The NoSleep Podcast - S24 Ep16: NoSleep Podcast S24E16

Episode Date: May 17, 2026

It's Episode 16 of Season 24. Enter the dark waters of the Cape Fear River as we present tales about beastly beasts."Against the Forces of Nature" by Benjamin Kardos (Story starts around 00:10:10)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Atticus Jackson, Pop - David Cummings, Woman - Mary Murphy"The Bone Courier" by Alistair Rey (Story starts around 00:24:45)Produced by Jeff ClementCast: Narrator - James Cleveland, Courier - Andy Cresswell"More than a Lamb for Súile Buí" by C. W. Stevenson (Story starts around 00:39:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Jesse CornettCast: Narrator - David Ault, Maeve - Erika Sanderson, Mary Kate - Mary Murphy, John - Conor Larkin, Charley - Jake Benson, Collom - Graham Rowat"Moonlight over Vietnam" by Jackson Arthur (Story starts around 01:23:50)Produced by Phil MichalskiCast: Mathew - Mike DelGaudio, Roger - Jesse Cornett"Beyond the Valley" by Ivan X Cruz (Story starts around 02:20:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Claudius MooreCast: Narrator - Kyle Akers, Ma - Nikolle Doolin, Pa - Peter Lewis, Creature - Peter LewisThis episode is sponsored by:Home Chef - Home Chef's meal kits are rated #1 in quality, convenience, value, taste, and recipe ease. Head to homechef.com/nosleep to get 50% off and free shipping for your first box plus free dessert for life!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: Erin LillisCheck 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 Jackson Arthur Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"More than a Lamb for Súile Buí" illustration courtesy of MiggeaThe 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. I'm sorry about that. I hope your volume wasn't too high. Hello there.

Oh, welcome to the No Sleep podcast. I'm Aaron Lillis. I've just emerged from the Cape Fear River Waters to take a stab at hosting an episode myself. Okay. So counts on fingers. If I got my numbers correct, this is season 24, episode 16. So... Sorry, it was pond weed.

Anyway, that was gross. Okay. So who am I? Anyway, I think I mentioned it already. I'm Aaron. I've been voice acting on the No Sleep podcast since way back in season nine. In episode nine, actually,

so if numerology is your thing, you can tell me if that has any significance. So I'm not one of the OG vocal gangsters, but I've been here a while. My first story was The Secrets Inside Dune by Jared Roberts, who I'm a fan of Love of MindFug story, and Jared's one of the masters.

And my very first story narration for the show was in the very next episode, Little White Lies in a Little Black Dress by Man in Lysette. And that actually brings me to something I wanted to mention. Okay, so you'll see how this connects in a second. So I have a degree in film, and I have a second degree in interactive development, and now I work in theme parks. And so what are all those things having common is that I really love a good behind-the-scenes reveal. How does the magic get made? So I hope David doesn't mind me sharing a little of the secret that's in the sauce here during my turn at the wheel. But I actually got to meet Manon in person once.

That was the connecting thread from back before. I wanted you to know that this is a rarity, because many of you probably think that all of us involved in the show probably know each other. Let me give you that peek behind the dank, moldy, no sleep curtain here. We actually don't. We mostly all worked separately and have never even interacted, even though the producers do an amazing job. of making it sound like we're in the same place, and the actors do an excellent job of talking to no one and making it sound believably like a real conversation.

Now, I have been lucky enough to meet a handful of the voice actors and contributors in real life via the past No Sleep podcast tours and virtually via some of the online spaces, but for the most part, we are coworkers who have never been in the same place at the same time. The No Sleep podcast team is huge, And that's not even including the illustrators who do the art for each episode, the producers behind the scenes, some of them who are also voice actors, and the social media team and the editorial folks, is seriously impressive. Then you start including the authors of the stories without which we would really have no podcast, and it really is a whole sleepless universe. Which, by the way, we would really appreciate if you join.

If you subscribe to that sleepless universe, you're going to get like 60 to 70% more. more content, and you'll be helping fund the ongoing A-plus quality of this show. Now that 60 to 70% was not an accurate calculation. I did not actually do the math. I am not a math major. Please don't hold me to that. It's just a lot more. So back to what I was saying, if most of us have never met in real life and we don't record

together, how do we do it? So I can't speak for everyone else, but for me, at this point, I've listened to the show for so long that I have everybody's voice and vocal mannerisms. Store to the old Noggin, Tapp's head. So what I do is once I get my story assignment and it says the names of the other voice actors, I imagine how they'll read their lines. Sometimes I'm right. Sometimes I'm not.

And I can also imagine how the producer might be adding sound effects for the scene because each one of them has their own style too. So for fun, pay attention to those details and you're going to start to pick up on them too. Added bonus. Okay, so that was all a tangent. And that's my number one talent, by the way, tangents, because I've got the old ADHD. And what was I supposed to tell you next?

Okay, I did the hello part. I told you when I started here. Oh, right. What got me into horror? Okay, so, well, my gateway drug was the paranormal. So ever since my mom convinced me that she was the world's tallest leprechaun, by the way she wasn't even Irish, just like really into the Irish,

which is why I have these Irish names. So I just have fully accepted that there was magic and weirdness in the world since I was a child. And I'd peruse the old. old time-life collections on mysteries of the world, UFOs, scare myself silly watching unsolved mysteries, and then later the X-Files. And as I got older, I started seeking out the ghost tours of the world. And then later, I even worked on some documentaries about ghost hunters that led to some

really out-there experiences. Still very fond of ghosts. Actually, after hearing this, if weird things start to happen to you, well, let's just say that's my little gift to you. Okay, not saying I'm a witch, but it sort of just happens. All right, how did I get into voice acting? That was a bullet point on this guy. Okay, that definitely also had to do with that old ADHD

and just absorbing accents and being wacky and doing voices until finally I went home for my old job one day and I just bought a microphone on the way home. And I'd already studied filmmaking and sound design, so I knew a bit about audio stuff, and I thought, why not make my own podcast? And I did. That's still searchable out there.

It's called Subversity Transmit and it's only a few episodes. But it taught me a lot. One of the things it taught me is that I prefer voice acting as a part of a team as opposed to producing my own show. Though I did make that little unofficial no-sleep spinoff for kids, the No Nap podcast back during the pandemic. Also still searchable if you missed that cuteness. I produced the first season and I helped out on the second.

Okay, so rewinded that one day when this girl I knew from work, shout out to Nancy, was like, hey, you should try narrating horror. and she told me about the No Sleep podcast. I decided to send David an email with some sort of cobbled together demo, and he, to my surprise, reply that there was actually space for a voice type like mine. And so that's my truncated story as to how I got suckered in and meeting him by the docs. He administered some sort of serum and I ended up as a VA on this show. But now you can also hear me in a handful of horror video games, indie games,

and your local HR videos telling you how to use your proper protective equipment. One of my favorite parts of working on this show has been all of the characters I've been able to play. All the lives I've gotten to live and all of the horrors I've been able to immerse myself in. I started to make a list of all my favorite stories that I've been in, my favorite no-sleep authors, and others that I've just loved. It just got too long. So all of you horror writers, you're all my favorites from the MindFox I mentioned before, to the gore, which I love, to the supernatural, paranormal, and cosmological. the monsters, myths, and folklore, and especially the campy, I love it all.

And I'd also like to take a moment to just say that I'm one of the proud No Sleep LGBTQIA-plus members, and I am so thankful for how this show has taken a stand to support us publicly. So just quick close to my number one voice acting supporters, my mom, my girlfriend Morgan, our pet boys, Mulder and Roswell, and my weekly number one fans, Lauren and Anthony. And now it's time to get to the meat of this episode. On the show this week, we have a quintuple creature feature. Five stories of people up against monstrous challenges. Some choose dangerous deals, and some have their destinies chosen for them against their will.

Spoiler alert, every tale ends with a saciated beast. Okay, I was kind of hoping one of my stories would be. about dentists, just so I could say, braces yourself. But I got predators. Now, I've got a variety of inner tubes here, so you can take your pick. I've got, let's see, I got a unicorn, dragon,

there's a turtle, purple, and a bunch more. So pick your tube, and let's hop back into this viscous, lazy river that empties back out into the dark waters of Cape Fear. In our first tale, we meet Father and Scare, son ranchers faced with an ongoing threat to their livelihoods. In this account by Benjamin Cardos, an unknown predator's been murdering their livestock, and however dangerous it may be, they now need to keep a vigilant watch and prepare to take down this creature.

Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson, David Cummings, and Mary Murphy, and it's produced by Phil Mikulski. So be prepared to hear how this duo works against the story. The forces of nature. The front doors slammed shut. My father stormed into the house. His face set for war. Get your boots on, son.

What's going on, Pop? I jumped from my chair in front of the TV and rushed to the closet to do as he ordered. Pop was never one to give frivolous commands. If he told you to do something, you could take it to the bank. He wouldn't tolerate any questions. I pulled my leather boots over my feet

as Pop loaded his shotgun, violently snapping the barrel shut. A predator of some kind got into the barn, killed some of the livestock. Grab the rifle, too. We're under attack tonight. I seized the rifle from the gun rack and followed Pop out into the warm summer night. The full moon casts long shadows behind the barn and grain silo in the field as we marched forward, like two soldiers set now to protect our country. I was checking the water level in the well When I heard the livestock bellowing in the barn

I ran over and got in there just in time To see a creature disappear through an open and high in the wall Whatever it was It killed several Good thing I was outside or we might have lost more He strode towards the barn with solid confidence Shotgun tucked in his arm Protecting the farm from predators was nothing new to him

just another night for a full-time farmer. I struggled to keep up with him, my 10-year-old legs stumbling through the tall grass. Pop considered all predators as enemies. Wolves, bears, mountain lions, they were all opponents in what he called our war against the forces of nature. We got to fight for our place at the top of the food chain, he was fond of saying.

It's the war we fight, and we'll continue fighting for as long as, we live. Nature is competition. Forget this simple truth and you won't last long in this world. He threw the barn door open and flipped the light switch on the wall. In the dim, flickering glow of the swinging light bulb, we saw the stiff bodies of four of our best heifer spayed out on the hay-covered floor. The rest of the livestock was huddled against the far wall. Their eyes huge with fear as they gawked at their deceased companions. With just one look at the same, they gawked at their deceased companions, With just one look at the dead, it was obvious whatever did this was not a wolf, bear, or mountain lion.

The bodies were almost completely untouched except for a large, ugly gash in their throats. Whatever attacked them had latched onto their necks and didn't let go until they were dead. Pop knelt down by the nearest of the bodies. Look at this. I knelt down beside him as he held up the heifer's head, shown me the deep wound. I noticed immediately how little blood there was not only on the heifer's neck, but on the floor surrounding her body. She had the blood sucked right from her throat. What kind of animal would do that?

I felt his sickness sink into my guts as I gazed down at the nasty laceration. Pop shook his head. Whatever it is, we don't want it around here. Turning toward the back wall, he pointed at a hole near the ceiling through which a shaft of moonlight being. in. It escaped through there. I didn't get a chance to get a good look at it before it got away, but it crawled right up the wall like a damned cat. The very image made me shiver. How did it make that hole? Come around back. Pop led me around to the back of the barn where a pile of boards were splayed about the grass. It pried the boards right out of the wall. Whatever it is, it has to be strong as

hell to do that. I looked up at my father and saw the fire in his eyes. It was him against the forces of nature, farmer versus predator, and the competition needed to be eliminated at any cost. Over the following days, I helped Pop reinforce the barn walls with extra screws and metal paneling. We also set traps and hunted the property for any signs of the mysterious animal. We uncovered nothing. No tracks, no fur, no excrement.

Whatever the creature was, it was adept at staying hidden. Pop was undeterred. In his battle against the forces of nature, there was no length he wouldn't go to protect his livestock, his property. The livestock was our food source, our income, our identity in this world. He wouldn't tolerate anything taking that away from him. A few nights later, two more heifers were killed in the same manner as the first four. The creature had managed to break past our reinforced walls, peeling back the metal paneling.

We'd spent days installing. The metal was covered in deep claw marks where the creature had pried it loose. Pop was outrate. I'm coming for you. He screamed toward the sky, the heifer's bodies at his feet. Nobody kills my livestock. It's you versus me. From that night on,

he spent every waking moment hunting the forests around the farm. The nights were spent guarding the barn with a shotgun. Killing the predator became his sole obsession. His eyes were constantly dark with fatigue. He rarely ate. I found myself beginning to worry about his health. I was in the house reading when a shotgun

gun blast at 2 a.m. echoed across the field. I rushed out to the barn to investigate, my heart pounding with wild anticipation. Our livestock was once again crowded against the far wall, as far away as possible from the body of the creature that had been picking them off one by one. Victoriously, Pop stood over the strange and ugly animal. It looked like an emaciated coyote with long curved claws. Its eyes were large and bug-like. Spikes like a porcupine's quills grew from its back, and its long snout was full of nasty fangs.

For several seconds, a stared speechless at the odd animal. What is it? It's called a chupacabra, son. Oh, what? It's a creature of Latin American mythology. It's known for succor. in the blood of farm animals. Countless animal killings

have been blamed on the Chupacabra. Sightings are damned rare. Basically, it's a big, stupid vampire dog. Good riddance. Pop spit on the Chupacabra's shotgun-blasted corpse. A big stupid vampire dog. I grinned. Pop said some funny things sometimes.

Never thought. I'd see one of these bastards in my lifetime. Pop kicked the body with his foot. So what do we do with it? Pop thought for a moment. Well, we're gonna bury the body, boil the skull, and then put it up on one of the fence posts as a warning to any others that try to invade our farm.

This is war, son. It's us against the forces of nature. Pop smiled and patted my shoulder. Very good. Well, then, now that the enemy has been vanquished, what do you say we celebrate our victory? Yeah. How should we celebrate?

Pop rubbed his stomach. Oh, I don't know about you, but I'm famished. What do you say you choose dinner tonight? Anything you want. I jumped up and down excitedly. My mouth watering. I looked over at our livestock still huddle in the corner. I eyed one particular tasty-looking heifer.

As if knowing what I was thinking, she cowered down behind the others, trying desperately to hide. I pointed my finger. That one! The blonde and the blue t-shirt! Pop bobbed his head in agreement. Good choice. Nice and plump.

Together we slowly advanced on the heifer. The other's parted in fear, leaving her exposed and trembling against the wall. Please, no, pick someone else. I opened my mouth, allowing my fangs to slide out of my gums. Pop did the same. The heifer cried for mercy as we closed in. Please don't kill me!

She repeated it over and over, as if she didn't understand the reason Pop had kidnapped her and brought her to our farm in the first place. As we drew closer, she tried to pull away, the heavy chains around her wrists only allowed her to move so far. Her eyes closed as she slid to the floor, defeated. We lunged. I sunk my fangs into her neck.

Pop chomped into her arm. She screamed as we feasted. Her body twitched as the hot blood spurred into my mouth. mouth, coating my tongue and throat in the rich, coppery goodness. Her struggles weakened as we drained her of every last drop when dinner was over. We rose up, wiped our mouths, and stepped away from the heifer's body. Pop glanced at the others, watching us from various corners of the barn, as far away from us as their chains would allow.

He pointed at the corpse. Immediately they fell upon her. Their chains clanging and tangling together as they dug their fingers into her bloodless flesh, ripping the skin and lifting large chunks of meat and organs to their mouths. We watched for a moment as the livestock ate. They grunted and pushed against each other

like pigs at the trough. Pop and I rarely. fairly fed the livestock. More often than not, we simply allowed them to finish the scraps from our dinner. Half-starved and crazed, our herd had no problem eating their own dead. And that night, they were very hungry. We went back to the house, locking the barn door behind us. Pop carried the carcass of the chupacabra over his powerful shoulder. Yep, son, we gotta stay vigilant against the competition. It's our against the forces of nature.

And in this world, there's only room for one type of vampire. And that's us. I felt wonderful. The enemy was vanquished, and my belly was full of hot blood. Pop-beamed. You got that right, my boy. 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.

The nosleeppodcast.com. Let's be honest, if you're looking for a meal involving human blood, I can't help you. But when you're starving, hungry, and panicking about what to eat, do what I do, and turn to Home Chef. Home Chef is literally the only reason I now have meals that are actually balanced and delicious. Plus, I'm saving money by not always grabbing takeout. It's perfect for busy schedules, whether you need a 30-minute meal, an oven-ready tray, or even a quick microwave lunch. Home Chef has you covered.

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must be an active subscriber to receive free dessert. Now let's plunge back into the deep waters of horror. Oh man, I know some of you bemoan some of the horror basics, but man, do I love a vampire twist? A cryptid bloodsucker versus a supernatural bloodsucker? Come on. Okay, I actually just went down a small rabbit hole to see if a vampire could also be considered a cryptid?

Apparently not, though I'd argue in favor of it. But I'll know our next story. We're about to meet a guy that's been given a strange gift that he doesn't know what to do with. So he does what I'd do. He puts it on a shelf in case his friend comes over and says, hey, what'd you do with that gift I got you? Then, in this tale by Alistair Ray,

he starts getting what he thinks are misdelivered packages from a shady career. Are the strange gift and the weird packages related? You'll find out when James Cleveland and Andy Cresswell perform this story that Jeff Clement produces. I don't know, if I were the narrator, I might protest a little more to The Bone Courier. Nemo was the one who gave me the thing. He had just returned from one of his hunting trips to Dorchester, a trip which I had by nature declined. I've never had what might be called a killer instinct.

The idea of hunting, let alone killing an animal for sport, has never appealed to me. Nemo removed the bundle wrapped in brown paper from his rucksack and quietly placed it on the table. I remained silent as he slowly peeled away the paper-like strips of dead skin to reveal a deer's skull. I stared at the object. The skull appeared dry and brittle. Hardly a fresh kill, I remember thinking. But it was the horns that attracted my attention. They were long and slender, tapering into fine razor-sharp points.

It didn't resemble a forest deer, so much as an African gazelle. Nemo wrapped his knuckles on the dome of the skull. It was for me, he said. A gift. Looking back, I'm not certain whether Nemo was taunting me or whether he simply had no other use for the thing. But by the end of the night, one thing was clear. I was now the proud owner of this hideous trophy.

Not that I thought much about it over the next week. I set the skull on a shelf in my study, and there it remained, out of place among the books and little statuettes covering dust. I might have forgotten about it altogether. Had it not been for... It was Thursday when I heard the knock at my front door. I answered it to find a man standing on my doorstep cradling a small box in his arms. There was nothing remarkable about the man.

He was dressed in plain clothes, a workman's cap drawn low over one side of his head. But I couldn't help thinking there was something distinct in the way his eyes fixed upon me. Like, he somehow knew me. He held out the package. Delivery! I took the small box. box wrapped in brown paper and looked at the label. My address was printed in the corner, but the name scribbled above it read Christopher Mule.

I explained to the courier that I didn't know the recipient, and to my knowledge, nobody by that name had ever lived at this address. The courier only shook his head and flashed a cold smile. No, that's the address. What was I to do? I received the package and placed it on the table in my study. There it remained, unopened, as if waiting for one Christopher Mule to claim it. It was only two days later I heard the knock at my door again. I opened it to find the same man on my doorstep.

As before, he held a package wrapped in brown paper between his thin hands. Delivery! This time I protested, assuring him he had the wrong house, although I could clearly see the address scribbled on the label just under the name Christopher Mule. The courier only shook his... head and held out the box. I'm still not sure why I extended my hands to receive the gift, and that is exactly how I thought of it now as a gift, but I did. I took it, willingly, almost without thinking. Not knowing what to do, I took it to my study and placed it beside

the other box. I figured if there was a Christopher Mule, he would eventually find out that his belongings were being sent to the wrong address. I was a question. I was. keeping them safe, I told myself. I was being a good neighbour. It was odd, but I remember gazing at the deer skull on my shelf, its vacant eyes staring down at me, perhaps even judging me. What had Nemo given me, I wondered. I'd like to say it ended there, but it didn't. The boxes continued to come, not regularly, but they did come, won the following week, the next a few days later, and always the same man with the cold smile and watery eyes. They got to the point where we dispensed with the formalities. Delivery, he would say, and I would hold out my hands ready to

receive Christopher Mule's parcel. By the end of the month, six boxes lay arranged on my table, all roughly the same size and all wrapped in the same brown paper. I was amassing a collection. But what was I collecting? It was a Thursday night, and then, there had been some snow flurries earlier in the evening. It's funny what you remember, those little insignificant details, the things that add texture without context. I had fallen asleep in my bedroom. I thought it was the wind rattling the window frame that woke me

a slight grating noise like the sound of something rough and dry, rubbing together. But as I ripped myself from sleep, I realized that the noise wasn't coming from the window. It was coming from downstairs. I got up and stepped into the hall, listening. Something was moving on the floor below. A dragging sound up rustling.

As I descended the stairs, I realized something was different. There was a strange luminosity to the air, almost like an afterglow, a visible kind of darkness permeating the rooms. And that was when I noticed it, a slight noise, rising out of the darkness growing louder with each step I took. A rhythmic sound drawing me forward.

A sound so familiar I almost couldn't place it. It was the measured beating of a heart. I didn't know what to think, whether I was dreaming or about to have a heart attack. But no, the sound was coming from the study. I stepped through the doorway. The beating grew loud. enveloping the air. I almost didn't want to reach for the desk lamp because I knew.

Instinctively, I knew that it was the darkness keeping me safe, concealing me. But I did it anyway. The boxes lay there on my desks, their brown paper stained with blood. Bloods that seemed to be seeping through the cardboard, running out in rivulets and pooling on the floor. I had to be dreaming. But I saw it. The boxes, they were throbbing, palpitating each rhythmic beat emitting a stream of fresh blood.

I stretched out my hand, wondering what it would be like to touch one of them. When I heard that rustling noise again, something was there in the dark with me, dragging itself across the floor. I could smell the earthy scent of the forehead. forest. And looking up, I saw its shape stenciled against a night. Punched back, the deformed body and the two slender horns rising into the air. I knew that behind that thin veil of darkness, those two cavernous eyes were staring at me, fixing on me with predatory intent. I wanted to scream, to run. Something kept me rooted there as the thing moved closer.

And I could hear it. That throbbing in my ears as the thing raised its hand and extended its fingers, coiling them around my upturned face until everything went dark, and there was only the muffled sound of a beating heart in the stillness. I know what you're thinking. I thought it myself. But no. In the morning, the boxes were still there on my desk.

The brown paper torn open and crusted in treasped. dried blood. And as to the contents, there was nothing. Only pools of cooling blood and traces of viscera, a rancid stench in the air, a stench like meat, like an abattoir. On the floor, in a puddle of drying gore lay the skull staring up at me vacantly. In the morning light, it looked almost at peace. I picked it up and stared into its hollow sockets. I like to think my story ends there, with me and my gift locked in an almost hamlet-like pose of doubt.

Certainly life resumed its normal course. There were no further knocks at the door, no more unannounced visitors, no more packages. But unlike a story, which does have an end, an experience never has that comforting sense of resolution. It is relived over and over, whether as a fond memory or as trauma. It persists, it changes. It assumes a life of its own.

I would feel remiss if I didn't mention the dreams. I can't be certain when they began. They feel like they were always there. An unconscious part of me awaiting me in sleep. In my dreams I see branches and leaves. smell the earthy scent of the forest. And I can see it, standing among the dark foliage, the hunched back in tapering horns webbed in shadow.

It looks more human now. The skeletal frame dotted with blossoming organs, a familiar face with watery eyes and a smile, a workman's cap clutched in its claw-like hand. Who are you? I always want to ask. But there's no need. because I know what the reply will be.

Christopher Mule, it will say. The horror keeps flowing after a word from the folks who make all this free content possible. People are skeptical these days. Do products advertised on podcasts really work? Do the hosts actually use them in their daily routine? Well, if you're talking about me and Mars Men, the answer to both questions is a resounding, Yes. I recently renewed my subscription with Mars Men because I'm seeing results with it. I'm trying to lose fat and build muscle. And at my age, I'm looking for help that is natural and effective. As men get older, our bodies reprogram themselves. We naturally start storing more fat and losing muscle faster. That's why I started taking Mars Men. You see, Mars Men is a natural supplement designed to support healthy testosterone levels, which can help your body burn fat more efficiently.

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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. Weird. Just got a food delivery for a sea mule. It's tacos, so obviously I'm going to eat it. I mean, they just go bad otherwise. If I end up disappearing and suddenly replaced, someone must have known sour cream is my favorite food. My money's on Sarah Thomas or Graham Road, because they're in like every podcast. Actually, they may even be the same person. And anyway, how y'all doing bobbing along in the slick, sludgy water with me? Any fish or other things nipping at your toes? Okay, let's carry on. Now next up, and I'm going to do this one in my attempt to an Irish accent,

we have some lord about a family that's maintaining an old druidic pact with a creature on our land in exchange for safety and security. In this story by C.W. Stevenson, the Donahurs are sick, emphasis on sick, and tired of making sacrifices. But the creature they're in this deal with has become a little finicky as of late. This story is produced by Jesse Cornett,

and David Alt, Erica Sanderson, Mary Murphy, Conorlarkin, Jake Benson, and that Bram Rowett, the whole lot of them are spinning this yarn. And I guess if I placed a takeaway order for this Tales Monster, it'd probably be more than a lamb for Sue LaBui. Maeve O'Cleary walked through the tall grass, heading toward the thicket. Behind her, the farmhouse her great-great-grandfather had built with his own two hands soon became little more than a speck. Under one arm, the package was becoming awkward to carry.

After all, she was not a large woman, and her sons were of no use at the moment. One attended university in Dublin, John, he would be coming home soon. The eldest, Michael, she hadn't spoken to in over a decade. Supposedly, he still worked at the local dairy outside of Bally Dows. The lad hadn't the stomach for what must be done. He'd gotten away, although abandoned them would be the more appropriate term. Normally it would have been her husband, Sean, performing the task, but he was long past. And so, the task had fallen to her, brother Charlie, or her daughter.

But Mary Kate hadn't the courage. Not yet. One day she must. The task must always fall to a Danaha, her father's surname, or that with the Danaha blood. Overhead, dark clouds drew near coming from the west. It had been raining all across Northern Ireland. Their 400 acres had been no exception. Directly in the path of the storm to come, she knew she would have to deliver the package early.

Its recipient would not mind. She continued on her way getting closer. Not far off, she heard the baying of the herd behind a series of green rolling hills, marking the southern border of the property. She'd opened the doors to the sheep barn beside the house, that morning. It'd keep some of them dry, but the barn would not fit them all. Maeve nearly tripped over something loose and oblong beneath her feet.

Regaining her posture, she peered down. Bones. So that's where you went to? Awful luck lass. The sheep's skull stared up at her, the rest of its decomposing body carrying a rotten stench that caused Mave to move quickly over the killing ground, careful not to step on any more pieces of bone. Entering the thicket, the world darkened, more so than usual as grey clouds drifted overhead, darker clouds biting their heels.

She stopped, producing a flashlight from her jacket pocket. Mave stepped softer now, heading toward where the thicket met a great wall of rock. Always best to step quietly. Best not to disturb. Vest not to let it know you were there. She stopped before a boulder with a flat top. Red Rock, the altar.

Dark red stained the centre, many generations of Danahas having made it so. Many generations of Danahas would continue to see it stained further. God willing. Setting the package on the rock, Mayve placed the flashlight. between her teeth and aimed it at the butcher paper. Taking the bone-handled knife of her ancestors,

she cut the string, placed the knife aside, and opened the package. The meat was fresh, taken from one of their healthiest lambs just the other day. The incoming storm's breeze caused the odor of the fresh meat to hit her square in the face, earthy, the presence of lanolin clearly evident as she could all but taste its fragrance.

She tossed the ribs, a shoulder, and a half-leg joint to the centre of the rock. Come and get it. A joke for her mind only. She'd no wish for it to come out, not here, not ever. But it was a necessity that it fed on what was offered. Their very lives depended on it, as did their livelihood, their home, their health. Such was the Danahar's way. Such as it had been.

for centuries, if not longer. They'd always been here, safeguarding their darkest secret. No outsiders were welcome on the property. Only their kin, only those with the blood. Danaha blood. Only those who knew. Sean hadn't the blood, and look where that got him. There'd been only clothes to bury.

The mouth of the cave beyond. Red Rock gaped back at her, it's more black inviting her in. She could see nothing beyond the entrance littered with bones. Bones. Bones. Bones everywhere. Lord, it was a filthy place. Wiping her hands on the soft grass at her feet, she stood back up and folded the butcher paper neatly before sticking it into her jacket pocket. Placing the knife back into its sheath of human skin, she held it and the flashlight in one hand. She was just about to turn and leave when curiosity got the better of her.

Besides the missing sheep, it had been some time since anyone in the family had caught a glimpse. Anyhow, a fox could easily have stumbled upon a lost sheep if it had been sick and expired in the tall grass. Unlikely. Either way, Maeve had convinced her. of what she should not do. Taking a moment to build her courage, she swiftly held up her arm and aimed the flashlight toward the mouth of the cave.

It went deep. There were twists here and there as one went further down into the darkness, but the light did not reach far. She stared, eyes wide, trying to catch any movement. Nothing. Only the breeze, gaining strength. Smiling, she closed her eyes and shook her head.

Silly woman. Her late husband's words, any time she overthought a thing. Silly, silly, silly woman. Sean had a way of making the bad thoughts go away with just that phrase. Or perhaps it was how he took her in his arms after, where she could melt her worries and sorrows away in a loving instant. When she opened her eyes, the meat was still in front of her. And when she looked toward the cave, there was.

nothing but she took a step back as its yellow eyes gazed back at her from the darkness. Quickly, she shone the light back down at her feet. It's seen her. Calmly, she turned and walked in the opposite direction, just as she'd been taught when it took notice of you. She said a prayer to God for wings to sprout from her back so that she may fly back home but to no avail. She moved faster, feeling eyes at her back even once she'd left the thicket. crunching of grass behind her, clumsy, as if it were daring that she look its way. Or perhaps she was only imagining it followed her. Regardless of whether she envisioned it there or not, Maeve did not oblige. She hummed, Be thou my vision, until she reached the giant farmhouse,

making it to the front porch she finally turned. Across the field, the thicket sat, looking back at She stood still waiting to catch a glimpse, only heading inside when it began to rain. It hated the rain. Hanging her jacket on the coat rack, she set the flashlight on the kitchen counter and the knife on the glass case above the fiery half. Carved into the bone handle, the creature extended its claws out toward a man, one of her ancestors, who extended a dead lamb in return. Feeling dreadful.

Mary Kate looked it. She was paler than her fair skin usually appeared. A fever? Maeve smiled, took a wet cloth and dabbed it at Mary Kate's brow. There, there, dearie. Just lay back now. That's it. It's time to ask him for strength and to rest.

Together, mother and daughter prayed. They prayed for Mary Kate's sudden illness to vanish. They prayed for John's safe return. Quietly, they prayed that the creature might be satisfied with their offering so that it might leave them in peace another week. Could Suleabwe be gone? Maeve blinked at its old Gaelic name, Yellow Eyes. She did not bother telling her daughter she'd seen it. No, my dear, it will never be gone. Some Danaher's have lived their entire lives without a siding. Others.

She thought of herself, of Sean and their sons. Others may witness it many times and go on about their business. But we do not provoke it. We give sacrifice. In return, we are given our lives. Relatively comfortable ones at that. What packed her druid... Ancestors had made was lost in the annals of time, leaving only instructions passed down from

generation to generation by tongue alone. Sacrifice meat once per week. Leave it on red rock. If it grows tired of lamb, sacrifice a cow. If it has no taste for beaves, provide honeycomb and precious things like gold and silver. When it has want of something you do not possess, offer a human life. Easier sad than done. Sean had failed this. Try though he did, Sean had been unable to offer a stranger,

a drunk, a nobody, any number of undesirables they knew of in Ballydows that Mave would have had him choose. But in the end, after having sobbed in the barn for many hours, he removed his clothes in the dead of winter, strode to Red Rock, and offered himself.

self-sacrifice was always the most worthy of offerings to be had. Maeve still had not forgiven him. Never will. Do these things and you will live a long, prosperous life, as will your kin. But it did not stave off self-destruction. For years, a decade at least, the creature had grown quiet, in a deep slumber, so they guessed, as it had been noted to have done in the past. But like a thorn thought long dislodged, it had returned.

Sean had not been of Danaher blood, although it must have known that his offspring and his mate were Danahas, the creature had returned far sooner than anticipated. The thing Mave was beginning to realize was that Sula Bui was greedy. A knock at the door. Mave and Mary Kate looked at one another. The door opened. Another knock and the door gently shut.

Mommy? Mary? Maeve breathed a sigh of relief. Then she rushed downstairs and took John into her arms. Son! She beamed up at him. Welcome home. You gave us quite the fret. Your sister isn't doing very well, you know.

How's the train home? Are you hungry? I was fixing to... Man. The porch. She then spotted something red on his hands. What's this? Are you heard?

Man. The porch. He glanced down at his hands, then back up at her. It's not mine. Maeve shook her head, sporting a whimsical grin, confused at what the lad was getting at. Oh, the porch, the porch. What of it? Look.

There was no jest on the grim face that stared back at her. Opening the door to see for herself, she first took note of the rain falling heavier, soaking the fields, hills and woods making up the Dunahubot. The storm had come, but it wasn't as bad as she'd thought. To her left, the porch swing, swung to and fro in the wind. she was about to turn to John and shrug her shoulders when she saw it. There, at the bottom steps of the porch, red pieces of meat sat in a pireland. It doesn't want land.

Maeve waved a hand at Mr Flannery as John backed the vehicle away with a cooler full of beef sitting in the back of the truck bed. And not just any beef, but one of the old farmer's prized cows. All of Bally Dows would be hearing. the Danahas had paid a hefty penny in short notice for its slaughter. To draw that sort of attention was dangerous for them. The Danahas had erected clumps of trees around the several stone circles found throughout their property not just decades, but centuries before.

Mave beamed with pride at her ancestors' outward look to the future for the protection of generations to come. Camouflaged from drones and hidden from the... surrounding eyes of drivers on the roads bordering the land, their secrets had remained. But that didn't stop the townsfolk from wondering about the mysterious Danahas. No birthday parties for the children on the property growing up. Only well-behaved friends had been allowed to play at their home and only inside. No parties or extravagantly loud merry-making of any kind were to be tolerated.

No. Not for the Danahas. Not with Sula Bui lurking about the hills at night and when they weren't looking. Pulling onto the road, Mave gave a short nod and smiled at Mr Flannery. The old man did nothing to acknowledge her. He just stared as they left. Fooled bastard. John glanced over, his mouth agape for a moment before turning upward in a wry grin.

The lad wasn't accustomed to his mother cursing. What's got you railed up? Old yellow ice lost the taste for mutton before. If that's what's got you out of sorts, all will be well. I just wish the others would leave us be. Who is it that's bothering you? You saw Mr. Plannery,

the looks he gave us, the suspicions, he doesn't trust us. He didn't trust your da and he didn't trust me, and he sure as shite doesn't trust you or I. John laughed, his boisterous outburst causing even Mave to light up a wee bit.

We do what we must to survive. It might as well have been the Danaher family motto. We must do what we must to survive. Except surviving meant blood sacrifice and lying to one's neighbour for the sake of comfortable lives. They were wealthy, it was no secret. Their children had wanted for nothing just like she and Charlie. Generation after generation could live lives

where one would not have to guess where their next meal would come from. With their wealth, the Danahas had given much to the folk of Bally Dau's, which was perhaps the sole reason why the people hadn't come with their torches and pitchforks to uncover the secrets of the ancient Danaha land. Donations were made anonymously to the church, to the school, to the poor, but they all knew something was amiss with the Danaz. As Mave looked out the window, she took in the beauty of her country, the hills and hedgerows blooming with the golden glow of gorse and firs bushes.

Where yellow did not catch the eye, it was green, such lush greenery for as far as the eye could see. Suddenly, John slammed the brakes on the truck, causing the cooler to slam against the back of the truck bed. He'd drunk on the road again. He honked his horn at the man dragging his feet in front of them. Mave didn't have to guess whom John was referring to. Out of the way, Cullen!

John honked again when his shout was ignored. This time, the inebriated fellow turned to the side of the road. Collum O'Brien tipped his hat and raised a tiny flask as John and Mave passed him by. Poor man. I don't hear you pitying Uncle Charlie like that when he's properly blustered. Big difference, lad. He's my brother. And Adana heard that. It's my job to lambast him if he's acting a scuddered fool. If you say so, Mammy.

They passed the exit to Bally Dow's where she'd gone to school, where she'd met Sean at the docks as alas. The church was there too, but it felt less and less like home when the evil plaguing their land became greedy. Tired of secrets, tired of the lies, tired of not having a confidant other than her children and of her drunk of an elder brother Charlie. But she had the Lord, and in him she trusted.

But even he had been silent as of late. Charlie was waiting for them on the front porch when they returned, a glass of whiskey in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Dipping the cigarette butt into what little alcohol remained at the bottom of the glass. He set the whiskey glass down on the bloody stain where yesterday's sacrifice had been left and helped John remove the cooler from the back of the truck.

Man Flannery, give you hell. Oh, it looks. Always the same from him. From everyone. Hmm. Right up. Charlie turned to his nephew. We best get this out to the rock, eh, lad?

Wait Have you been up to see Mary Kate? I'm sweating the Seasworth Bale as a ghost Then he vomited a portion of the alcohol He'd drunk since she'd last seen him three days before Off on another binge Miraculously Charlie held on to his side of the cooler

Keeping it from completely spilling out onto the ground Instead the lid only came open a crack, allowing some of the melted, bloody ice water to leak out a mite. Once Charlie had regained his composure, Mave stomped toward her brother and wagged a finger in his face. I've told you, Charlie Danaher. You're not to be a drunken mess around the children. You're not to... I'm not a child. You're my child boy. And I've not finished speaking. She glowered hard at the overweight man Charlie Danaher had transformed into since his best mate's demise.

No longer was he the brick-built fellow, all the women of Ballydow's swooned after, but a depressed, foul-mouthed louse, only good for menial tasks around the property and tending the flock. He'd even taken to sleeping in the shed out back. There he could drown in his sorrows all he pleased. She's sick, Charlie. Mary Kate, you're only nice, sick because of that feck and bastard. She pointed in the direction of the thicket, the cave. It's a greedy soot.

You'll not be around her in such a state. Sulibwe is not understanding. If it does not get what it requires, it will kill her. It will kill Mary Kate, then it will take the rest of us. Charlie Dannahurst stood up straight, pushing out his chest. Your husband was my best mate, and your children were the closest I'll ever have of my own. But don't you go lecturing me of its needs and what it'll do? Don't forget, sister, don't forget who brought its sustenance when our da passed for decades.

Me and your man handled things. Only in recent times do you make sacrifice. Maeve's icy stare remained unwavering. Hey, only now, because my brother is only half the man he once was. Our father and my husband thought me too soft for the task. But I've blooded my hands while you've been off to the pub or hiding away in the shed with a bottle. I'm sure my Sean would be so bloody proud of the man his best mate has become.

Man, I think Uncle Charlie gets the point. No more drinking around Mary Kate. She'd had good reason for the outburst, but looking at the depressing state her brother was in made her wish she had taken a softer approach. Charlie, I... No. Charlie held up his free hand bile still dripping from one fingertip.

You're right. Mave was visibly taken aback. It wasn't like Charlie's character to cave in when blame had been placed on him. I'm the one who should be sorry I won't be drinking around Mary Kate any longer count on that I'll get better

He met her eyes I'll do better Maeve squeezed her brother's right shoulder tenderly I know you will I know Clearing his throat Charlie Dannahead nodded his head and took a moment to light another cigarette

After releasing a plume with smoke high above them, he faced his nephew once again. Come on, lad. Sammy ringed the dinner bell. The next morning, the choice cuts of Mr. Flannery's prize cow were littered across the porch. The sight brought Mave to tears. It was evident what the bane of her ancestors wished for, but there were still a couple of options left to them. After she, John and Charlie had cleaned up the mess, Charlie said one a land. best we gather the family jewels.

Gold, silver, and jewelry, finery. She wished the Danahas of old had written down instructions in a book somewhere, offering up their horrifying experiences for future generations to mirror in times of strife. No. No book, no letters,

a cave painting or hieroglyphics carved onto one of the stone circles boulders. nothing. Only instructions passed down from one Danahar to the next. Somewhere down the line, it was said that fine things appeased the creature's needs, delivering balance back to the Danaha line. What the creature did with such things, Mayve hadn't an inkling. It was not her place to understand, but to give to the beast so that they may in turn live. And so John and Charlie went to the lone yew tree, a tree said to be older than the twin ewes close to the ruins of Cromcastle. Digging at the foot of the great tree, John and Charlie labored until they brought up a medium-sized chest. An iron lock dangled at the front. Mave strode forward, crunching the red berries fallen from the

yew tree beneath her feet. Producing a rusty key, Mave inserted it into the lock and twisted until the lock clicked. either she, Charlie, her children, Sean, nor any other Dana-Hur-she-had-known existed had needed the chest. Judging by its half-ropped state, the wood might crumble away if handled too harshly. But they all had more respect for family relics than that, especially those that were meant to help them in a time of need. Inside the chest, she pulled out several gemstones, rubies and a small bag of silver, not bothering to look at the coins to see which Irish king had his face imprinted on. It mattered not.

What about the rest? We put it back. We only take what we think is required. In time, we will replenish what we took. Why not just offer it cash? Charlie, smoking a cigarette with his back against the yew-tree, wiped the sweat. from his brow with the back of his hand. Jewelry coins and fanery.

We won't have a tall, cash, lad. Shrugging his shoulders, John shut the chest and locked it, handing the key back to Maeve. His shovel back in hand, he began piling the loose soil back on top. Charlie flicked his cigarette, taking the precious stones and coins from Maeve

and placing them into a small sack of wolf's fur, the last wolf taken from the property long ago. another relic of the past, a fine thing to be given a sacrifice. Mary Kate screamed in bloody terror. Rolling out of bed, Maeve heard glass shatter. No, not my girl, not my girl. Heavy footsteps hurried from Mary Kate's bedroom and onto the roof. Mary Kate continued to scream in terror.

Running across the hall, Maeve burst into. her daughter's room. Glass lay in pieces across the floor. A lamb's head sat at the foot of the bed. It was fresh. Mary Kate was coughing now, having spent herself from all the high-pitched screaming she was capable of. She was paler despite medication, prayers and the sacrifices made. Mave climbed into bed, kicked the lamb's head onto the floor and cradled her daughter's head in her lap. She began stroking Mary Kate's cheek. There, there, dearie. It's all right.

Calm now. Come now. Mommy's here. John appeared in the doorway then, his father's double-barrel shotgun in hand. What is it? As Mary Kate caught her breath, she pointed a shaking finger at the window. It was him, me from the window. Then he came in.

Then Mary Kate turned away. burying her face into Maeve's nightgown. John. Mave motioned him toward the window. He approached slowly. The shotgun raised, glass crunching underfoot. Satisfied, there was no immediate danger, he set the gun against the wall and stuck his head out of the window.

Mave held Mary Kate tight as she attempted to squirm her way to the floor to retreat under the bed as she'd done as a small child during a storm. Shh, it's okay. He's gone. He's gone. John extended a hand outside the window and retrieved something that must have been sitting idly on the roof. In his palm, John held a bloody sack. And when he shook it, Maeve felt chills crawl up her spine at the sound of clinking metal and jewels. That morning, Maeve found Charlie on the porch steps a new bottle in hand.

Mayve looked out across their property, unsurprised at what she saw. The sheep, torn to shreds. And you, dear, another horror. At first glance, it appeared it was nearly a quarter of the flock. Over 30 of them dead for nothing. Dead because she hadn't just cut to the chase and done what they knew they must.

We know what all yellies once now, eh, lad? Your Dhanu what to do. Didn't tell me it'd gotten that far. I didn't tell your mar before we found the pieces of din like of him strewn about red rock. He pointed to the deformed sheep. Like these ones here? Eyes out. Tong's missing.

Guts ripped open flung about. Mave snatched the bottle sitting next to Charlie, but Charlie snatched it back. Not this time Let it be But Maeve Yanked the bottle free And began pouring the liquid onto the porch You promised

Charlie ran his fingers through his thinning red hair Then searched his person for what must have been a cigarette Finding none He groaned as if in great pain You promised Charlie waved a hand I promise not to get drunk in front of the children It came after Mary Kate, you saw?

You know what we must do now. Did not come after Mary Kate? It was a warning that it would if it doesn't get what it wants. She glared down at her brother, her anger beginning to show. Are you in any state to do what you know we must? She slapped him on the back of the head.

Do you leave it up to me? To George? She slapped him again. Nodding his head in shame, Charlie reached for the bottle. There was still a slosh left that hadn't been poured out. Draining its contents, he threw the bottle into the tall grass and stood. I now be getting me another bottle. The pub smelled of Charlie.

But it was more like Charlie always smelled of the pub, reeking of smoke, alcohol and earth. Local farmers mostly poured in each night to recount their tales of the day, telling much of the same as they had the day prior. Loyal customers all. Maeve strode past a table of men spraying beer and spittles. They roared with laughter. At the other end of the pub, a group of women whispered to one another,

as Mae made her way closer to the bar. Adanaher in the pub was no rarity. But for Maeve, one who, was held in such high esteem with the church, her presence would be noticed the longer she remained indoors. She paid for a beer and made her way outside where a few small tables sat. She found him there, as expected, deep in his cups, just as Charlie had said he would be. A cool name, no? Mave sat across from the old drunkard. Column Sealeggs O'Brien looked up from his glass and smiled wide, revealing his few remaining teeth.

The folk of Ballydow's had no quarrel referring to him as sea-legs to his face or his back. It made no matter. It wasn't as if he'd spent much time on the water, but the booze kept him from waddling about as if on the deck of a small ship during a wild storm. Mayf done a hur. He slapped the table. Not so cold with a bit more of this an you. Down in the black,

do you some good on a night like this. He raised his glass and clanked it together with Maves. Colum chugged the rest of his beer, wiping the froth from his unkempt beard when he was through. He pointed at her glass. It's not so polite not to drink

when a fellow raises this glass to you. Oh. Mave smiled uneasily. She put the rim to her lips and sipped, leaving a red smear of lipstick as she parted from the glass. Not one for the juice? Apparently not.

But it is very cool. Perhaps you can finish maim. Column leaned in close. If I didn't know it, Miss Danaher, I'd say you was charming me. Mayve put a hand to her chest. Oh, me? I'd never. Gently, Maeve slid her beer across the table until it was sitting next to his empty glass.

Please. I insist. If you say so. Raising his glass once more, Column chugged its contents in only a few seconds without spilling a drop. Mave rubbed her shoulders. Mind walking me to my truck, Column? I think I'd best be getting home. He mimicked a gentleman's bow in his chair. It'll be the least I could do you for.

Standing up, Colum held out his arm, and the two walked arms intertwined as they made their way to the back alley. Quite far. Hmm. The parking lot was full. Busy, Nate. As any pub should be. But couldn't you have parked around the...

The cudgel came down on the back of Colum's skull so hard, Maeve thought she heard it crack. She gasped as John began dragging Collum by his boots down the alley. She'd known what to expect. But knowing what to expect and a thing actually happening in front of you were not one and the same. You've killed him? Aye.

John heaved Collum into the bed of the truck, tossing the bloody cudgel in after. Then it was a good plan you laid out. When they returned, Charlie was passed out on the port. A new bottle at his side, and vomit caked onto the right side of his face. There was a time when Charlie Danaher could be relied upon, but she realized then for certain those days had long passed. She wanted to stay a bit, to give a few kicks to the worthless sod, but quickly thought better of it. After all, Mary Kate was upstairs still suffering. There was no time to linger.

Together, mother and son dragged their victim to Red Rock, the moon guiding their way full and bright. By the time they'd arrived, both were panting with exhaustion. A man of small stature, Colum was still dead weight. They sat his limp body up so that his back was leaning against the boulder. Blood continued to trickle from the wound on the top of his skull. Then to Mave's horror, Colum's eye. began to twitch. In the cave, they heard something stir,

something moving slowly through puddles of water. Quick, do it again. The creature moved closer, its heavy breath emitting an odour greater than any rotten thing she'd had the displeasure of smelling before. Her son was frozen, his eyes glued on the cave. John! I don't have the cudgel.

She looked around them, taking note of a large stone beside Colum's waking body. Son, it's coming. Help me. John began to sob, but Mave slapped him hard across the cheek. Help me! Bending low, they lifted Column so that his body was spayed across Red Rock. They removed his clothes, John, his shirt and jacket, and mave his boots, trousers and underpants. He was trembling madly from the cold. Take this.

Maeve placed the large stone she'd found into John's hands. John looked up slowly, his mouth agape. He'd seen it, was staring at it. Don't bloody look at it, son. Mayve pulled John's face towards hers. Look at me. Good boy. Now, do as mommy tells you. and bring the rock down on his head.

Colum's voice was so weak that Mave was sure he'd die soon anyhow, but they hadn't the time. I can't. Mave stared at her son in shame, unsure of where she went wrong with the men in her life. One dead, one run off, one a drunk, and this one. She snatched the rock from him. If you want our line to,

to live on, for us to live good lives. She held the rock above Colum's face. Maeve brought the stone down onto Colum's skull. We do. She brought it down again, a bad aim, shattering Colum's teeth and lips. What, we must. And again, this time a better aim,

the stone smashing through skull, flinging bits of brain, bone and flesh. To survive. The creature hissed something in old Gaelic as its head rose from behind Red Rock. Mahou Shervisha, she thought she heard it say. Well done, servant. Mave tossed the bloody rock still clutched tight in her grasp to the side and retreated backwards in terror until she was standing beside John.

Sula Bui stood tall, twice as tall as any man, leathery wings in tatters fluttering at its back, two thin slits on its face opening and closing, sniffing. Its eyes peered down at them like two mountains of yellow furs. It dragged a clawed hand across Colum's body, never breaking eye contact with them. Blood began to spill from the rock as the creature opened column from sternum to groan. Sulabwe locked out a long split tongue between a mouthful of black teeth and began to hastily lap at the drunkard steady flow of crimson spilling from his abdomen. Like hot soup, steam drifted from the warm blood rising into the cold night air.

Mave reached for John's hand and squeezed. They watched it feed as two revered guests in the company of something greater than themselves. the thing that had given their family so, so much over the centuries. In that moment, Mave knew it would be okay, knew that Mary Kate would be feeling herself come the dawn, knew that they would continue to pass down the word to their kin for as long as their bloodline remained. Perhaps this time she'd be the one to write it down.

As Sway-le-Bui continued to feed, now tearing away flesh from a thigh, she squeezed John's hand. She would never give up. Not on John, or Michael, or Mary Kate, not even Charlie. After all, blood was everything. Blood is all we have. You know, thinking of that story, this show is a bit like that beast. A conglomeration of authors' works, editors' construction.

artists, visuals for the episode art, the producers splice his cuts and stitches, our social media team's promotions, the disembodied utterings of us voice actors, our maestro's music, and David's oversight. The No Sleep podcast is a large weekly production that I've been so lucky to be a literal part of. I imagine I'm like an elbow nub,

or maybe, yeah, a wicked little phalangi. And this beast does not get the coalesce into the sentient being, that it is without the support of our fans. So thank you from the bottom of my elbow nub for listening, and especially if you've been listening for all these years. And this far into the episodes, good night. And I wish you no sleep. Podcast.

Okay, plugging my nose. 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 Mikulski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornett, and Claudius Moore. Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashleys.

McAnally, Olly A. White, and Kristen Samito. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us, just visit sleepless.com to learn about the sleepless universe. Add free extended episodes each week and lots of bonus content for the dark hours. all for one low monthly price. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for taking the plunge into our dark waters. This audio program is copyright 2026 by Creative Reason Media.

The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media. No part of this audio program may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. All rights reserved. Thank you. Why are you attacking?

I'm being attacked. You are my number one again. You're going to eat. It hurts when you do that. Okay, being attacked. I'm actively being bitten. do you mean talk about the horror that is cats and sound booths