in her bedroom with our sharpest knife, moldy biscuits and a bucket,

and told her I'd be back as soon as I could. I grabbed a second knife and headed for the far fields. No one knows who first thought of the hands, though no surprise how the custom began. At some point, a healthy individual came into contact with an infected's severed hand. A surplus existed because of the savagery of counter-attacks. People's attempts to fight back using hose, knives, swords, plates of glass, anything sharp,

usually to no end, but a few lucky ones walked away. It turned out that even detached, even a day old, three days, two weeks, the head. Hands of the infected interacted with uninfected flesh like acid on soapstone. It didn't take long to determine the opposite was true. A healthy, detached hand steamed and sizzled against the chest of someone infected. An infected hand hanging from an infected person's neck? It roamed the victim's chest like a slow-moving spider as if seeking union. What didn't react was a healthy hand hanging around the neck of a healthy person.

A traveler's talisman was born. Travel drops when hands are currency. Which made compounds like Browers so sought after. A refuge. If you could reach it and earn admittance. Inside, I'm searched, of course, as is the deer's cavity. These are rightfully skeptical people. We're not so far gone that the story of Odysseus and the Trojan horse is forgotten.

The discovery of the buckknife strapped to my right ankle doesn't do me any favors. The two men searching me, lean with ropey, muscled arms, plant me face down on the inner courtyard's hard pan earth. Brower arrives, stands over me. Funny thing to forget to mention. I'm sorry. I didn't know how you'd receive me after Fern. It's in the past, but you'll forgive extra precautions. I nod, grateful to keep my head and my hands. I don't remark on Browers' lack of condolences for my sister or for his son, the one who came to our house that day.

Death is too unremarkable now. The fact you could argue he owed me also goes unsaid. I'd had my chance, thanks to his offer to wed Fern, regardless. of what happened afterward. Ten minutes later, I'm in the compound's dining hall, a cold echoing space at the far end of a pole barn converted into residential use. I expect retribution for the oversight of the knife.

Instead, I'm handed a bowl of porridge, leavened with a poached egg and actual cheese. I shovel the food, gulping with gratitude. Two women, my overseers, look away, appalled. Kara, she of the Red Hat who greeted me today, and a woman called Nicole, I apologize, mouthful. I can't afford for them to think I'm not ravenous. Any sign that I arrived well-fed, as I did, would be excuse enough to change their minds and kick me out after one day instead of two. I need to make it clear that every second inside the compound counts.

I'm escorted to the garden afterwards. given a bucket and told to pluck hornworms from the tomato plants, but not to kill them. Nothing goes to waste here, I'm told. A few hours later, I'm escorted to a room two doors down from Brower's bedroom and locked inside for the night, alone, except for a waste pan. I suspect this proximity to Brower is not a mistake. I'm someone he wants to keep close. When dinner arrives, I realize my punishment was simply delayed. I'm handed a bowl of writhing hornworms.

I manage two before vomiting. Afterward, I lie in a corner on a straw-stuffed mat, hoping for sleep. The room is black. No chance for even a sliver of moonlight. Despite my circumstances, a thought consoles me. They stopped searching me after finding the buckknife. I arrived too late to help Brower the day his son ran to me seeking aid. He had apparently fought his attackers off himself.

There was no sign of him when I reached the maple tree four fields over where the boy directed me. The tree, a survivor of the firewood frenzy that gripped the world before population collapse, rendered the need for fuel in multiple hearths unnecessary. examining the remains of three infected near the base of the tree, I could only assume that Brower fled for safety after dispatching the trio. Whether he was alive or healthy was another question. What he was doing with his son this far out was also unclear. I took a few minutes to examine the bodies of the infected,

gingerly checked for anything useful in their possession. I claimed a still-functioning wristwatch and hurried home. I didn't want to leave Fern alone, locked in her room with only her diary for company for too long. In a rush, I missed what I concluded later. The three infected had been dead long before that day. I was loping up the driveway when I heard the cry, like an eagle cut down mid-flight. I ran. Chaos greeted me inside.

I went cold, seeing the pantry door hanging on a single hinge. The space inside, empty. Fern! I found the boy in Fern's upstairs bedroom. The door lying in the hallway ripped off both hinges. The strength to carry out such destruction bare-handed was unimaginable once upon a time. Not so much in recent years.

The boy had Fern pinned to her bed. Horrified, I watched as her arms and legs rose and fell in a last-ditch effort to defend herself, only to realize the movement wasn't conscious, but instead resulted from her body's involuntary flailing, limbs flopping from the ferocity of the boy's assault, the intensity of his feeding. Teeth sunk into her neck.

He shook her like a dog with a rag doll. Blood painted the bed spreads, the walls, the floor. I held back, resisting the urge to rush to Fern's side despite my despair. There was nothing to save but filleted flesh. Instead, I composed myself, stood back, and readied my stance. You! The boy turned, eyes bright, face smeared, nostrils flared. He leaped from the bed to the floor with terrifying speed and rushed me.

I only had one chance, and it mustn't involve physical contact. I flung the knife with all the strength I had, channeling my anguish over the remains in the bed, what was left of the person I was meant to defend, and instead left to die. My aim was true. The knife sank deep into the boy's right eye, a good four inches of blade embedded in his brain. He shrieked, spun. collapsed. I ran back downstairs, waited outside a full five minutes.

Reanimation, even with such a grievous injury, was not unheard of. Cautiously, I went back up, walked to the threshold of the door, peaked inside. I was safe. The boy hadn't moved. He must have transformed minutes after I left to help his father. normal than possessed in a matter of seconds. I walked around his body and approached the bed, getting as close as I could before encountering Fern's blood.

Anything she shed, even in the seconds after the first bite, likely contained the contagion. I longed to weep, but the shock was still too raw, too deep. I shifted to my left, forcing myself to take a closer look. That's when I saw it, in a corner, like a forgotten toy, untouched by the gore flung from the bed, surrounded by a half circle of dry floor, ferns severed left hand. On my second day in the compound, I dig latrines. It's possible to view this as further punishment, but there is no mistaking the fact that the holes are needed.

Kara hadn't lied. The compound is at capacity. Every aluminum gardening shed, every dented yellow school bus, every tattered nylon tent is full. Well-worn paths indicate frequent foot traffic. Multiple lines flutter with drying clothes like tattered ship sails. The compound has many children, and from closer observation, I observed that both Kara and Nicole, a second wife, are pregnant. I imagine Fern, alive in the same condition. Then shake the thought away. Keep your eyes on the prize, not the skies. Worn multiple handwritten signs affixed to the cars walling us in. The message clear. No daydreaming here. Head tilted upward to admire a blue sky or waxing moon. It's a sentiment I can admire. Lunch is a simple affair of bread and apples. I brace for hookworms for dinner, but I'm apparently forgiven. Instead, I enjoy a venison stew prepared with a portion of the bounty I carried in the day before. Afterwards, Brower stands beside me, arm around the shoulders of a woman named Amanda. I'm sorry I can't ask you to stay.

She wears the red-wollen cap I'd seen on Kara's head the day before. The significance comes to me after a moment. It is the turn of Amanda, wife number three, to share Brower's bed two doors down from my makeshift cell. I understand. I appreciate the meals you've provided. You're welcome to return. If? He glances at my empty bowl of stew.

I thank him. He shakes my hand. I'll be up by dawn to scorch you out. I step into my room and lay down on my mat as Brower closes and locks the door behind me. Slowly the sounds of the compound dissipate, the complaints of children not ready for bed fading away, the footfall of stockinged feet replacing the clumping of boots. As I lay awake, listening, I hear moaning from Brower's bedroom in rhythm with the creaking of springs. I wonder if Amanda wears the red hat all night.

night. It was pointless to clean up Fern's bedroom. The best I could do was throw open the upstairs windows and let the elements take charge. I was abandoning the second floor anyway. I would sleep on the couch for now until I decided my next move. After dragging the blankets from my bed downstairs, I returned a final time to Fern's bedroom. I stood at the threshold, a tear on my cheek, realizing it was impossible even to shut the door to enclose her inside. It was then that I spied the diary. It sat half on, half off the highest shelf of the bookcase, on the far side of the room, away from the gore.

Impossible to miss. I decided to chance it. I used a napkin to rub it down, a futile gesture if it was contaminated, but I felt better. I stepped into the hallway, turned to the most recent entry, and began to read. A minute later, I slumped to the floor, aghast, of course. A compound this size with so many people isn't entirely silent even at night. After the sounds from Brower's bedroom finally subside, new noises take their place.

Crickets. Windows rattling from a night breeze. snores, farts, sighs, the shifting of a waste bucket. I stay awake, waiting. From time to time I check my watch, the one I liberated from a member of the trio that supposedly attacked Brower, one of two items not found in the search of my person the previous day. 1115 p.m. 11.30. 1145. I wasn't surprised that Fern figured it out, proud even, worrying the problem in her diary

day after day, running calculations based on what we'd both seen and observed, pouring over the newspapers and magazines that piled up in our hallway in the days and weeks before such deliveries abruptly ended, scanning the skies day and night with the telescope she received on her last before everything birthday, sampling rainwater with her final Christmas gift, a National Geographic chemistry kit. She'd always been good at science. In her neat looping cursive, she laid out her findings. A 29-day cycle. 28 days of dormancy, of utter normalcy, followed by instant illness at the beginning of the 29th day. How exactly this happened, she couldn't speculate. But why?

The answer, the source of infection, was above us the whole time. 1155. A baby's cry. Then silence. I stand. Approached the door. Still grappling with the finding, I read Fern's final hypotheses. A healthy detached hand reacts.

when hung around the neck of an infected. An infected hand signals infection in the person wearing it. A healthy hand can hang safely around the neck of a healthy person. However, because of genetic compatibility, an infected person can safely wear without indication of illness, the hand of a relative. A sister, for example, tears streaming down both cheeks, I stepped back into Fern's bedroom, tiptoed past the remains of the boy,

skirted the bed, and retrieved Fern's hand. She'd known. She knew what was about to happen to her. She'd heard the boy escape from the pantry. Did she guess the boy was a bio-weapon? Punishment by Brower for her, our, refusal of his approaches, the offer of his bed of a red cap for Furr. Fern in exchange for our safety.

Impossible to say. What was clear, though, was that the boy's 29th day began when I locked him in the pantry, which Brower had known, meaning Fern wasn't the only one who figured things out, except for the secret of the sibling's hand. That was her discovery alone.

Fern's final gifts to me were somehow hacking off her hand in time, before she was attacked, and leaving her diary for me to find, knowing as the person who understood me best, what I would do after reading it, which was I ventured outside that night at midnight, and looked up for a long, long time. Two minutes remain. Although the undercurrent of night sounds persists,

everything points to a settlement to sleep for the night. babies, children, adults, I tiptoe to the door. I removed the fragment of wire coat hanger overlooked, along with the watch after yesterday's search. I insert it carefully into the keyhole. I shifted up, down, to the left. I perspire, anxious over my work on the lock, but for other reasons too. 11.59 p.m. Quietly, ever so quietly, I pull the door open.

I stand just inside my room, arms at my side. I regret just for a moment how crowded the compound is. Then I recall the remains of Fern on her bed. Fern, who figured it out, but too late to save herself. Our blood, a salty oceanic remnant coursing through our bodies, tides higher than ever before with the changing weather, the moon's magnetic influence magnified. Unbeknownst to anyone else, when the orb was stared at a certain way, for long enough, its image burned into our retinas and triggered something internally, a shift in salinity

and chemical properties that didn't manifest right away, something that needed several days and weeks to cook to a boil. 29 days, in fact. The full length of a moon cycle. Keep your eyes on the prize, not the skies. The proof of infection? Eyes stinging slightly the next time one glanced at the moon. But few figured out that symptom.

Fern, Brower, and now me. I start a sensation warming in my stomach. a craving like nothing I've experienced before. I rub my fingers over my teeth in anticipation. I feel strength coarse through my arms. I recall my nighttime foray outside the cobblestone house. The day Fern died at almost this exact time. Standing in the next field over, gazing upward, unblinking,

drinking in the lunar glow. Then, timing my arrival at Brower's compound, I step into the hallway as my vision dims. I know from Fern's diary that a new site will replace it soon. I turn stiffly and position myself facing the door to Brower's room at the end of the hall, around the corner, perhaps far enough away from the dormitories and the nursery. I stagger, then write myself. Hunger burns my brain. My 29th day has begun.

It has been an absolute joy. Wait, I don't have to do the nose lead voice. Okay, take off the noseleaf voice. Here we go. Bring it home. Bring it home. It has been an absolute joy to present these stories to you, our dear listeners. This podcast has meant the world to me, and I know it does to you too.

Having been here for 23 of the 24 seasons, which still blows my mind. I'll say that I think at this point there's probably no getting rid of me unless oh here he is. Okay, here he is. Yeah, Dave. Okay, David. I shouldn't call him Dave. Now I'm in trouble for that. Yes, no,

I'll go back to the base. They only let us out. No, I'm going. I'm just finishing saying goodbye to everybody. And then I'll go. And then I'll, hold on. I'm going to say one more thing. Thank you, my friends. And I'll see you in more sleepless stories soon. Okay, I'm going. I'm walking down the stairs right now.

I'm just looking. Okay, bye, everybody. As our stories 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

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