The NoSleep Podcast - S24 Ep14: NoSleep Podcast S24E14

Episode Date: May 3, 2026

It's Episode 14 of Season 24. Enter the dark waters of the Cape Fear River as we present tales insidious inspections."Forbearance" by Nicholas Hinchey (Story starts around 00:09:10)Produced by Claudius MooreCast: Christine - Mary Murphy, Howard - David Cummings, Woman - Sarah Ruth Thomas"Unprompted" by Michael Fallon (Story starts around 00:42:15)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Jesse CornettCast: Milo - Graham Rowat, Marielle - Linsay Rousseau, Gabrielle - Ella Boone, Dr. G - Wafiyyah White"The Neighbourhood Watcher" by Luke Pudney (Story starts around 01:17:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - David Ault, Newsreader - Erika Sanderson, Date - Penny Scott-Andrews, Officer #1 - Guy Woodward, Officer #2 - Ash Millman, Officer #3 - Andy Cresswell, Thomas’s Father - Jake Benson, Thomas - James Cleveland"Peelers Club" by Johnny Byutorie (Story starts around 01:45:10)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Jeff ClementCast: Narrator - Jeff ClementThis episode is sponsored by:Storyworth - Create collaborative books to celebrate milestones, collect stories and photos from trips, gather recipes, and preserve all of lifeís memories. Head to storyworth.com/nosleep to save up to $20 and make memories that will last a lifetime.Indacloud - Indacloud is here to give you what you came looking for. An incredible time, a good laugh, a great sleep, or a vacation from reality. Check out the safest and greatest cannabis products on the market at incredible prices. If you're 21 or older and a new customer, go to indacloud.co/nosleep to get 40% off your first order plus free shipping.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about this episode's host: Mike DelGaudioCheck 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!Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"The Neighbourhood Watcher" illustration courtesy of Catriel TallaricoThe 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. There's a specific kind of fear that sticks with you. For me, it started at a sleepover when I was about 13 years old. Somebody put on a VHS tape of faces of death.

And the rumor going around at the time was that it was all real. Not staged, not effects, a documentary. At that age, you don't question it. You just absorb it. I remember lying awake that night staring at the ceiling, trying to process what I had just seen and wishing I hadn't. If we haven't met before, my name is Mike Delgado. And you might know me from my work here as a voice actor on the No Sleep Podcast.

Not long after that sleep over. I went to see a nightmare on Elm Street in the theaters. Just came out brand new. And in hindsight, that was maybe not the best follow-up to faces of death. And that was kind of it for me, at least for a while. Visual horror just didn't sit right. It felt imposed, like I was being shown something I couldn't unsee. Yeah.

Well, seeing those horror movies as a young and naive populous, was its kind of own version of psychological trauma. But around that same time, I found Stephen King. Started with Christine, it was a Christmas gift in hardback when it first came out. And then I just sort of kept going. Book after book after book. And that was a completely different experience. Because with those stories, the horror wasn't being shown to me.

It was happening in my head. I was building it. I was filling in the blanks, making it as intense or as restrained as I could handle. Sometimes if I didn't understand what I was reading, I could just keep going. I could elide over the parts that I had to or really visualize the parts that I really wanted to sit with. And I think that's what stuck. The idea that the most effective horror, for me anyway, isn't something I was shown. It's something I participate in.

It's something I bring with me And it's something that can get better with time I know that reading The Stand by Stephen King When I was 15 Was a very different experience than when I read it at 30 And then reading it again when I was Well, let's just say older, shall we? That's part of why I've always loved audio drama

Especially horror audio drama I mean the first audio drama I ever heard Was a cassette of The Mist by Stephen King Some of you may know that. And I think I was a sophomore in high school when that came out, and I just loved it. And I think I loved it because you don't get the full picture. You get just enough. A voice, a moment, a suggestion.

And the rest is yours. Isn't that incredible? Your version of the story is always going to be a little different than mine. And sometimes that makes it a lot more personal. and a lot more unsettling. As I've gotten older, that kind of horror has only gotten stronger for me. Because the things that scare you change. I mean, when I was younger, it was the monsters, the unknown.

But then life fills in some of those blanks for you. You start to understand what it means to lose control, to worry about the people you care about, to realize that not everything has an explanation, or worse, not everything has a solution. I'm reminded of a line I heard once that there are about 4,000 weeks in a long life. And at some point you realize that you're already well past the halfway mark.

At least I am. And that kind of thought? That will stick with me for a lot longer. It terrifies me more, and it changes the way I think. More than anything I'll see in a slasher movie. At least that's for me. And I bet Marcus D'Amanda could write the stuff out of a story like that.

These days, I'm a full-time voice actor, which means on any given day I might be recording something like this for no sleep, or helping train a surgeon on a new technique, or walking someone through how to fuel a super tanker. And I mean it, that's not an exaggeration. That's just Tuesday for a voice actor. And somewhere along the way, I found my way to the No Sleep podcast. At the time, it was going back a few years, I was learning audio production and experimenting with storytelling, and I actually produced a full audio version of a story from the No Sleep subreddit.

And then I sent it in, completely unprompted to David. And very appropriately, it was rejected. I kind of wish I still had it. It might be a fun listen. But more likely, I'm really glad I don't have it anymore. Cringe humor is not my kind of humor. Anyway, not long after that, I was given the chance to be a part of the No Sleep podcast for the Halloween episode in season four. And I've been here ever since. Over the years, this show has grown, evolved, and somehow managed to keep getting better.

The production, the performances, the writing, it's consistently. impressive. But what's always stood out to me for the No Sleep podcast is the variety. No two stories feel quite the same. You can go from something deeply psychological to something supernatural, to something gory, to something very, very real. And to just step aside from that for a moment, for me, I think the most rewarding part of being involved in this podcast has been hearing from you, the listeners. Because every now and then, and I mean this, someone will say something that really stays with you. They might tell you that a story helped get them through a difficult time, or that listening to the show actually helped them fall asleep when nothing else would,

or just that it helped. And that's not something you expect when you start doing this, but it's something that you carry with you once you hear it. And it's a big part of why I keep coming. back. On the show this week, we have stories that live in a very specific space. They're not about monsters in the traditional sense. Not really. They're about routine, about control, about the systems we build for ourselves to make sense of the world. And what happens when something inside those systems isn't quite right? Sometimes it's a relationship that feels a little off, or sometimes it's your own thoughts turning in directions you didn't expect. Sometimes it's the sense that you're being watched or misunderstood or slowly losing your grip on something you thought was stable.

These are the kinds of stories where the horror doesn't come from a single moment. It builds quietly, gradually, until you realize that whatever's wrong has been wrong for a while. And by then it's usually too late to do anything about it. In our first tale, we meet a couple who have settled into a very comfortable routine, the kind where you know exactly how your partner walks through the door, what they say, how they breathe. When something small changes, something that's almost unnoticeable, it's hard to ignore.

Because once you start paying attention like that, you tend to see more than you meant to. Performing this tale by Nicholas Hinchie are Mary Murphy, David Cummings, and Sarah Thomas. And when keeping things in order starts to matter more than keeping things right, you may find yourself practicing a little forbearance. Howard was never any good at keeping secrets. After 12 years of married life, a wife gets to know all the intricate ways that her husband behaves. For example, when Howard arrives home from the office, he always lets out a deep breath when he enters the door.

The exhale lasts so long I wonder if he's going to deflate on the carpet. But naturally, he doesn't. And then he regales me with stories about this and that from work. If I'm being honest, I have mostly tuned out as ramblings. A business supervisor, while paid well, doesn't have the most captivating tales to. to tell. I remember bits and pieces. Certain names sound familiar. A few events. But if Howard were to quiz me on the subject, I'd likely fail. Still, I put up a good front. I nod and smile while he talks. I time an oh to escape my lips at the correct moment, to make it seem like I'm paying attention.

It has all become a comfortable routine. But one day that routine was broken. It was a Friday afternoon, and I was tidying myself up after a day of chores. My blonde hair was organized into a soft bob that shaped my face in a presentable manner. I knew that hair should always be used to accentuate your features, not distract from them. My blue skirt and soft-sleeved top were perhaps a little outdated, although the ensemble had been quite fashionable in 1953, but I thought the outfit sensible for the day's activities. as I wouldn't want to risk unnecessary blemishes on my better clothes.

I was in the process of touching up my makeup when Howard came through the door. Our house had a way of carrying sound, and so I paused to listen for his exhale, but it never came. A new image arrived to my mind then. Instead of deflating, I imagined Howard feeling so full of air that he popped. Christine, dear? Bedroom! The sound of his shiny black shoes grew closer as he walked over to me.

The house was spacious, thanks to the substantial size of my husband's salary, but the decor was simple and tasteful. While Howard had argued for a flashier presentation with chandeliers and statement pieces, I managed to hold and check his reckless approach to interior design. What was in the house was exactly what we needed. Chairs, tables, sofas, and lights were all placed in. reasonable but still appealing locations. Everything was in order, just like it should be, everything except for Howard. Oh, it was a long day.

He planted a brief kiss on my cheek. I think I'm going to hit the hay. I turned and gave him a smile. The truth was Howard did not look tired at all. His straight brown hair was still neatly parted toward the left side of his face. On a bad day, the top of his head tended to resemble the frilly nature of our carpet. Likewise, the suit and tie that I had picked out for him were still unwrinkled on his slender frame. The tie usually didn't make it to the door before being removed.

Of course, darling, you look exhausted. My skill as a liar had always outclassed my husbands. I love you. As he turned to leave, I caught a flash. and his expression. In the second that his gaze left mine, I could see a flicker in his eyes. It looked as if a matchstick had been struck in his soul. I'd seen that type of look in him before, and it wasn't something that I took lightly. The way I said Howard stopped him in his tracks. You and it happened to be hiding something from me, would you?

I don't think I could hide anything from you if I tried. He laughed, but did not turn back to me. to face me. True, but you have tried before. I reached and wrapped my arms around his chest, a hug that was also a cage. I know that your work can be difficult, darling. Life in the normal world is a tricky slope to navigate. Sometimes it can be easy to get lost, but I'm here to guide you. I paused there, allowing my words to sink in. Are you sure that you are telling me the truth? I'm sure. No more Janets? I could feel his heart beating faster underneath my hands as I spoke her name. No more Janets. Good. Slowly, I released him from my grip. While he still did not

show his face, I could tell he was relieved. We wouldn't want a repetition of history, would we, darling? I admit there was a part of me that still wanted to trust him. Twelve years of married life has that sort of diminishing effect on one's judgment. I wanted to believe that Howard would listen to me, trust me, stand by my side in all things. Janet was the one time he hadn't. I caught him with her. In our bedroom of all places. I burned the sheets after I found out.

I would not allow them to sully the rest of the room. This type of scandal could threaten our livelihoods, if found out, and I refuse to allow an act of recklessness to be our undoing. So, I put the matter aside, let bygones be bygones. But I never forgot. I kept my sights on him ready and waiting for a slip. The next few days passed without incident. Howard returned to his routine, and I returned to mine. Since I did not have a job. job of my own, I made sure to engage in many activities to keep myself busy. In our backyard, I had taken to maintaining a small garden with a few flowers and some ferns, but the blueberry bushes were my primary success. The garden was enclosed by a large stone wall, so that I could have

some privacy from the gaze of our neighbors. I was gathering a few blueberries into a small basket when Howard returned home. Normally I would be inside to greet him, but he was abnormally early that day. Yet another deviation from our routine, but I could imagine that there was a reasonable explanation. I stood from the ground as he walked out the sliding back door. His face, as always, lit up when he saw me. Mine did too, although it was hard to force a smile. He pulled me into a hug. Hmm, gardening? I thought that my current position made that obvious,

but I decided to humor him. Yes, darling, the berries should be ripe soon. Howard's expression turns sour. I don't know why you choose to grow those things. You know how much I hate them. Why not strawberries? Something sweeter, less bitter. Strawberries can be bitter too.

Not like your blueberries. He chuckled, seemingly pleased with his own comment. However, it must have occurred to him how rude he sounded, because he quickly added, Of course, I'll eat anything that you make, dear. I raised a gloved hand, still dirty from my work, and stroked his cheek. Aren't you a gentleman? I was aware that Howard hated blueberries the day I'd, bought the seeds at the store. My gardening habit had been taken up a short time after the ordeal with

Janet, and I must admit that my husband's best interest was not in my heart. Although I had forgiven him, there was still a deep urge within me to punish him somehow. I don't believe that I thought much about the act. My hand had simply grabbed the bag and placed it in the cart. It was instinct. What was not instinct was my choice to always pick the berries early. I suppose, much like the fruit, I was still a bit bitter. Let me grab the basket for you. As Howard bent down, the collar of his shirt unfolded ever so slightly. A pinpoint's worth of lipstick was smeared across the white fabric, subtle enough in color to be missed, but not red enough to be my own shade. Suddenly, it seemed as though the sun had become more intense.

Howard, you're home sooner than I expected. Everything well at the office? Yes, dear, I just decided to take off early. This was not the explanation I hoped for. Darling, I began as the two of us made our way back inside. Do you love me? Howard's face contorted at the question. That's a peculiar thing to say.

Don't you know that I fell in love with you the moment we found each other? The words were passionate. I believed him. Do you trust me? We had found our way to the kitchen, and Howard slid the basket onto the table. Yes, dear. This time, the words were dull. Do you not like the way I manage things around here?

Does it bore you? What's with all these questions? Look, I... Everything is just so precise now, careful. Feels like I'm walking on eggshells with you. The honesty in his voice was apparent, and I acknowledged his comment with a nod. I see.

The matchstick-like flicker appeared in his eyes as he took a confident stride toward me. It had been a while since he'd been so bold. Do you never have the urge to simply relax, let loose, do what you want, and not worry about what happens next? Doesn't that seem fun? I thought about the stain on his collar. Was that what he considered fun? Without order, our lives would fall to pieces, darling.

You of all people should be well aware of that. Would it? The sound of his voice stretched out as if he were suddenly a whining, dog. I see how you watch me. It's like you're waiting for me to make a mistake. Do you know how that feels? I pushed past him and opened a cabinet, retrieving a glass jar and placing it on the table. I do not, but seeing how big the company you work for is, I imagine that I could ask one of your employees. The word employees had a profound effect on my husband's demeanor. His confidence Stance retreated into a slouch, and the flicker in his eyes died out. I felt my heart race at that

moment. I savored his pain as I poured a few blueberries from the basket into the jar. Dear, I thought we decided never to mention that again. Yes, we had agreed to never speak about the particulars of the event. Howard always seemed so ashamed of the foolish way he handled things. This was a part of my forbearance. It was clumsy of me to make that remark, no matter how badly I wanted to. For a moment, I had actually lived life the way my husband wanted, recklessly. I apologize. I twisted the lid shut on top of the blueberries. Just give me some space for a while. Give me some time without your eyes on me. I did my best not to stare at the stain on his collar. Instead, I only looked into his eyes, trying to find the reason why I chose to remain with him for as long as I had.

I will, darling. I popped a stray blueberry into my mouth. I trust you. Let it not be said that I wasn't a woman of my word. For the next few weeks, I turned a blind eye to the strange behaviors of my husband. My comments to him were limited to my occasional o's during his afterwork conversation. and a few passing remarks. At first, I believed he enjoyed his freedom from my watchful gaze.

His slender shoulders were more relaxed than usual, and he moved about the house in an oddly, leisurely manner, as though he had somehow been released from my control. After a while, though, he grew restless. I found him staring at me whenever I entered the room, his eyes wide with anticipation. I wondered if Howard wanted me to break my promise. Maybe he missed the attention of my gaze now that it was gone.

I enjoyed this idea immensely. However, as the days continued to pass, I was disappointed to find that his anticipation dwindled. He behaved as though all was well, and that nothing was out of the ordinary. I loathed the idea that he didn't need. need me to guide him. Even more so, I dreaded the idea that this was the truth. I maintained my composure. The lasting I wanted was for Howard to see a crack in my resolve. Then I would be weak,

weak like him. I knew that I would have to be subtle when I monitored him. No questions, no unnecessary remarks. My eyes would be my only tool. Immediately, I started to pick up on signs I had to had unconsciously ignored. Howard no longer exhaled at the door when he arrived home. His suit and tie had remained consistently tidy, as if great pains had been taken to fix his appearance before he came home. Then there was his hair. It had grown to the point where it was far past time for a trip to the barber. He knew how much I hated his hair that way. It looked like an unorganized ball of thread. This, combined with everything, all but confirmed my suspicions.

But I couldn't let him win. If I accused him, he would simply deny it. I would see right through his lies, of course, but I wanted proof. I wanted to see him struggle to find an explanation. I wanted to hear him beg for my forgiveness a second time. This was a fantasy too enticing not to make come true. Setting the trap was easy. Howard, ever clumsy and unobservant,

believed me when I told him I was going to visit my mother for the weekend. I thought you two didn't speak. He was right, of course. My mother and I hadn't spoken since a day she died 11 years ago. In his defense, I barely remembered her death myself. It was one of those events that seemed important when it had. happened, but lost all significance over time. We want to catch up?

The plan was devilishly simple. After saying my farewell, I placed my meticulously packed suitcase in the back of my white Cadillac and drove away. For the next few hours, I drove around the city, observing the sights that I had seen a thousand times before. Then, after enough time it passed, I drove back and parked in an alleyway just within view of the house. My husband, like most men with his disposition, did not take long to make his first move.

I saw his matching Cadillac pull out of our driveway and head down the road past my vehicle. The setting sun and dark alley made it so that I had been easily hidden within the shadows. calmly I stepped out of the car and walked the short distance down the street to my house. I made sure to lock the door back when I slipped inside. Even Howard would notice such a careless mistake. The next step of the plan was to conceal myself until the last moment so that I might catch him in the act. Where better to hide than the bedroom, I thought. Without any lights on, our home took on a mysterious atmosphere.

As I walked down the hall, I couldn't help but wonder how this new Janet would feel about my decor. Would she wonder about the person who put everything in the room? its proper place, or would she simply be afraid of the silhouettes in the dark? The bedroom was perhaps our most luxurious room. A four-poster bed sat above a rug in the center of the space, and was surrounded on either side by a set of nightstands. In the dark, I could still make out the shapes of our dressing cabinets lining the wall. Adjacent to the entrance was the door to a walking closet, where I kept my spare clothes, the spot perfect for hiding. I smiled as I contemplated the idea of taking this room all for myself once the events

of the night were over. Howard could survive on the couch. However, before I took my hiding place, I made sure to make a few preparations. Carefully, I lifted the bed up just enough so that I could remove the rug from under it. Once I had freed it, I simply slid the tastefully plainly. thing near the entryway. I did not want whatever guest who would be visiting our bedroom to leave a mess. And this seemed the easiest way to achieve that. Behind me, I heard the click of the front door opening. Howard had returned sooner than I anticipated. Moving quickly, I slipped into the closet.

I heard Howard's voice chuckling from down the hall. I promise, not a soul will know. Even with a wall between us, I could tell my husband had that flicker in his eye again. I gritted my teeth and forced myself not to come out early. I needed that moment to be perfect. Soon, another voice rang through the silence. I can't believe we're finally doing this. You've been teasing me for so long. It was a woman's, moderately young and high-pitched.

I wasn't surprised. This had been the case with Janet, too. The two giggled. As they made their way inside the bedroom. The fact that I was so close to them was tantalizing. My seeds had been planted, and I was about to enjoy the harvest. Are you ready? They shuffled closer to the bed.

Yes, Howie. I couldn't contain myself any longer. The sound of the closet door swore. winging open sent an excited shiver down my spine. I strolled out casually as though I were simply in the neighborhood. The woman, as I had suspected she would, let out an ear-piercing scream when she saw me, but I wasn't concerned about her. I savored every ounce of the fear that spread across Howard's face as I stood there with my practiced smile. Darling, I think that there's an uninvited guest to our bedroom. Howard wavered at the edge of the bed with his hand reaching down his pants pocket.

His mouth made the shapes of words, but no noise escaped his lips until he managed to stutter. You, you said... No, I did not go visit my mother. It was a lie, darling, something which I expect you are familiar with, given our company. For the first time, I acknowledged my guest. Above her horrified expression was a curly blonde bob. Much like my own, her long blue dress was also something that I might wear for a special occasion. She was nearly a perfect replica of me, just as Janet had been.

Ah, damn! The new Janet glared at Howard. She wasn't supposed to be here. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. I stepped closer. Please don't take this from me. It's been so long. You promised me this when it happened again, and I trusted you.

I shook my head in a disapproving manner, simply to add salt to the wound. Things were going better than I could have imagined. Look, lady, your husband and I, we... It was just a one-night thing, all right? It was a bad decision. The new Janet took a small step away from me. I ignored her, reaching out my hand to Howard. I know you have it. Give it to me. Howard's eyes glanced down towards his pocket.

Please. I will not ask again. The new Janet was utterly baffled when Howard pulled out the knife. Her face went pale as he slid blue. weapon into my grip. What were you going to do with that? He was going to kill you. This has been a bit of a problem for him, you see.

He's impulsive, reckless. He just can't stop himself. I've been trying to manage this part of him for a while now. It seems that I will have to do a better job in the future. Howard looked down at the floor, like a puppy ashamed of making a mess. I'm sorry. but please give the knife back. It will only take a second.

She's already here. The sound of his pleas was music to my ears. I'm afraid not, darling. I think it's best that you learn your lesson. The woman in our bedroom was still in shock. But even in her frightened state, she instinctively made a move toward the door. Unfortunately for her, I was quick enough to block the exit.

I'm sorry if I led you into thinking that I was letting you go, but things would look very bad for Howard if you were to say anything. I reached up and carefully grabbed the new Janet by her blonde hair. She struggled against my grip as I brought the knife to the side of her throat and made an incision. Her scream of pain was silenced as I pushed the blade to the other side of her neck, causing blood to flow from the newly opened. wound. Acting quickly, I dropped her to where I had positioned the rug on the floor.

After a moment of unpleasant gurgling, I could tell she was no longer with us. How did you know? I didn't even know until tonight. I pulled him into a hug, locking my hands around his shoulders. Twelve years of marriage, darling. The night was still young. and I had plenty of time to dig. While I felt sorry for my blueberry bushes, I knew they could be easily replaced. My garden was small, but once you dug deep enough, there's room for almost anything. Naturally, I allowed my husband to do most of the shuffling. He was the one that had gotten us into this nest to begin with, after all. We will have to replace the rug. I remarked as I admired the walls that kept our actions a secret.

At least the sheets were spared this time. A beat of sweat trickled down Howard's long, unkept hair as he buried the shovel into the earth. I wondered if it was caused by the stress of the night or by his exertion. I'm sorry I lied to you, dear. I just wanted to... I want to see if I...

If you could do it without me, you should already know that you... You can't. You're charming, darling. But without me, our habits would have been found out years ago. I can understand your impulses, even if I do not share them. But don't you see how foolish it was to kill yet another one of your employees? You've established a pattern, and I'm sure that it hasn't gone on notice. You're right. You're always right. I should have listened to you. The words echoed through my ears, bringing a smile to my lips, a real one this time. You know, darling, I've recently been contemplating the reason why I stay with you. Howard grunted as he flung a load of dirt over his shoulder. Because you love me?

No, that's not it. I look down at the supplanted remains of my blueberry bush. I think it's because I love hating you. I must admit this night was quite a thrill. You led danger straight through our front door, threatened the lives that we've built here, and you did it on a whim. You could have destroyed everything in a second of impulse,

but I am here to fix it for you. This is what I'm good at. What I enjoy. I couldn't have that if we hadn't found each other all those years ago. Will we have to move again? Did anyone know of your affair? No, no, I don't think so. Then perhaps not.

We've gotten away with it before. We should be able to do so again. A rush filled my body as I thought about the future, of the delicious lengths that I might have to go to to maintain our image of innocent normalcy. Suddenly, the shovel struck something firm, and the two of us shared a knowing look. Together, we shoved the rug into the hole, placing the body of the new Janet on top of the bones of the original.

As Howard started to refill the grave, I wondered if replanting blueberries was worth it. Our little peculiarities were bound to disrupt them again. But after a moment of reflection, I decided a new crop was in order. After all, life must go on. and I've always enjoyed a routine. In our second tale, we follow a writer who's stuck, which is frustrating until it becomes something else. Because when you care enough about the work,

you'll try just about anything to get past that wall, even if it means handing over a little control. And once you do that, it's not always clear where the idea ends and you begin. Performing this tale, written by Michael Fallon, are Graham Rowett, Lindsay Rousseau, Elaboon, and Wafia White. So if something tells you to just follow the prompt, you might want to be careful what you agree to in unprompted.

I'm blocked. My name is M. L. Hollowell, and I am a writer of horror fiction. M.L. Hollowell is not my birth name, it's my pen name. M. L. Holoel's the writer. I think of him as a separate entity. "'Me, I am the observer. I am. He does. "'I'm just a schlub, a small-town guy. "'He rises above societal convention, conditioning, the Anodyne culture. "'He does what he wants, goes where I can't, won't,' left to my own devices.

"'Not to mention Milo Niswainer doesn't exactly roll off the tongue. I write horror, I read horror, I watch horror movies. All I care about is horror. My life is horror. Don't give me a comedy, a drama, science fiction, historical fiction, nonfiction, biography, for God's sake. Give me horror. But I'm blocked. I know some writers say there is no such thing.

Just sit down and write every day. And I do. And every day I hit a wall. A wall of shit. It's a coarse, but it's the truth. I realize what I'm writing is dull, ill-conceived, hackneyed, dreck. Done before, done better. I get pages in and then axe it.

Here's what I'm working on now. All work and no play, make Jack a doll boy. All work and no play make Jack a doll boy. All work and no play make Jack a doll boy. All work. That's a lot easier to do now that you can copy and paste. If only good old Jack T. had a computer, maybe things would have turned out differently. At least I'm not snowed in.

Not yet, anyway. Should print that out and leave it for Mariel to find. It should come as no surprise that the author on whom I model myself is the king of horror, Stephen King. My life is in many ways a reflection of his. His early life, anyway, before he hit the Jackdoll. pot with Carrie before the fame and fortune. Not that I'm in it for that. That'd be nice, but he wrote Carrie before he was 30,

so he's got me beat there. But it's not a race. It's not a competition. I, like King, live in a small town. I am married and have two children, as did he, before he had the third one. And for all I know, we may have another on the way. Who can say? I teach, in my case, at the last.

local high school, not writing or English, but geography of all things, because they already have an English teacher. I know nothing about geography. I can't tell you what state borders this one. That's what online maps are for, which is what my students tell me all the time. I believe family was in some ways the source of King's genius. They provided him stability, a tether to the real world, allowing him to turn out his rock-sacel. solid man of the people prose. His work connects. His writing is realistic.

That might sound funny to say about an author whose books are populated by ancient vampires, telekinetic teenagers, deadly doppelgangers, killer cars, psychic serial killers. But he crowns it all in the real world. At heart, his stories are about real people, average, down-to-earth, run-of-the-mill,

Joe's and Janes like you and me. I know there are a lot of extreme writers out there. The Edward Lees, Poppy Z. Breits, David J. Shows, esoteric, sinister, downbeat, lovecraftian, Thomas Legati types, writing about some guy moping around a foreign city. That's just not who I am. I haven't even been to Europe. Actually, I'm taking a break from teaching to concentrate on my writing.

I've completed 400 pages of a novel. It's called but B-U-T dot dot dot Though I may have to change it As while its meaning is clear when the title is read Every time I tell people what it's called They get the wrong idea It's about a struggling writer

Who returns to his hometown After making a go of it in New York That he's haunted by some mysterious event That occurred when he was living in the city It's loosely based on my experience though of course I don't have a sinister secret in my past. It's not autobiography. I had mixed feelings about making my protagonist a writer,

but King does it all the time. The dark half, Salem's lot, the shining, for Christ's sake. Maybe but will be my carry if I can get through this impasse. This sense I have now that everything I write is a joke, that I'm a fraud, but I know what a good writer is, and I'm not it, and anybody who says otherwise

doesn't know what they're talking about, or they're just placating me. Joyce Carol Oates said the biggest enemy of writing is interruptions, and she manages to turn out a book every other week. I'm at my desk, our four-micot-topped kitchen table, and I can imagine King doing the same thing

when he was starting out. I can picture his wife and kids creeping around trying not to disturb him, because his job was to disturb others, right? Walking on eggshells while he banged away at the book which would change their lives? That's not exactly my experience. I doubt King's wife and kids were swarming the kitchen when he was trying to write carry. If they had been, there would be no carry. I'm typing at my laptop, next to which is an A5 notebook and Waterman Fountain,

pen. I keep having to move everything because the girls are setting the table for dinner. Mariel, my wife, have I told you about her yet? Says, Maybe you should take a break while we're preparing dinner. I tell her, I'm on a roll. What I'm writing, what you're reading, is precisely what's happening at this moment. All I seem capable of recording is what's going on around me. Transcription Mariel is asking me to reach down the colander from on top of the cupboard I put it up there if you can't reach it

I'm back The house is dark now Quiet and still blessedly The only light is the desk lamp I plugged into an extension cord and placed on the table next to me It's hours later of course If you're wondering what happened earlier tonight when my wife asked me to get the colander. I stood suddenly. The vinyl-backed metal chair tipped back and slammed to the floor. Everybody froze. They looked shocked because I don't do that sort of thing. Blow my top, except when I'm

pushed to the edge. And what do they expect? Could anyone write a novel in the midst of that carcophony? Or even a measly short story? I got them. the colander, because who else is going to do it? They're all too short. I slapped the colander on the counter. It wasn't that loud. It's plastic. I grabbed up my laptop, notebook, and pen, and marched out of the kitchen,

though I dropped the pen, and then almost dropped the laptop when I was picking up the pen. And I swear, Mariel and the kids were standing stock still and gaping after me like I just tore the kitchen apart. Jesus, like I'm at fault. Who is the more sinned against? Whom? Is it any wonder I'm blocked? Because on some level, they don't want me to make it. To become the next, whoever, they want me stuck here, like this forever. Before we ate, I made an apology.

But did they reciprocate? They did not. I explained that when Daddy is working, he needs. It's quiet. He needs to concentrate. And my youngest, Gabrielle, she's six, had the goal to say... But you're not at work, Daddy. You're a teacher. I kept my smile in place and explained that teaching is just my job. My day job. What's a day job? All right. Can we eat? We accept your apology.

I kept my mouth shut, choosing to keep the peace. Though my wife seemed to think by the look on her face that I was serving the pasta too violently, so I gently handed her the tongs and let her do it. I have a psychiatrist, not a psychiatrist, a therapist. Mariel insisted after I tore the cupboard door off its hinges while looking for my favorite cereal bowl. Because of my anger issues. I don't have anger issues. I have anger.

I don't have issues. That cupboard door was already loose. Dr. G. can't prescribe meds, which is just as well. I don't want to plunge down a pharmacological well and find I can't connect with my muse anymore. The muse. What's the opposite of a muse? I think Dr. G. is just about giving up on me, though.

All she does is listen to me complain about writer's block. Out of desperation, she said she had an idea. prompts. She said you can get writing prompts all over the internet. I know that, of course. I don't need somebody else giving me ideas. Or an AI, right? But she said it would just be an exercise.

A way to prime the pump of getting the juices flowing, of charging the batteries. She loves metaphors. And I thought, why not? What is an idea anyway? It's nothing. It's next to nothing. Everybody has ideas.

That's why they're free on the Internet. It's all in the execution. So I dip my toe in. I'm pole-axed. There are prompts of every stripe. First lines, premises, plots, every genre, fiction, non-fiction, fantasy, lots of those. And yes, horror.

150 scarifying horror ideas, 101 hair-raising horror prompts, prompts offered by cauldron of creepy, the graveyard of nefarious notions. It goes to show how paltry and inconsequential is the idea. Countless examples, and they add up to nothing without the hand of the author. These multifarious prompts solely amends

to kick the writer in the pants and into gear. I'll take it from there. I start with 666 nerve-rattling horror story prompts. There aren't 666, I don't think, but I'm not going to count them. I scroll down. A Halloween haunted house turns out to be actually haunted. Okay. A group of college students spends spring break in an isolated cabin

where a board game unleashes a demon. Sure, if I want to write the screenplay for every other cheap horror film on Netflix, I scroll on. A group of miners unleash a vengeful spirit. Young partygoers playing spin the bottle unleash a malevolent ghost.

A lot of unleashing here. An elegant couple dine at a high-end restaurant only to find that they are on the menu. Seriously? Enough with a can. Cannibalism already. For a group of friends, an escape room becomes an abattoir. A little vague?

At least nothing's unleashed. It's not going to work. This is what I say to Dr. G when next we meet online. The prompts. Every idea involves a group of hapless numskulls summoning an evil spirit. It doesn't have to be horror. No? I'm a horror writer

The point is to get you writing again I am writing. I'm writing this down right now This conversation That's right That's not really writing It's not very interesting I'll give you that She looks exasperated

I thought you wanted to use your imagination Write fiction This is fiction Just give it a try, Milo. That's Mr. Hollowell. I close the screen on her perplexed face. It's three hours later, and I'm sitting in the baleful glow of the computer screen. Search results are scrolling rapidly upward.

I close my eyes and lift my finger from the bottom and look to see where I am. The cursor is directly pointing out. random prompt generator. I click on it. The page takes a while to load at the servers in Uruguay, and then a practically blank page appears. There's a rectangular box containing the words

random prompt generator in the center of a white background. Underneath it is a smaller box outlining the word proceed. Proceed. I'm going to click this, and whatever comes up, I will write. Right? I click on the smaller box. The page stutters.

Ghost black. A small gear turns in the center of the screen. The screen goes white again. The wheel turns. This is taking forever. My finger hovers over the delete button. I'll give it... Oh, for...

Crying out loud. In the rectangular box are now the words, Go to bed. Go to bed. Is that a story idea? Underneath it is tiny type. I have to lean close to see it, tilting my head back to peer

through the lower part of my bifocals. First person, present tense. Well, I said I'd do whatever came up, so I'm going to do what it says. Prompt number one. I turn off the kitchen light. I move through the house, checking the doorlocks, savoring the quiet, the dark and the quiet.

For a few hours every night the house is luxuriously dark and quiet. I creep up the carpeted stairs, avoiding the fourth and seventh steps and their tell-tailed creaks. I crack the door of the girls' room. The light from the hallway casts a rectangle on the far wall. But both girls sleep soundly. Veronica, the ten-year-old on her side, earbuds in, iPhone on the shelf next to her, screen lit up.

Gabrielle on her back, mouth open, snoring lightly. I pull shut the door and turn off the hall light. Inside our bedroom, Mariel is asleep on the near side. of the bed, mask over her eyes. In the glow from the TV, an episode of Law and Order SVU, the sound practically nothing. I gently plucked the remote from her grip, circle to my side of the bed, dispense with my pants. I point the remote and kill the TV.

She rolls onto her back with a groan. Half asleep, she grogily pushes up the mask and smiles sleepily. She pushes down the covers, and I see she's wearing an old concert tea, the shirt too faded to make out the band logo. And nothing else. She lifts her arms, and I... That's a good place to wrap up. I cut the last part. You'll have to use your imagination. I'm not E.L. James.

I'm M.L. Hollowell. Now I'm back at work. Laptop, my A-5 notebook and fountain pen at the ready. Earlier, my wife was busy getting ready to leave for the school. She works there too. She's the dietician. Did she come to bed last night? Of course.

You don't remember? No. You woke up? Did I? I don't remember. She shrugged. She was filling her Stanley thermos with coffee. You know, I've been thinking...

What's that? Oh, that's when ideas go through my head. Okay, I don't have time. I was wondering if there's enough sex in my work. She screwed the top on her thermos, distracted. Enough. How much is in there now? Not that much, I guess. Does your boy put a lot of sex in his book?

No. Stephen? No, I guess there was an orgy in It, but I never got that far. In what? In It, in the novel It? Oh, right. I didn't read that one. Why do you all of a sudden want to write about sex? It's not all of a sudden. It's a subject I don't want to avoid, you know? Maybe too much horror doesn't engage in that part of life. Because it would mean writing for adults

What is that supposed to mean? It's a joke, geez Louise I could write about sex So far I've just chosen not to Okay What does that mean? You have your doubts? I don't know

I can write anything I said okay Mariel has always been my biggest supporter I depend on her She's my first reader She's a reader for God's sake How many of those are there now I don't read nearly as much as she does

Too busy with my own stuff But I can't believe you said that She pulled on her coat Needing to leave for work I get that She still has to go to school But

I didn't say anything. You write what you want. You write what you know. My mouth dropped open. And all I know about is monsters and murderers and other assorted juvenalia? No, Milo. I have to go. Don't call me that.

She stood staring at me, confounded. The door half open. And then she disappeared out the door. So how do you like that? I've transcribed it so I can remember what she really thinks about me, about my ability. Sure, she said a lot of positive things about my talent in the past, and that's nice. But does she even really think of me as a writer? Or am I a schoolteacher with a hobby?

As somebody said, put your madness into your art and your sanity into your life. Or something like that, trying to look up the actual. quote, but all I get is stuff about writers being crazy. Yeah, well, no shit. The fact is, my family is the one thing that keeps me sane. My wife, my kids, my job, my kids at school. It's like a warm embrace from inside of which I can reach out with my writing and unleash the beast.

Though sometimes, the darkness gets so black and thick you can't get to get. it all out when it backs up into your life. That's why I keep a lid on my darkest impulses. There are lines I won't cross. Kids, for instance, children in jeopardy. Won't go there. Even king shelved pet cemetery when he first wrote it. Of course, times change, and eventually he published it.

Because now anything goes. Network TV, medical shows. Police Procedurals, streaming series. Jesus. Every other scene, an autopsy where they're sawing the top off somebody's head or dragging a dead snake out of a corpse's mouth.

And do you know how many exploding heads I've seen on TV in the last few weeks? Too many to count. How do you compete with that? How does a horror writer, as somebody with words as their only weapon, tool, compete with that

by doing what they can't do on TV by getting inside your character's heads what's scarier than that monsters vampires come on a spooky nun a creepy doll well maybe that one

but the real terror resides in the endless subterranean hallways of our minds those dim hushed echoing spaces where exist those things we try to hide, those half-seen working entities, the scrabbling leeches in the shadows,

whose eyes shine infernally, and whose teeth drip with icor. That's going on the back cover of my short story collection. Everyone else has retired for the evening. I'm scrolling prompts, checking out some other options, even though I've left open the page window from last night, the random prompt generator. 54 fanciful phantasms for frightening fictions.

For fuck's sake. A newly divorced woman retreats to her late mother's farm where a haunted hay baler... A what? Oh boy. I return to the random prompt generator, pleased by its symmetry and simplicity. After this morning's dust up with Mariel, I'm even more stopped up. Once again, I resolve to do whatever the prompt commands. I click Proceed.

The screen goes through the same interminable gyrations as before, but finally yields, Walk to the school in the middle of the night. That seems a mite specific. The high school is a mere handful of blocks away, but it's not a bad idea. I could use a walk, Get some exercise, take the air, get the creative juices flowing.

Because they are starting to flow, I can feel it. I squint at the fine writing underneath. Second person, present tense. Prompt number two. You walk down the center of Norwood Court. To the right, on the south side of the street, are the two-story colonials that line the street. To the left, on the north side of the street,

is the broad, grassy sports field that borders the high school. The damp grass is silvery in the light of the gibbous moon. The cold is sharp, bracing. Scattered snowflakes drift aimlessly from the cloud-scaped sky. You hum, it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Most people have turned off their Christmas lights for the night. but a couple displays still blaze away. Even this late at night, well past the midnight hour,

you were surprised to find people still awake. Every few houses, the strobing glow of a television emanates from a living room window. Sometimes somebody can be viewed sitting in an armchair, close to the set, bathed in the glow. You deviate to the left, onto the field, toward the low-slung, tan brick two-story building where you work. Used to work would be more accurate. You're on hiatus, taking a sabbatical, a leaf of absence, to work on your writing.

And also because you snatched a student's phone and flung it against the whiteboard, shattering it into multiple pieces. You had told her several times to put her phone away. There was shock after the phone exploded, and absolute silence. The phone's owner burst into tears. She wailed from the depths of her soul, wrenching sobs like she was standing over the mangled body of her brother at the scene of a car crash. At that moment, you wanted to slap her so hard she went pinwheeling out of her seat, to knock sense into her.

some fucking perspective Heidi Jansen God damn her but of course you didn't you're a reasonable man a civilized man you sent her to the nurse and went on listing world capitals

stepping on crunching phone fragments as you worked at the board the class wrapped eventually Flo Hegador came to the door and said Miss Carson needed to see you, and she would take over your class. You're on probation, as they call it. But, as you say, you're using this time to write.

Water mists from the toes of your shoes as you cross the grounds. An overhead bulb illumines the south doorway, bugs wheeling around it. You mount the three steps and peer through the door window. The locker-lined hallway stretches into the distance, into a dense darkness beyond the light bulb's reach. The end of the hall is a wall of black. For a second, it seems that someone suddenly materializes there.

Emerging out of the black miasma, but you're just freaking yourself out. You shudder and step back down the steps. You consider taking a brick from the pile of rubble in the corner of the parking lot and hurling it through the window. But you choose not to. You walk home. I tell Dr. G. on FaceTime that the prompts are helping.

I've gotten me writing again. It's not horror, but it's something. She's pleased, but still seems a little leery. She would like to refer me to a psychiatrist, but, as I've told her a million times, I don't want drugs messing with my creative mind. Polluting the river of inspiration. Stephen King wasn't jacked up on substances when he started out.

Not when he started out. Anyway, he's sober now. I don't need drugs either. It's nighttime. My time. But the kids are all jazzed up about the Christmas concert they're in tomorrow, trying on their costumes and singing their parts in the festively appointed living room. Into the woods.

I think they're playing trees. There's got to be some way I can get out of it. A whole morning of tiny talent, three hours of screeching kitties and out-of-tune instruments. I can't wait. At least they're only doing the first act. Mariel is frazzled because she has to help with the preparations, hair, makeup, the costumes.

There isn't much I can do, but offer moral support. It's a scene straight out of Norman Rockwell, or if you could look through the window of a Thomas Kincaid painting. The festively adorned tree in the corner, artificial, but I spitzed some pine-scented air freshener around the room. Carpenter's Christmas CD playing softly on repeat, snow cascading down outside the windows.

The warm crackling fire in the fireplace on TV. We don't have a fireplace. And my loved ones. My family. All of us together in the spirit of the season. But I am desperately awaiting the time when they all go to bed so I can get back to work. I need to start, God damn it. I hover the cursor over the proceed box, unloose a long exhalation of breath and tap the mouse.

The screen flicks from white to black and back again. per usual. And then the gear spins and spins and spins and spins. It seems like it's stuck that way. And then it produces three words. Ah, yes. An admonition credited to William Faulkner, but apparently coined by some other guy nobody's ever heard of.

Kill your darlings. Third person, past tense. Prompt number three. I'm sitting here. asking myself, what have I done? What have I wrought? Never before have I written anything like that.

I don't know if it's horror, but... It's dark. I love dark. I am dark, but... God damn, the front door is wide open. BRB! Fucking place! Room is a disaster area.

strewn with construction paper, paint everywhere. My feet are covered in glitter. I stubbed my toe on something. Turned out to be a claw hammer. You should see it caked with dark red paint, glistening like a candy apple, with feathery golden strands stuck to it. What a mess.

I'm not too happy with this keyboard either. Keys are tacky. And now my hands are sticky, and my fingers keep sticking to the keys. Gabby plays at writing, mimicking her dad. Must have had paste on her fingers. Or one of the girls spilled juice on it or something. I tell myself that when I find the perpetrator,

I'll give the young lady a stern talking to. But promise not to lose my top. To be honest, I'm having second thoughts about what I wrote. Grave doubts. I think maybe I'm going to take another pass at it. It's just too grisly, too awful. It went too far. I'm going to get rid of it and try again.

Empty trash. And Sionara. Not that it was trash. By any means, it was pretty damn good for what it was, but it crossed a line. A line I told myself I wouldn't cross. So now it's gone. like King putting pet cemetery in a drawer. But mine is gone forever.

Deleted, erased. It was a sacrifice, but it's for the best. Sometimes you do have to kill your darlings. Jesus, those sirens! To wake the dead! Some peace. I want to thank you for spending some time with me tonight. It's been great getting the chance to step into this hosting role

and share a little bit more of myself with you. And of course, thank you for supporting the No Sleep podcast, for inviting us into your headphones, for sharing these stories, and for being part of what's made this show what it is over the years. You know, it's a rare thing to be part of something that lasts this long and still feels as strong as it does. So here's to that. And here's to whatever stories are still waiting out there,

just a little bit outside the edges of what we understand. My name is Mike Delgado. Thank you so much for listening. And until next time. 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 by Brandon Boone.

Our production team is Phil Michalski, 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.

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.