The NoSleep Podcast - S24 Ep5: NoSleep Podcast S24E05

Episode Date: March 1, 2026

It's Episode 05 of Season 24. Enter the dark waters of the Cape Fear River as we present tales of demure deceit."As He Walked, the Land Died" by Andrew Kozma (Story starts around 00:03:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Kyle Akers, Bernie - Danielle McRae"St. Francie" by Jennifer Lesh Fleck (Story starts around 00:20:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Phil MichalskiCast: Francie - Kristen DiMercurio, Micki - Danielle McRae, Nicki - Nichole Goodnight, Ashleigh M. - Sarah Ruth Thomas, Jael - Linsay Rousseau, Punko - Jeff Clement, Chester - Erin Lillis, PA - Graham Rowat"What Grandma Made" by Abby Vail (Story starts around 00:54:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Jeff ClementCast: Griselda - Mary Murphy, Mom - Linsay Rousseau, Eti - Erin Lillis"Monster in the Closet" by Holly Day (Story starts around 01:07:00)Produced by Claudius MooreCast: Narrator - Marie Westbrook, Husband - Dan Zappulla"The Neighbors" by C. E. Williamson (Story starts around 01:17:20)Produced by Jesse CornettCast: Trent - Jesse Cornett, Ricky - Reagen Tacker, Daddy - Graham RowatThis episode is sponsored by: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.comIndacloud - 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, go to indacloud.co/nosleep to get 35% off your first order.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about the Crimewave at Sea 2.0 Cruise!Click here to get your Crimewave at Sea discount code and bonus event!Click here to learn more about Andrew KozmaClick here to learn more about Abby VailClick here to learn more about C. E. Williamson Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"As He Walked, the Land Died" illustration courtesy of Kelly TurnbullThe NoSleep Podcast is Human-made for Human Minds. No generative AI is used in any aspect of work.Audio program ©2026 - Creative Reason Media - The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media. No part of this audio program may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. All rights reserved.

Water. It gives us life. We are drawn to it. Yet it holds immense power over us. It can bring unspeakable horror to the most familiar places. Your morning shower, a tranquil riverbank, or the endless ocean. It's time to dive deep into the abyss. From the dark waters of the Cape Fear River, immerse yourself in horror as you. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. With March now upon us, we start to welcome nicer, warmer weather coming our way.

And speaking of nice weather, it's exciting to see how many of you have signed up for the Crime Wave at Sea 2.0 crews next year. In fact, we've added even more cabins to meet the growing demand. And it's not too late to sign up. All you have to do is go to crimewave atc.com slash no sleep to get your code for the $100 discount and access to a special meet and greet with the no sleep crew. It's important to use this code because it shows that our fans are part of the crews. Links are in the show notes for more info and to sign up. We hope to see even more of you on board for the next.

the crime wave at sea cruise next February. Now, since we're speaking about March weather, have you ever heard the saying, in like a lion, out like a lamb when it comes to the weather in March? If March starts out all stormy and blustery, they say the month will end with calmer, warmer weather, like an innocent little lamb. It's nice to think about things that are sweet and innocent, things that surely won't harm us or cause nightmares. But what if you encounter things that you assume are safe and innocent, only to discover that they're the exact opposite? Well, on the show this week, we have tales that present you with just that.

Things that should be harmless that are the exact opposite. It's almost like you can't trust anything or anyone these days, right? Well, don't worry. You can trust us. We make no pretense about being a calm, relaxing show. So, yeah, brace yourself, won't you? Because it's time to plunge into the horror of our sleepless tales. In our first tale, we meet a man who seems rather distant.

Well, actually, people have learned to keep him at a distance. You see, in this tale, shared with us by author Andrew Cosma, we learned that the man has come to town with a bizarre ability, the ability to kill anything that gets too close to him. Performing this tale are Kyle Acres and Danielle McCray. So let's uncover the secret about this strange man and why they said of him, as he walked, the land died. As he walked, the land died.

The land died as he walked. City officials had to use a bullhorn to talk to him, special glasses too one scientist referenced eclipses and the atomic tests the need to protect the eyes but instead of going blind or suffering the slow decay of radiation sickness those who beheld him openly and too close simply died the mayor and the chief of police were in panic eager to keep the man from walking through the city the talks with him went on for days why are you here Here. No reason? What do you want? Nothing, really. What can we give you to go away? Your one true desire. That means he has a want. No, it means he has a need. My half-sister Bernie and I stood at the far end of the field where the man stood. Police had erected a fence around him, the safe distance marked by the bodies of those who'd strayed too near.

either from curiosity like our cousin Gill or because they'd been ordered to like Deputy Bridger. The bodies smelled, but they didn't really rot. I guess the bacteria died. No, the flies certainly did, drawn by the smell, collecting in little piles of black jewels.

The bodies just lay there, slowly shrinking in their clothes, mummifying under the autumn sun, nearly a week had passed since the man arrived. Photos had been posted in the paper, the photographer using a telephoto lens to get a close-up. The photographer went blind and then entered the hospital. The photo in the paper looked crisp upon first glance,

but then distorted and blurred until all that was visible were the man's eyes, staring out as if he could actually see you. People cancelled their newspaper subscriptions. TV stations refused to run any footage. videos on social media flourished until sickness did too and the city put a moratorium on any recordings jailing those who refused to stop live streaming the only way to know what was going on now was to be there in person

so Bernie and I came to watch for a few hours every day after work I don't know what we expected to see the man never moved a few people who thought the man a prophet used a t-shirt cannon to shoot him foil-wrapped hot dogs in bottles of coke though the man drank and ate what was sent he didn't seem to need to. He never used the bathroom. He never even sat down. Originally, we felt just as scared as the rest of the city.

The man's approach was unprecedented. No other cities in the country had ever reported anything similar. And now they weren't reporting what was happening to us either, as if there was a media blackout. There was nothing on the local nightly news. We'd expected the FBI. or some other federal agency to come in, but it was as if they had a blind spot.

And so we came to see him as a local disaster, a house burning down that threatened the immediate neighborhood instead of a forest fire preparing to consume the entire city. He's going to move tonight. No, not tonight. He's too relaxed. On the third day, Bernie and I had started placing bets on what the man would do. We weren't the only ones either.

not making bets, I mean, but watching him. All around the perimeter people were scattered in small groups. Some had picnics, brought their entire families. Maybe it was fatalism. But what else you're supposed to do with death standing on your doorstep? Now, six days into it, we had a bottle of cheap scotch Bernie'd taken from our dad's house. We brought shot glasses too, so we wouldn't be tempted to drink from the bottle

and get so fucked up we wouldn't make it to work tomorrow. Maybe she'd be okay missing a barista shift, but Walmart would can me. I was already on thin ice. Seems strange worrying about this while eyeing a man who could kill us just by strolling a few dozen steps forward. But as our mom used to say, you just have to keep living until you die. We sipped our scotch. It tasted like burnt plastic, but felt good once it was down. This can't go on forever, can it?

Can't it? And maybe it could have gone forever, just like that. The man becoming a fixture on the edge of a city, a tourist attraction even like Niagara Falls or at the volcanoes in Hawaii, a danger that you get used to that hurts no one except the foolish and the stupid. But the mayor and other city officials couldn't let that happen. Scientists couldn't guarantee the safety of any level of exposure, theorizing that everyone in the city could be at risk no matter the distance.

And we wouldn't know for sure until years or even decades had. passed. The man's poison building up in us like silt choking a river. It didn't go on forever. Not because the man decided to walk again. Not because the city somehow gave him what he wanted, but because a man with a gun decided he had the answer to our problem and it was his right to use it. Why hadn't a gun been used before? The police had snipers on top of nearby buildings within an hour of the man's arrival. They could have shot him at any time. But because no one understood really what was happening or why. They decided not to shoot the man unless he advanced on the city.

This is what my dad told me, having been a cop for years, then private security. And now a guy living off disability in retirement. He was bitter and mean and abusive, but he was trying to get better. He said the city couldn't take the risk of shooting him because what if it just made everything worse? I told him that's never seemed to stop cops before and after a sharp intake of breath and someone uncomfortable silence, he said that, yeah, it was probably right. He's learning, though I still refused to meet with him in person. Of course, the man with the gun didn't know about this theory, more care about it. He was just doing what was right. There was a pop, pop, pop, and the man in the

center of the circle of death died, his head knocking back twice in quick succession, a half a dozen or so other bullets kicking up in the dirt around him. The man who killed the land when he walked, who killed everything living who breathed, we assumed, and ate and drank, we saw, was now dead. There was a hush as everyone watching realized what had happened. Our brains catching up with our eyes. I expected the cops to start shooting too. I started at my feet ready to run, but Bernie grabbed my arm and pulled me back to the ground. Don't make yourself a target. She poured another shot for each of us and we downed them. The expected return fire never came. Instead, that's when people started walking. The deputy mayor moved first. He'd turned at the gunshots, the security around him

closing in like a curtain. But now he walked towards the dead man at the center of it all. His pace deliberate. When he passed the edge of the circle of death, the deputy mayor died, falling first to his knees, then flopping onto his chest, momentum keeping him going for that one extra step. At first, his security yelled out for him to stop, but their voices went quiet quickly. Even before the deputy mayor died, they started walking too. What are they doing? Bernie's face was flushed with fear or with alcohol. The bottle, full when we'd arrived, was already half empty. I didn't answer her because I didn't know. Movement from all around us distracted me. A family of four on a picnic blanket put their paper

plates on the ground and headed for the circle. Two women who seemed to use the crisis as an excuse to practice their guitarist strolled in toward the dead man. The shooter began screaming at people to stop. This wasn't supposed to happen. He fired his gun at the closest to the circle, but they ignored him. A stray warning shot took a woman in the leg, knocking her to the ground. But she crawled forward, leaving a smear of blood on the trampled grass.

Everyone who reached the circle of dead grass died themselves. The shooter had stopped screaming, stopped shooting. He too was walking towards the man he'd killed, gun hanging limply from his hand until it caught something on the ground and was pulled free. The police snipers fell from the roofs

they'd been stationed on, laying unconscious where they fell or dragging themselves along in spite of their mangled limbs. Now it was those who weren't moving that I noticed. Scattered all along the perimeter were a few like Bernie and me,

empty cans of beer littering the grass around them, wine bottle, at their side. One older man with a fifth of whiskey and his hand ran, just bolted away, dropping the bottle as he stumbled and weaved. We should go, I told Bernie, but she wasn't there. She was about 20 feet in front of me, walking towards her death, more slowly than the rest, with hesitant steps. Bernie! She paused for a moment, barely noticeable, but didn't turn her head. I got up to run after her and the world swung wildly around me. As I ran to Bernie, every step threatened bringing me down to earth.

My stomach feeling at one moment empty, the next full, and the next as though it wanted to jump out of my mouth. I grabbed onto Bernie to hold her back, but I lost my balance and toppled us both to the ground. My hand bending back painfully as I broke my fall. Can't you feel it? I could feel it. A yearning like a hunger pulling me toward the dead man and the aura of death he brought with him. It wasn't a desire for something. suicide or a wish for death. I didn't want to die. Bernie didn't either. I was sure.

But I could feel a promise there out ahead of us in that circle. A promise for something better, something certain, something sure and pure. I wanted it. I wanted to go there. Yet the scotch had hit fast. Bernie struggled to keep moving, but our bodies were tangled up and I wasn't going anywhere. I looked at the circle blinking away the blurriness and felt sick at all the dead bodies. More every minute. There was something off about them. I had to work out what I was seeing again and again. My thought hitching just before I understood until I realized they were getting closer. Every person walking in got a little bit closer to the dead man. The circle was shrinking. Eventually, it would be gone and we'd be safe. But the people didn't stop coming.

There hadn't been that many of us looking on, and the official contingent was permanent, but small. I tore my eyes away from the man, the circle, the people dying, the place something in my chest wanted me to crawl to, and witnessed dozens, then hundreds of people approaching, old people from the nearby nursing home, along with their staff in scrubs, business casuals from the bank, and few office buildings, an entire shift from the canning plant still wearing aprons, rubber gloves and rubber boots, the entire population from the trailer park. We have to go.

We have to go. I managed to sit up and get my arms around her and scoot backwards until I could reach the bottle of scotch. It had toppled to its side, most of it having dumped out into the grass. But there was enough left, I hoped. I swigged a bit. The taste of it made me gag, and my stomach roiled and twisted. Then I had with a bottle of Bernie's lips until she finished off the rest. I fell back and she rolled beside me,

both of us facing up with the sky now bruising into evening. The stars wobbled in the blackness as they appeared. All around us there was a signless shuffle. I was horrified. Or I wanted to be, but all the scotch in my body tried to come back up, burning my throat. And I was convinced if I threw it all up, my brain would clear enough that I would follow everyone else into the circle.

And I did not want to go. even as a tiny fragment of me screamed that I was missing out on paradise, a heaven I refused to believe in. How far did the dead man's influence go? Would it draw in the entire city? What about our moms? Our dads? The friends we had.

The friends we'd given up on. Our exes. Our teachers. Our bosses. Fuck our bosses. The darkness in the sky was dragging at my brain, pulling me into something like sleep. Bernie coughed weakly and then snore

I grabbed Bernie's hand and intertwined our fingers tried to lock us together like otters sleeping on the open ocean I thought of how the dead man had failed and whatever he'd planned the government had failed to protect us the man with a gun had failed to save us but maybe when we woke up this would all be over we could pick up the pieces then Bernie and me maybe our parents would still be alive

and all of us together could build a home again. If you've ever worked at a pet shop, you know there's plenty of work to be done. It's not a place to do little, especially if you have a unique ability with the animals. And in this tale, shared with us by author Jennifer Lesh Fleck,

we meet Francie and learn how her job in a pet store brought about a strange and dangerous set of circumstances. Performing this tale, are Kristen Di Macquario, Danielle McCray, Nicole Goodnight, Sarah Thomas, Lindsay Russo, Jeff Clement, Aaron Lillis, and Graham Rowett. So consider yourself blessed if you never encounter the unholy person known as Saint Francie. The agent and the ghostwriter struck their deal with me fast. They want a good hot take. With sequestering, officials careful not to call it quarantine. Oh, so careful. It's still localized and contained.

We've been through this before. Let's avoid public unrest. I've got time. We all do. At home, cooped up, our unaffected companion animals and urban livestock locked in beside us, or humanely euthanized, or not so humanely taken out with a shotgun blast. Gunshots echo across my neighborhood day and night.

We're still out there, right now. Creatures set loose from understandable human fear Or a mistaken sense of pity The pets we knew Skulk in alleyways, skitter across rooftops, flap against windows or hurl bloody bodies against our doors Like so many persistent, deranged, furry battering rams Saying mommy, let me in

Saying Papa, I'm a good boy, let me in. All quiet here at Shez Francie, though. My parakeet Pedy wasn't exposed. He's nestled down for the night in his covered cage in my basement apartment here in downtown Bakersfield. I'm Francie. The so-called St. Francie of East Ridgeway Plaza. It was right there when everything spun out of control. The only person immune to the terrors that began at our local mall ten days back.

The animals outside, rampaging within the metroplex? Okay, so these backyard chickens and former pets of yours aren't exactly friendly to me. Instead, they're, I guess you'd say, attuned, sympathetic to my wishes and desires, so I'm safe, and though it's forbidden, I can go outside. And some nights, when the ghetto birds aren't making a racket overhead, training their lights on yards and streets, I do sneak out. I wander freely in the smoky summer night, encountering animals, crouch and run fingers, across your snarling tabby's back as it squeezes under your fence. The briefest electricity exchanged between us like a coded note between spies. At age 28, you wouldn't think becoming ad hoc manager at the Clause and Paus Pet Center was a coup,

but in a slipping down life, it's an upgrade. Finally, I could chip away at debt, maybe even pull ahead. The shop owners? More an idea than a reality. I got the sense they spent their time basking under a foreign scientist. sun, palm shadows falling on their indolent, well-tanned limbs. At least, that's how our manager Billy Baskins painted them. In their absence, he basically did whatever. Having recently inherited money, he did it with swagger. What Billy B. wanted was both the steady mall store paycheck,

but also his freedom. He fed me an extra cut under the table to take his hours and assume his role. And if some of his offshore and crypto investments took, the promise was, I'd become manager. Thing about working like a dog for weeks on end is you start to see things. Corner of your eye, trick of the light, stuff. A shadow that detaches itself from a wall and moves funny. Minor hallucinatory business. Lack of sleep, running on hostess snack cakes and fumes,

trying to wrangle scents out of years of coffee-stained inventory sheets Billy B has royally effed. Reality becomes wiggly as a gummy worm. That's why the strange bird didn't surprise me, not at first. Now, the leading theory you hear from the media is we caused this. Clause and paws, I mean, imported something funky, shipped in from one of those balmy tropical aisles patronized by our absentee owners. Xenophobic racist bullshit, that's what that is. No, friends, this plague or scourge or contagious whatever, it came from a wild bird. I saw it happen.

10 p.m. Plaza closed, alone in the fun zone play pit perched on a questionably shaped purple fiberglass mushroom. I nod a stalish grape P.B. and J. Nobody nearby but a couple security goons shooting the shit on walkie-talkies. And that one stoned guy going round and round on the floor polisher. So, this quick, flitting thing slips through the busted window in the atrium. Comes down from the night sky, goes down. Zip, zap, zip through the rafters, moving all erratic like a bat, but faster than any bat I'd ever seen, leaving a smudgy contrail like somebody ran their finger across a wet canvas.

I blinked. This was no regular sparrow. There it was. On the Cheshire Cat slide, its strawberry pink tongue carved with cuss words. Blank page white, that bird. Eyes glinting like pinheads. Long, ink, black wings and tail like a... Wren mashed with a bird of paradise, I felt awe-stricken, intrigued, confused, but also super bad,

probably endangered, like our hopeless burrowing ground owls and our hapless kit foxes. How would this wild thing find its way back out of this spooky cavernous space? Here, on the east end, built near the canyon where the Kern River exits the foothills, its white water diverted into concrete canals. This place, this second, less popular mall constructed on what had been relatively untouched scrubland full of California poppies and songbirds, had always felt cursed.

The leaning edge of expanding city sprawl, a failing proposition from day one. Shopping centers were dying everywhere, so we were extra hurting. Sears and May Company belly up. Smaller storefronts empty like, gaps in a skull's grimace. A popular church,

house next door to Clause and Paws, kept the whole mall half afloat. Four big consecutive spaces. Their clientele more tent revivalist than suburban Episcopalian. During services, their unholy clamor thumped and thrummed

through the adjoining wall, trembling hanging leashes and collars. Strickneen and writhing serpents filled my head while the puppy's frozen place, listening. kittens and hamsters, too. Unearthly still.

Fish hanging in the tanks like they'd been hit by a stun gun. Curtains covered the church storefront, so you couldn't steal a peek at all this humming and hoo-ha. Stressful as hell to work adjacent to, though, made the mind go berserkers. So anyhow, tonight, this zebra-colored thing that had wandered in from the wilderness had all my attention as I chewed my miserable sack lunch.

And on its wings, it seemed to lift me to the rafters and through them, zip, zap, zip, my hopes and dreams trailing that damn bird like bows on a kite's tail. Uplifted, inspired, I'd get money together, go back to school. This hairbrained notion deepened, broadened, I'd become a writer, perhaps even the next Stephen King or Brandon Sanderson or whatever the girl version of them was. Now the bird rematerialized on a bench airbrushed with lurid blossoms cocked its head and regarded me,

just like the owl and blade runner. And I leaped to action thinking, let me help you. I squeezed under the shop's roll-top gate, fetched a sack of bird seed, stuff intended for wildlife, squeezed back under, spread a pile on the rump of the mad hatter ride on,

the one that pinched kids on the regular with its springs. That bird flitted to the hatter's ass, Peck, peck, pecked up some seed, gave me another cocked head look, then streaked up. Seconds later, something hit me on my forearm. A glob of zebra-colored bird shit, searing like a chemical burn. Oh, thanks for nothing, asshole. Sniffling, I rubbed my arm clean on the astro turf. Feeling funny, like I'd been cracked wide open, made aware of the immensity of the universe

and my minuscule spot here in the self-perceived middle. An ant, tiny enough to crawl on a crumb. A crumb, which was the entire world, a world out of balance and in trouble. The poop left a painful spot above my wrist. Like someone put out a stogie on me. It's healed now, a shiny pink circle. Next day, I was freshening up the litter lining the glass-fronted cases. These cockapoos lived up to their name, the rascals.

Puppies were our biggest draw, and kitties, the display windows of puppies and kittens dancing around, nose printing and paw printing the glass, tumbling in wrestling matches, curled up in warm, sleepy clutches. The thin stream of shoppers still regularly gathered, becoming an appreciative puddle, smiling, saying, oh my God, look at this one, falling in love on the spot. Sometimes someone even purchased an animal. So I worked extra hard to keep their enclosures spotless, inviting, instead of gross and depressing. My co-worker jail was on break, leaving me alone and vulnerable, so in flounced the three bees, as they always did. Back in high school, bees meant blondes. Now obviously it's bitches.

Mickey, Nikki, and Ashley M. Now grown up, married off, each with some nebulous career. yoga teacher, influencer, and whatever it was poor third-wheel Nikki did. Her mousy roots always coming in too fast. My tormentors, my adult bullies, their athleisure wear filled the shop with loud, unasked-for color. I smelled the cocktails they'd guzzled at chilies. Hey, France, hard at work or hardly working. Mickey, fake-baked and smug under the fluorescence.

clocking my sweaty braids, rumpled apron, and laden poop bag. Oh, can I hold a pop? Nikki, greasy and frazzled from trying to keep up at lunch. Actually, never mind. Don't I want to give puppy factory germs to my purebred Labradoodle? Purebred Labradoodle. I rolled my eyes. It's puppy Mills, Mick.

And Francie, don't forget my petition to get this shithole shut down. down. Ashley M. never bothered with fake friendliness. I've got the ear of the newspaper dude who writes opinion. Our queen bitch growing up, Ash M. She'd also been my best friend. Back when we were the three blondes and one redhead, like a bad cover band, the blondes fluttered off to college, leaving redheaded me and my poverty and 2.0 GPA behind. I took a gap year to work and save up. It became gap. Years. Charming as ever, Ash. I frowned at the acrylic monstrosities on her fingertips.

Vagina pink, bejeweled, costly. Go get that manicure refreshed. You're going to show me your claws. I'd rather they were pretty. That's wretch. Coming from somebody with a fresh crack pipe burn by her rest? The three bees exploded into a barnyard's worth of squeals and snorts. I slunk off to wipe down the aquariums, my wound tinging. Eventually, they lost interest, leaving me to symbolically sweep away their filth with aggressive strokes of the push broom. Listen, I knew a small pet store full of sketchily sourced, overpriced animals wasn't a great business model.

But it's where I was. I kept the place nice, clean, bright, tidy. If I could convince some sweet mom or dad or granny to take home a questionably bred Sheltie, then I refused to feel super bad about it. All living beings deserve love, even the byproducts of a greedy gray market. Helping get them into decent homes was more good than bad, right?

The bird shit burn on my arm gave a sharp pang of agreement. Anyone who's worked the plaza is adept at reading its particular signs. We'd entered the low-belly slump of Thursday afternoon. Shoppers left to pick up school kids, make dinner, be with family and friends. freed from the close chemical scent of consumerism.

Equal parts, cosmetics counter, food court, rubber tennis shoe sole. I call these painfully draggy hours the horse latitudes. The phrase comes from the days of exploration and colonialism. Ships mired in the windless subtropical calm, their sails hanging stark and still. To conserve food and water, crews sometimes jettisoned living horses, hurling them overboard. You can head home now, Jail. This meant I'd clock her out myself when her shift ended at 10 p.m.

My co-worker grinned gratefully, untied her apron. Ah, dancer-sidal tomorrow. I can use the practice. Last time I saw, sweet jail. Whether J's alive or dead now, I can't say. My texts sit unread, lost in some cellular Bermuda Triangle. Before she departed, Jail did that friendly, balladic spin on her toe she used to do. It started with that one punk kid.

Late teens, beetle-browed, glasses constantly slipping. He haunted our store like persistent jockage. Today he cornered me, shoving a Ziploc bag filled with guppy fry in my face. Came from here, their moms did. Fact is, they were already knocked up when you sold them. I seen the bulges on their tongues. You sold me slutfish. He shook the bag, the tiny fish like living shards of glitter.

Only fair you buy their bastards back. I shot a pointed glance at the clock. 422. Only 422. Mix boys and girls together in your tank and this will happen. We don't buy it from the public. We've had this conversation before. Something flickered at the edges of our exchange, like a migrenous crackle.

What it was didn't register. Store credit then. The bag hung from his babyish fist, rocking, tish-darting. Mom says I got to scale down operations. Fact is, it's getting out of hand and my bedroom stinks. Listen, we've got regulations. Don't you have buddies you can give these little friends to? Buy them?

Or they get flushed? Last week you had baby rats. Before that, hamsters. You don't want to know. what I did with them. Mammals don't flush, easy. Punko's rubbery lips cracked a sly smile. Then his eyes widened. The fuck's that! There it was again. That freaky wild bird. White breast, jet wings and tail, now inside

claws and paws, fluttering, streaking, zipping through aisles, zapping around the register. Not like something trapped and frantic, though, but strategic, on a mission. Ew, is that thing dropping deuses? Like a small, nimble Boeing B-17, the bird released its payload in quadrants. One for the aquarium zone, one for rodents and bunnies, one for puppy and kitten case. Finally, birds and reptiles. A cacophony of yowling and yapping and shrieking erupted. A smell like burning plastic filled the shop, fumes emanating from the avian colonic splatter.

Stench of reality burning, holes opening up. The church next door kicked in, harp music and human voices, a catter-walling mournful and joyous in equal measure. I don't dig this scene. Punko shoved the guppies at me. You figure it out. I gotta go. Instinctively, I stepped back. The bag hit the floor.

Contents flooding out like a ruptured aorta bleeding. Damn it! I grabbed a net and set to work saving the guppies, my jeans wicking up dirty water. The wild bird perched on our African graze cage, an intelligent glint in its pinhead eyes. Chester the parrot began to shriek. Nobody knows who taught him that.

He's 50 years old, outliving his wild cousins by decades. Did he still dream of steamy jungles and flight unencumbered, of freedom from bad men in their barred cages? Near the entrance, the kid shouted something unintelligible. Ferrets. Five kits loose, now charging Punko like fuzzy animated noodles. Illegal ferrets, another of Billy B's side operations, their cage hidden under the counter. Chaos.

All around me. Pandemonium. The strange bird circled one final time, then swooped over Punko and out, never to be seen again. The ferrets were inside the kid's clothes. Shrieking, Punko pummeled at his baggy corduroys, his eyes wild and glasses gone. Long, sinuous bodies twisted under the fabric, worming up, up, up. Hey, bud, stop, drop, and roll. Punko obeyed, taking out a rotating display of collars as he went down.

He squealed, twisted, grinding into the industrial tiles, slobbering, nose-running, trousers full of chirping, humped forms. Dashing to his side, I shoved an arm up one panty. leg and was immediately nailed in the chin by his Nike. Watch it, man! They're biting! I'm trying, unzip and get these pants off! He had the button popped but couldn't manage the zipper.

One by one, all five ferrets squeezed free, extruding from his waistband like furry toothpaste. I snatched a small albino female. Her ruby eyes met my gaze. Then she fell limp and compliant. I draped her around my neck. The other four clambered over Punko's chest, scaling his stained tea with their claws. He rose and stumbled, screamed and cursed.

They rode his shoulders now. The four pole cats scrabbling, snapping, hissing like furred snakes. Dogs and cats howled and yowled. The song next door swelled. The organ thundered. Strickening, I thought. Serpents. Three ferrets sank needily teeth into the kid's neck.

While the fourth affixed itself to his face, flapping as he spun. It struck again like a cobra as Punko collapsed into our display of stacked fish tanks. A knife-like shard of aquarium glass is the thing that killed him. Not those sinuous kits ripping out his main line with growls of glee, but the ferrets couldn't have helped matters. Unthinkingly, I stroked the female at my neck, limp and pliant as a fur stole. I marvel at how much blood was inside a human.

Greater mayhem ensued. Somehow, the African gray was now out of his cage. Chester was busy, swooping from cage to cage, setting loose the rats, the mice, and those cranky, introverted Syrian hamsters. The room was ripe with that smoky, plastic stench. The same smell I remembered from the one time years back I let the three bees talk me into shoplifting.

It had been Ashley M's idea, giggling in those dressing-room stalls, taking our lighters to plastic security tags, stuffing clothes in till our purses and school backpacks were tight as well-fed ticks. I was the only one caught. The one cuffed and labeled the troubled girl. A probation officer haunted me till age 18. No, I never snitched. Of course I didn't. You change, once you've entered the system.

Even if your juvenile records are expunged, You still feel the metal encircling your wrists, smell the greasy backseat of the squad car. You quit researching scholarships. Throw away your creative writing journal. Skip school. Chester, man, what are you doing? I knew I should stop him.

But I didn't want to stop Chester. Out there waited an entire shopping center full of people with far more resources than me. Let them cage this creature with his cruelly curved beak in claws. As the church music reached a crescendo, I realized I wanted Chester to keep going. I released the ferret to scurry and join her team. Then I lifted each furry body out of the puppy and kitten enclosures, lest the top of each head with a kiss. The church next door fell quiet at some point. Its occupants left, unscathed, sneaking through a back door. On security footage,

Violet hoods obscure their faces. Whoever they were, they knew of what was to come and worked to help bring it forth. The strange procession I led through the East Ridgeway Plaza, like the piet piper of pets, went unnoticed. For whatever reason, video surveillance never captured me. You'll have to take my word. Reports say the Clause and Paws escapees swiftly dispersed,

moving to attack shoppers. Food court invaded by king snakes and corn snakes. Assorted deadbeats and teens at the arcade shrieked as parakeets dove at their faces. Hot-topic goths ran screaming as a phalanx of tarantulas advanced. In the kiosk selling dead sea salt scrubs, tortoises snapped at crying patrons and vendors. The panty displayed Victoria's Secret was lousy with hamsters. Meanwhile, the PA intoned in a, Phlegmatic, pre-recorded voice.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is an important announcement. An emergency situation has occurred within the plaza. We kindly ask all shoppers and staff to remain calm, leave all belongings behind, and proceed in an orderly fashion to the nearest exit. Everyone scattered. Everyone ran, clutching blood-streaked purses and shopping bags. I saw children dragged by frantic parents,

wailing like fire engines. My feet knew where I was going before. I did. Bath and Body Depot. The three bees' favorite spot to camp out after harassing me, spritzing body sprays and fondling soaps, making fun of everything, creating disarray and shop-worn product. Loud, messy pains in the collective ass. Their flashy jewelry and local high status left the young workers cowed. Sure enough, I heard them at the back of the now empty store, either completely oblivious to the bedlam or presuming themselves exempt. Quietly, I led the animals in, then rolled down the security gate.

Mickey and Nikki sat with legs, splayed, cackling, and passing a flask. Ashley M. was up and animated, a ratty scarecrow in hot pink joggers, her manicure and rings catching the light as she told some lipstick- smeared story. Another spray-tanned inside joke that perversely made you think it was a bit of. about you, that you were the butt of the humor, and always had been. If they had their way, it had remained like this forever. People like this, they ruled our world. Silently, I regarded my array of animal companions. Then with crossed arms, I watched, as they slithered and stalked, and flew down the aisle, a musac rendition of Blink-180s-2, what's my age again, muffling their approach.

For Nikki, dear dull Nikki, I sent the puppies and kittens she'd been too leery to touch. They tackled her from behind, snarling playfully. Bottles tumbled, jarred candles burst, and the other two bees, scattered. Sweetly, the kitties and pups piled onto my former friend. Unnatural, hyper-reel, a blur of squirming bodies that flowed as one, tails wagged as they toppled her onto her back. What the actual... Concentrating their weight on Nikki's face with happy yips and muse,

a puppy and kitten pile from hell. Just like my imagination was a remote control, and they were the receiver. My furry companions carried out my darkest, unspoken wishes. Seemed only fair and respectful that I acknowledged the human monster I was killing. I approached. Gazed deeply into Nikki's mascara-ringed eyes.

Weak from caloric restriction and chain restaurant cocktails, Nikki didn't struggle long. Her body slackened under purring fur and warm bodies. I whispered my goodbye, then turned my attention to my other ex-friends. Our pricey albino-boa constrictor, Mabel, was already entrenched around Mickey's scrawny neck. Mick's eyes looked like they'd burst from her scarlet face

as Mabel's buttery yellow coils tightened. Her lipsticked maw gulped like a goldfish. She looked super pissed, her sky-blue nails scratching and prying as the muscular snake doubled down. Finally, Mickey fell limp, sliding to the floor. Last but not least,

Ashley M. My bestie. Halfway up the security gate, shaking the metal lattice work, she hollered into a now empty plaza. I tapped her shoulder. I wanted her to fully behold the feathered majesty of Chester. As he came bearing down in the perfumed air, talons and beak open.

He hit Ashley full in her chest, then retreated, and did it again, again. Francie! France! What the fuck! Ash M. fell, dropping into a crouch. You're in charge here, bitch! Do something! store. Just an hourly employee at Clause and Paws. Not even manager. Not really. I shrugged.

Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. With Ash? I admit we went overboard. With Chester's talons and beak, I mean. First, Ashley M's tongue hit the floor, still wagging.

Then her face came away in one piece, like a Halloween mask. It now hung rakeishly by an ear. Hard to watch. But I stayed, riveted, till she was gurgling and sobbing. Thought about keeping her around as the three bees' sole survivor. But leaving a witness, even one medically and psychologically unfit to stand trial, wouldn't do. Before I could finish these thoughts, Chester's beak was at her throat. I vacated them all to go into hiding. Meanwhile, my animal friends remain out there, creating me.

mayhem, doing good work. Nobody really knows me. Not yet, but that'll soon change. Not because of someone else's book, either. Because you know what I'm thinking? That I've sold myself short, same as ever. So I'll fire the agent and the ghostwriter. This story's mine to tell. I can help remake and resettle the world with my vision. News stations, courtyard steps, town center, churchyard pavilions, village squares, Instagram lives, all the good people out there ready to receive my message, all the douchebags who will ignore it, to their own peril, I say. Our planet is visibly spoiled. It's creatures suffering. A reckoning is nigh. There's been enough fair warning. I opened P.D.'s cage. He'll be infected, but it's okay. With me, he's safe.

carried on my shoulder. We go out together. Into the summer night I stride, armed with the twin blessings of freedom and undeniable support. For soon, they join me. All your animals. As one we move,

slithering on bellies, fluttering, marching on our various paws and claws, a cavalcade in the dusty streets. Your dogs and cats fall in line. Your chickens mysteriously loosed from backyard coops. They're part of this growing parade, too. Your ill-kept, ill-advised crocodiles, monkeys, and other illegal exotics. Also the skinny coyotes, edged out by sterile neighborhoods,

the golf course kit foxes, the burrowing ground owls from the last dirt lots you've staked with your fluttering plastic bags. My devoted entourage, my foul-tempered cortgé, My kingdom of gathering, prowling, doom. Back in the olden days, like when I was a kid, the fanciest thing a doll would do is speak to you. You pull a string in the doll's back and a voice would say a phrase or two. It was quaint and decidedly low tech. But in this dark and disturbing tale,

shared with us by author Abby Vale, a girl finds one of those old voice boxes and gets her mom to repair. and when it speaks, there's a lesson to learn. Performing this tale are Mary Murphy, Lindsay Rousseau, and Aaron Lillis. So I would never tell a woman to be ladylike. That's a job for what grandma made. My fingernails were more dirt than nail, but nothing new. New to me was the Robin Egg Blue Voice Box.

I dug from Earth's crusty blanket of lichen and lear. I hooked my finger through the ring of the pull string, but there was no pull. It dangled long and stuck, stained off white from being buried for God knows how long. The thing is, I didn't think God knew. Somehow, I believe the buck slipped through the cracks. It snuck into the world and asked me to notice. And sometimes when things pick you to notice them, it makes you feel. special enough to know something God doesn't, special enough to listen.

I sprinted from the woods through the backyard, the back porch, and muddied the kitchen linoleum to show mom what I uncovered this time. I bounced up and down, eager for her to work her mommy magic. She smiled. Let's see. Her calloused fingers gripped along the factory glued seam. She pressed a button on the side and crack it split. I rushed over her shoulder to see the inner workings. Whoa. It looks like a tiny record player.

That's because it is. Mom reached for her glasses from the stack of grandma's recipe journals. Which, come to think of it, I'd never once seen her reference. It was one thing to have never met Mom's Mom, but another thing to have never tasted what made Mom's bones so strong. The yo-yo was a little less complicated. Mom frowned, recalling the last toy I found in the woods needing a little attention to function properly.

A lot less. The glasses settled on the bridge of her nose as she scrolled Google. If this is the governor... She glanced back and forth between the diagram on the screen and the guts of the object. Then this piece under here must be... the O-ring. It's loose. She jiggled a thing or two, pressed a thing or three, then tightened the pole string on something

she called the clutch. So it went back into the retracted position, like it was just another day of being a complete and utter hero. She closed a kidney-beinous-shaped box with a firm snap. Beauty of the honors. My heart knocked against my chest as I reached for the loop in the string and pulled. Winding nylon awakened the voice. I listened. My eyes met moms, and she tilted her head. I pulled again, relishing the perfect tension.

The voice was an older woman's, sweet yet stern. What's that supposed to mean? Mom stared straight ahead for a moment. Her eyes gleased over like glass donuts. You know, lady like, She drew her attention back to me. It's what someone might say if you were sitting crisscross applesauce in a dress. You don't want anyone seeing your undies.

She paused. Her gaze threatening to lead her to another faraway place. Then snapped out of it and poked my side. Or if you farted at the dinner table. We both erupted in laughter at the thought. I pulled the string again. I tilted my head. That's a long one.

Kind of weird, too. Must be from an old etiquette doll. Mom's chair scraped against the floor as she moved. Her lips formed a straight line, and she grabbed a hand towel, draping it over grandma's books, covering them completely. She ripped a sheet of paper towel from a roll and bent down to wipe my muddy trail. Speaking of, set the table soon, okay? I snatched the voice box from the counter

and rubbed my thumb against it as if I'd be granted any phrase I wished if only I thought about it hard enough. If that were the case, I'd have it tell me full stories, one sentence per pull until I was satisfied with an ending, or I'd have it tell Mom to set the table herself.

Grizzie? Griselda. Yeah, I will in a bit. I jerked only halfway from the arms of imagination and drifted upstairs. As I entered my room, I froze, met with a doll sitting on the bed, legs crossed. I didn't own this doll. I'd never seen it a day in my life. Goose bumps docked my arms.

A lace collar constricted her neck. Hair braided perfectly neat without a single, strand escaping the synthetic ropes. Pink blush powdered her plumped cheeks. I held out the voice box in my palm. It couldn't have been.

An impossible thought, right? Dolls didn't appear out of thin air. But then again, things did slip through the cracks. Gently, I gripped the doll's waist to turn her over.

And there it was. An empty space in her back where her little record player belonged. It fit like a glove. The hook and loop fasteners lining up nice and flat around the string left to stick out. I sat her up and pulled, and pulled. My breath caught in my throat. How did she know my name? Her eyelashes fluttered as I tilted her up and down.

Her legs were sewn together under the dress. So I grabbed craft scissors from my desk and snip the stitch to free them. If she knew my name, I needed to know hers too. Eddie for etiquette, I determined. Under my arms, she went. Mom needed to know I didn't find the doll. It found me. When I reached the dining room, food was already on the table.

I laid Eddie by a plate of spaghetti and made a mad dash for the kitchen. Mom wasn't there, which meant she must have been in the bathroom, which gave me time to set the table before she sat down. Perfect. I tossed some forks and butternives on the placemats, including a set for my new friend to... Eddie sat up. Not how I'd left her.

I gulped and looked to the archway, hoping Mom would walk through. I didn't pull the string. The voice box must have. have been malfunctioning. Mom fixed it a little too well. I sat slowly, never breaking contact with the doll's insipid face, dread branching my spine. My hand reached for a sharper knife mom left by the bread, when I wasn't allowed to touch, but I wasn't reaching for it. It was a magnetic pull, a compulsion I couldn't explain. I tried stopping myself with my other arm, but there was no use.

My fingers curled around the knife handle with minds of their own. And desire to dig washed over me. My cuticles cried by the blade. But I pushed them back like bodies at a barricade. I scraped beneath my fingernails until they bled. Brown dirt replaced by raw red. I was clean and ready to eat. I worried blood drops in the tablecloth

When it come out in the wash But mom could fix anything Where was she? I scooped saucy worms into my mouth Warm noodles scraping my chin as I slurped The doll blinked Fuzz from the record distorted And lights overhead flickered

The fork thudded when I dropped it My body gone cold all over No, no, no, I murmured while the idea still repulsed me, but impulse quickly overthrew disgust, and the magnetic pull led me to the drawer where Mom kept her sewing kit. I threaded the needle with black and sat straight as a board back at the table. Eddie looked pleased.

My insides wrestled, sweat-pulled, underwereux. my nose, my skin rebelling against its feet. The needlepoint kissed just beneath the left corner of my lips, and I pressed. I pressed until it pierced and guided the thread through my flesh. I shook violently, and the wood table shook with me. I sucked in air, squeezed my eyes shut, and searched the corners of my thoughts for any semblance of a normal one. I had, I had to be able to. I hunted for willpower. Crouched within the fog of this nightmare, I found it. I gained back control of myself and let go of the needle.

It swung by my neck like a pendulum. I'd won, or so I thought. When I opened my eyes again, Eddie lunged across the table. She grabbed the needle and forced another notch through my mouth, pushing easily as through sponge rather than muscle. and cartilage. That's when tears poured and mixed with blood streaming down my chin, a salt and copper combination filling my nose. Crying was more painful because it tugged and stretched my sutured mouth. I wanted so badly to open wide and scream, but even the smallest amount of tension made my

tender wounds burn. I threw myself to the floor, writhing. I caught Eddie's little foot. I caught Eddie's little foot. but slide a recorder across the floor. Compulsion filled me again. This time, she wanted me to talk. She wanted to record my voice. I shook my head. My lips seared with pain as I fought words. Words were my second worst enemy right now.

The first being Eddie, who loomed over me, poised with a wicked smile. I kicked my feet on the rug with each syllable. But I knew she wanted me to say it louder. My lips buzzed. But I knew she wanted me to say it more clearly. She demanded it. We'd reversed rolls somewhere along the way.

I'd become the doll. My movements dictated by something bigger than myself. I swallowed my mouth filling with saliva and spilling between threads. I wailed, forcing the stitching to tear. through my skin enough to get the words out. Blood and spit blew. The recorder clicked off. Eddie took the knife from the table,

and the magnetic pole coerced me to lay flat on my stomach. She ran the sharp edge along my back. She was stuffing me with the voice box. My torn mouth was so excruciating, my back went numb. Shock was a gift. Things went splatchy white for a while. But when I regained consciousness,

I pulled myself by my forearms to find Mom. I needed help. She needed to fix me. Each inch I managed to slither was an impossible feat. I left a gruesome helix. My wrist and elbows slipped in my own blood on the kitchen linoleum a few times. Finally, I found Mom. She lay in the pantry with a needle and thread resting in her open palm, twitching.

Her pants strewned by cans of corn and peas. Blood ran down her thighs. She'd sewn her legs shut. She must have been compelled by the same force, duty-bound to punish herself for having me, for not making sure this all stopped with her. Those weren't my thoughts. They were eddies, and I knew because her voice filled me. She told me everything.

That's when it hit me. I collapsed on my elbows and rolled on the side opposite, Mom, because I couldn't bear to see her that way. Tears blurred my vision, but I stared at the covered mound of Grandma's recipes on the countertop. It's no wonder we didn't replicate the things Grandma made. Eddie's voice filled me again. She told me we had to be good, obedient girls, unless we wanted to get hurt.

She told me to clean up the blood before having guests. She told me I had the chance to be a better daughter than Mom. She told me not to run away like Mom did. She told me to listen. From behind, Eddie pulled my string, and my voice by my voice by, vomited her conventions. She told me God didn't need to know about anything happening here.

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.

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. You know,