The NoSleep Podcast - S25 Ep3: NoSleep Podcast S24E03

Episode Date: September 6, 2026

It's Episode 03 of Season 25. The frequency of fear brings you sounds of unsettling unreality."The Slurper" by Russell Nichols (Story starts around 00:03:40)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Claudius MooreCast: Narrator - Erin Lillis, Slurper - Kyle Akers"Attention Shoppers" by Z Martin (Story starts around 00:23:50)Produced by Jeff ClementCast: Narrator - Atticus Jackson, Intercom - Mike DelGaudio, Customer Service - Kyle Akers"Lester" by Philip Schaefer (Story starts around 00:44:50)Produced by Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Dan Zappulla, Ms. Gager - Mary Murphy"New and Improved!" by Lauren D. Rossi (Story starts around 01:06:10)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Jesse CornettCast: Narrator - Linsay Rousseau, Mom - Sarah Ruth Thomas, Dad - Mike DelGaudio"Forever" by Connor Isaac (Story starts around 01:37:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Phil MichalskiCast: Sarah - Marie Westbrook, Charles - Jeff Clement, Charles’ Mom - Mary MurphyThis episode is sponsored by:Weight Loss by Hims - Ready to reach your weight loss goals? Weight Loss by Hims and Wegovy®. Get a personalized, affordable plan that gets you. Go to Hims.com/nosleep.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Z Martin Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"Lester" 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.

Subsonic low sleep as you South for the no sleep You're listening to the No Sleep Podcast. Thanks for making us part of your horror soundtrack. I'm your host, David Cummings. I'm sure we all know that this is a fiction podcast. We tell tall tales here. And we're actors.

We portray people we're not. We put on stuff. silly voices that sound nothing like us in real life. This whole thing is just an exercise in duplicity, falsehood, and fakery. But this week, I want to get real with you. Be as authentic as I can. Because in a world where we're bombarded with fake ads, AI trickery, and untrustworthy information, authenticity is important.

We want to be fully based, in reality. So? Hi, I'm David. I'm a human. I'm a human male. There, doesn't that feel good? Okay, okay, enough of that nonsense, because you're here for horror. And one of the best ways horror can shake us up is when people are faced with things they think are real and genuine, only to have reality flipped on its head and their world come crushing down around them. On this episode, we have stories that do just that. Simple ordinary people living simple ordinary lives until... You guessed it, any sense of normality is thrown out the window.

So if you're looking for the calm and peace of mind based in reality, you've come to the wrong place. When this episode is over, we want you to exclaim, unreal! Brace yourself for the frequency of fear. In our first tale, things get sticky because we're talking about rice. A common food that we might not think much about in terms of how it grows. But you likely know rice requires a lot of water, especially in California.

And in this tale, shared with us by author Russell Nichols, we meet a rice farmer struggling to keep their rice farmer. patty's going, and it's not easy because there's something out there draining all the water. This tale has been produced by Claudius Moore and features performances by Aaron Lillis and Kyle Akers. So try to stay afloat, even when the water disappears due to the slurper. I didn't know a damn thing about rice when I inherited a 440 acre farm in Central California. It belonged to my husband's family. But then there was a boating accident on Clear Lake.

His parents died suddenly, and the land went to Dylan and me. I told him we should sell it, but he was checked out. Never really recovered from what happened. Not that I blame him. This past February, he took the old 12-gauge to the shed, left a mess I'm still cleaning up one way or another. Now it's just me and our chocolate lab, fudge, out of course. here in the middle of nowhere. We were getting by, barely, but enough, until the drought hit.

I don't know if this is the right place to pose this. I'm scared and desperate and hoping somebody out there can help, or at least tell me if you've seen anything like this before. It's hard to explain exactly. Actually, let me backtrack to May. That's when it really started. If you know anything about rice, you know they need water. Lots of it. Around here, family farmers grow nearly all of California's crop. But this drought's been taking a serious toll. So many fields going fallow. Like many folks out here, I've got no surface water thanks to the cutbacks. That means I have to pump expensive groundwater just to keep my paddy from drying out. For months, this was my routine. I'd wake up early and Fudge and I would walk. the land. We'd check the pumps, adjust the dams, make sure flood levels were right. I tried to keep the water about four and a half inches deep, enough to cover the mud and keep the weeds down. Without getting too deep into it, the Sacramento Valley's got an old system for distributing water from the

mountains to the coast. The oldest farms get first dips, and by that I mean pre-1914 old. Everybody else gets what's left. But the drought changed everything. The reservoirs ran low and the water districts had to hold back for health and safety. Basically, forest fires took priority. It hurt to pay for the expensive stuff, but it was either that or lose the crop and losing it felt like I'd be betraying my husband. Then this past May, I paid for it again. I woke up early that day, made coffee like usual. I even remember setting out two mugs like I do every now and then, thinking Dylan's just outside. Fudge and I did our morning routine. He splashed in puddles while I checked the pumps.

Everything was covered good. Then I went about my day. I drove into Calusa to grab some dog food and more ibuprofen for my knee. When I got back, everything was normal. That night fell asleep watching reruns of cheers, Dylan's favorite, while Fudge slept at the foot of the bed. The next morning, looking out the kitchen window, my bad knee nearly gave out.

All the water was gone. There was nothing left but patches of cracked mud baking in the early sunlight. I couldn't believe it. I went outside, even pinched myself thinking I was still dreaming. Fudge looked up at me just as confused. We stood there a good half hour, try to make sense of it?

Low-flying planes kept buzzing in the distance, scattering seeds. I ring the district and accused them of selling me trick water, which sounds just as stupid to me now as it did to the guy who picked up. When he suggested, I probably never switched on the pumps. I hung up on him. I called a couple folks in the county just to ask about their supply, but they told me theirs was just fine, so it was just me. I hate to admit it, but I started doubting myself.

I wondered if I did forget to switch on the pumps, like the rude man said. Was I that mushy in the head? I had a grandmother on my father's side who left the oven running one night. Paramedics found what was left of her body, melted to the linoleum, with one charred arm stretched out. Reaching for heaven, as my father described it. I've lived long enough to know you can't always trust what you tell yourself. But I had my routines and I had Fudge. I could trust Fudge.

At least I thought I could. But I'll get to that later. Anyway, I went ahead and bought more high-end water. I turned on the pumps and Fudge and I did our rounds. Even said out loud what was happening just so I could hear myself. You see me, Fudge? I'm opening pump number four. now. It took a few hours to flood the field. I ran some errands while waiting, and when I came back, the patty was full again. I wish I could say it gave me some relief, but after the other night,

I didn't feel so settled just yet. I decided I'd stay up all night. I fixed a beef stew for dinner, then loaded up on coffee, and parked myself by the back of the house facing the rice paddy. Ten o'clock came and went, then eleven. It was almost a little. It was almost a little. 12, and my eyes were getting heavy. Fudge was at my feet. It was pitch black outside, and the moon was hidden. Every now and then, I'd point my flashlight at the field to make sure the water was still there. It was. Felt a little stupid thinking it wouldn't be. Fudge, be honest, am I losing it out here? Fudge lifted his head for a second, then laid back down. I took that as a yes. Anyway, I needed more coffee, so I got up for a refill.

But as I did, Fudge perked up on full alert. What's wrong, boy? He stood there, peering out across the paddy. I couldn't see a thing in the darkness. I stood up, scanning the perimeter with my flashlight, left to right. Then just as I swept back to the left, I saw it. Now, I've lived in. in this area for a while now?

I've seen rot, fungus, tumors on cows. I've seen decomposed frogs and rat-tailed maggots. All kinds of craziness. After picking your husband's brain out of the shed wall with a paint scraper, there ain't much that can scare you. But this thing in front of me, it had me disturbed in ways I can't describe. It was hard to see from where I was stood.

We're one of those hats with a big brim, which didn't make sense at nighttime. Looked like it could be human, but didn't move much like one. It would take a few steps forward, then freeze, completely still. Then again, step, step, step, freeze. It was coming closer. My heart was rattling like a loose bolt on a combine. I wanted to fetch the shotgun but couldn't risk taking my eyes off it. Fudge barked.

The light beam trembled as I held the flashlight. This is private property. Come any closer and I will shoot you. It was at the edge of the patty now. The next thing it did nearly ran my soul out of my body. It got on its knees, bent over. took off its hat and lowered its face over the water. And it drank.

I'm not talking a sip or two. It was chugging all my water. The slurping echoed into the night. I couldn't move or speak. Watching it was bad enough, but those slurping sounds turned my stomach. Saliva filled my mouth and that beef stew was bubbling its way back up. It kept slurping. I swear on my husband's grave, it drank till there was nothing left to drink.

When it stood up, the water was gone. It wiped its mouth and looked up at me. Then Fudge took off. I shouted after him, but he was already darting across the dry field barking like crazy. Fudge, back! The slurper turned to Fudge. They were at eye level. Fudge stopped barking.

I don't know if it was whispering to him, or just staring, but it held Fudge's face in both hands. It's off him! I couldn't move fast because of my knee, but I started limping after him. I couldn't let him hurt my boy. I couldn't. I shouted again to let go, and this time it released him. Fudge came running back across the paddy, barking again,

but now he was barking at me. I didn't know what was going on. Across the field, the slurper stood up finally. It raised its. its hat slowly at me, as if thinking me. Then it walked off with that same step, step, step, freeze pattern. I was shaken like a leaf. Fudge wouldn't stop barking.

It hurt me to have to keep my boy outside, but after what I just witnessed, what was I supposed to do? I locked all the doors, including the doggie door, and slept with the 12-gauge instead of fudge. that night, except I hardly slept. I kept thinking about that slurper, whether or not I was seeing things, then trying to make sense of what I saw.

On one hand, it explained where my premium water disappeared to, but on the other, it didn't explain a damn thing. If I bought more water, I'd be spending money I didn't have to basically invite the slurper back. If I didn't pay, the field would go fallow, and I'd be out a good six figures. I thought about setting some kind of trap for it. But what kind? A bear trap?

I thought about poisoning the water? That was stupid. Just watched it with my own eyes drink up my rice patty. Hell, I didn't even know what this thing was, let alone what I'd do even if I did catch it. By sunrise, I checked on fudge. He was still outside, curled up by the door, looking depressed. I unbolted it, and he popped right up tail wagging. He seems normal.

But what was normal anymore? We walked the land, and I made my way to the spot where the slurper was. There were no footprints, no traces that anybody or anything was here. You saw it, Fudge. You saw it up close, didn't you, boy? Fudge wagged his tail. After last night, he'd do anything to get back in my good graces. The patty was bone dry.

I decided not to flood it again. If the slurper came back for water, I told myself I'd be ready with the 12 gauge to fill it with regret. When I woke up that night after a long nap, it took me a minute to remember what was what. But it didn't take long for the adrenaline to kick in. I grabbed the shotgun and crept out of a long. the room. Fudge bolted in front of me ready to go outside. It was dark, and I held my breath moving through the hallway into the kitchen. The moon was fuller, shining a little more light down on the field. I peered through the window. There's nothing I could see. I pointed the flashlight

out there, still nothing. I didn't want to get my hopes up, so I heated up some leftover stew and waited another hour. You think it's gone for good, Fudge? Fudge wagged his tail. My eyes hurt and I didn't see the point waiting around. Cut off the kitchen light and headed back to bed. Then I heard a knock from the back of the house. Fudge started barking.

I stayed still. No way I was answering that. I moved through the hall, keeping the shotgun. aimed at whatever dared to come through. Listening closely, I heard a voice. It was garbled and hard to make out, like somebody talking underwater. I didn't say a damn thing. Then a pale hand with a bunch of fingers.

I didn't count, but it was more than five, slid through the doggie door, inch by inch. until the slurper's arm was inside, bare and like crinkled paper. I kept my mouth shut. I don't let it grow. You can't let it grow. My knee was screaming at me as I crouched down. I aimed the muzzle through the doggie door and pulled that trigger.

In that split second, Dylan's feelings. Face flashed in front of me. Startled, I dropped the gun on the floor. Outside, I heard a squeal. Then running. Maybe I killed it. Maybe not, I can't say. Couldn't get that slurping sound out of my head.

But whatever it was, hasn't shown up again. I let three days go by without flooding the field. By the fourth, I bought more water. and flooded the paddy, thinking I could save the season. Rice usually takes just a few days to sprout. Nothing showed. For months, nothing showed. But in late July, something did show.

If you know anything about rice, you know this is when it flowers and grains start to form. The panicle pushes out from the stem. It's called heading. In August, right about now, the kernels fill out and the fields shift from green to golden. At least that's what's supposed to happen. That morning in July, Fudge and I did our routine, check the pumps, just at the dams. But there, out in the middle of the paddy, something was rising up from the muck. I almost stepped right on it thinking it was nothing but a patch of pale mud.

It was soft. and bloated and kind of see-through. If you ever peeled that film off the pot after boiling hot dogs, you might get an idea. Or like when a cow is giving birth, if you've ever seen that? I leaned in, shielded my mouth, afraid it would burst in my face.

Underneath this bubble, I saw things moving, like worms, but not worms, more like rice grains, wriggling together in unison. like little synchronized swimmers. Every few seconds, the whole thing would swell up, then sink back down, and the wriggling things would shift directions altogether.

It's really hard to explain. I took some pictures, but I got no clue what the hell this thing is. Fudge won't go near it, and I can't tell folks around here. If buyers catch wind, my ranch is dead in the water. That's why I'm reaching out. If anybody knows what this is, or what the hell I'm supposed to do with it or not do, please say something. It won't stop growing.

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Listen closely as we return to the frequency of fear. They call it a gig economy. People trying to earn a few bucks by taking jobs like driving for ride share companies or grocery delivery. It's not easy work, but some money is better than none. And in this tale, shared with us by author, Z. Martin, we meet a driver looking to pick up a late-night order, and when he gets to the store, things get a little weird.

This tale has been produced by Jeff Clement, and features performances by Atticus Jackson, Mike Delgado, and Kyle Akers. So if you're shopping in the wee hours, pay attention to the store staff, especially when you hear the announcement. Attention shoppers. Weekly slapped at my phone's alarm. It wasn't enough that I had to work for a living, but I also had to get out of bed. What kind of life was this? I slid my legs off the bed, forcing myself to sit up.

With eyes barely cracked, I pushed my way into the bathroom. The shower burst into life as I turned the squeaky knobs. Once the temp got to a reasonable degree of near scalding, I jumped in. Once I was thoroughly clean, I turned the water off and got myself dry. The clothes I had worn from the previous day still smelled reasonably fresh, so I threw them on. No point wasting another set of clothes when there was no one to impress. I was constantly on a timer at work. No time to stop and flirt with a potential mate.

Feeling the weight of my keys in my pocket, I headed to the front door, snatching a Pop-Tart from the box. It wasn't until I stepped out into the hallway that I realized I had forgotten a very important thing. I wasn't wearing any shoes. With a sigh, I turned around and closed the door. I could just stay home. That's when my eyes fell on the stack of bills on the counter.

Another sigh and I was off to find my shoes. Bills had to get paid some way. And since there was nobody to share them with, that responsibility fell to me. I slid my shoes on and admired myself in the mirror. All black attire from head to toe. Baggy shirt on top of baggy pants. A few rainbow bracelets to tie the whole thing together. I didn't look half bad, if I did say so myself.

Hell, I'd do me. A quick pocket check for the essentials, phone keys, cards, and I was out the door yet again. A beater of a car sat in the parking garage, snug as a bug. I don't mean that as in it was safe. No, I literally had to squeeze my way into the door because of how close together all the cars were. The old black Dunday Sinatra squealed the life

as I turned the key in the ignition. A bang echoed throughout the garage as I threw my baby in reverse and eased my way out. Once I had pulled out safely, I angled my way towards the exit and grabbed my phone. The quickly entered pin got the screen going with the app I needed already pulled up waiting for me. Shoppers was the latest and greatest and online laziness for the masses. All the customers had to do was order whatever they wanted in the business's app,

pay for it, then click the little button titled Shoppers. Once they had followed the directions, the Shoppers app sent out an all-hands-on deck alert to its thousands of paid delivery drivers. One lucky driver would accept and pick up the order from the business. The customer would then be graced with a quick delivery to their residents or wherever they specified. The reason why so many were transitioning to shoppers was for its timeliness guarantee. Shoppers believed that your order should be completed in a timely manner because your time was precious to you. So any time an order was marked complete by the store, the lucky number was made.

driver had 30 minutes to get it from the store and into your hands. If the driver was late by even one minute, they had to pay the customer $5 out of their own pockets for the inconvenience. What a world we live in. Thankfully, I had drawn the lucky straw and got the night shift. Less customers in stores meant less people to fight my way through. The later it got, the less traffic that was on the streets. Also, most people that were ordering this late at night were intoxicated, so they weren't the best in telling if you were late or not. In my whole time, as a shopper's driver, I only had to pay out to a customer once. The lady had a sick kid at home and

was in desperate need of some medicine. Luckily for her, I had gotten the notification and picked it up. Unluckily for me, the business had marked the order ready when they had even started it. The lady wouldn't listen to a word I had to say on it, so I'd handed her the money and moped my way back to work. My phone dinged, alerting me to a potential

customer. In a flash, my fingers had accepted the request before any drivers could snatch it up. Stomping at a red light, I looked at my phone to see where I was headed. The customer had ordered a few things from the Scots Club just of the street. I smiled to myself as I set the phone down.

Hmm. Easy money. I whipped my car into the empty lot. The engine sputtered as I turned it off. I was really going to have to get that fixed up at some point. Maybe I needed to look for a better paying job soon. Shugging off that notion, I grabbed my phone and threw open my door. The Scots Club was ramshackle to say the least.

Half the letters weren't lit up, and the lights above the front door flickered constantly. You'd think being the only grocery store in town, they'd be able to afford some repairs. They were blasted down on me from above as I entered the sliding doors. They're squealing announcing my arrival to the non-existing clientele. An older man stood just on the other side of the EAS system, the big pillar thingies to stop thieves. His smile stretched across his face as he stared ahead, waiting to greet the next customer. I smiled back at him as I approached.

It wasn't until I got closer that I realized he wasn't even looking at me. His eyes were glazed over, staring directly past me. My smile faltered. What the fuck is he on? The man's gaze snapped to me. I jolted back at the suddenness of his actions. Without a word, he continued smiling as his eyes looked through me. I took a few hesitant steps forward, seeing if he would follow me.

After a few moments, his head jerked around, locking on to me again. His grin stretched even further. Slowly, his right hand rose to face level. In a metronomic rhythm, it's strong. Swung back and forth, obscuring his face on every pass. I watched on, hypnotized of what was happening in front of me. Attention shoppers. Will William Burkhart please head to the customer service desk?

We have your purse. My head cleared, and I noped away from the creepy-ass greeter. As I headed towards the customer service desk, I spared a glance back to see the man standing still. The creepy smile remained plastered on his face. My hips bumped into the desk, sending a jolt of pain through my body. Hello there. How can I help you? The skinny kid behind the counter stood a whole foot above me.

He leaned in inspecting me. Like the greeter, he had a smile that lit up his old face. You don't look like Kim Gold. You aren't missing a leg. What in the fuck was he talking about? Yeah, I'm a shoppers. I'm here to pick up an order for... I rummaged in my pocket for my phone. I opened the screen to see the bars of service were non-existent.

Luckily, this place had Wi-Fi. The notification on my phone read, Order for Thomas Stewart. Time remaining, 25 minutes. Thomas Stewart. The kid's smile faded for a split second before returning. Of course. Just head to our pickup station in the back.

They should have it ready for you. Thank you. They usually had the orders waiting at the front. Must be a new policy. No matter, I still had plenty of time to retrieve the order and get it over to the customer. I turned away from the desk and started for the back of the store. Isle stacked with all the latest sweet treats blurred by as I speedwalked. My stomach rumbled as my eyes saw things I longed to buy and munch on.

This wasn't the time to shop for me, though. I had to get this guy's order. Attention choppers. Will William Burkhart please go to the customer service desk? We have your leg. The fuck did they just say? Did this William guy really just leave his prosthetic limb laying around? I don't they even know it's his.

Did he write his name on the inside of it? I chuckled to myself as the ridiculousness of the situation played out in my head. Imagining a man hopping down the aisles trying to get to the customer's service desk to retrieve his missing leg. Night shift was where all the fun happened. My feet came out from under me. Before I could even realize what was happening, my head slightly. I slammed against the tiled floor. Pain rocketed throughout my body.

All the breath left my lungs as I tried to yell out. I lay there dazed with my eyes closed, on my back as I waited for the pain to subside. Slowly, I managed to get my breathing regulated. I took my hands away from my head and placed them on the floor to try and pick myself back up. As soon as they made contact, I winced and pulled them away. The floor was covered in something wet.

Cautiously, I opened my eyes to the blinding fluorescence above and held my hands in front of me. They were covered in bright red blood. I could smell the overpowering scent of copper now that I was in an excruciating pain. My feet slipped under me as I tried to backpedal away from the large pool of blood I found myself laying in. I slid further and further away before rolling onto my stomach and using my knees to get myself up. The world spun around me as I stood. The trail of red had followed me in my effort to stand again.

Cautiously, I stepped forward and peered around the corner of the shelves. Laying there, barely within sight, was the body of a man missing his left leg. The pool of blood had come from the shredded stump of a thigh. Vomit rocketed out of my mouth, mixing with the pool of blood. I gasped for breath and felt my feet begin moving under me. They were taking me deeper into the store, away from the body as fast as they could. My head screamed at me to turn around and go back.

Please dispose of bodily fluids and appendages in their proper places. Fuck this shit. Through that customer's order. Sorry, Thomas, but you won't be giving your midnight snacks today. I slid to a halt and turned down the aisle to my left. As soon as I had cleared the products, I swiveled around and started running back towards the front of the store. I froze as I saw the greeter standing at the end of the aisle.

His smile still lit up his face as his arm mechanically swung in front of it. We stared each other down from our respective ends of the aisle. Slowly, he began to approach. My heart skipped with each step he took as I stood, rooted in place. All children are close at hand. Any unattended children or small pets will be sacrificed to the god of chaos. Thank you for choosing Scott's Club for all your perverse needs. The crackle of the speakers freed me.

During the short announcement, the old greeter had managed to close the distance between us. I could smell his rotting breath with every pass of his hand. I shoved him as hard as I could. I watched him fall over backwards as soon. stiff as a board. His hand never broke rhythm as his body hit the floor and shattered.

Dust flew up from the scattered remains as I watched on in horror. What the fuck was going on in this place? Security to aisle 203, 498-769. A thud shook

the products on the displays around me. Whatever was coming for me, I didn't want to stay to see. I ran through the dust of the old man, his still waving arms snatching at the hem of my pants leg. Another thud shook the ground beneath me, sending me hurtling forward. A burst of heat mixed with the stench of rot spread over my back. The clacking of claws on tile echoed from behind me. My bladder released. I was going to die here. A minimum wage nobody with a stack of bills and nobody to remember them.

Eaton or dismembered by whatever the fuck was making its way towards me. My phone went off in my pocket, presumably letting me know the timer for the delivery was almost up. I pulled it out, hoping I could send off one last text. message or status update. The notification from the shoppers app filled the screen. I still had 25 minutes left. Attention shoppers. William Burkhart.

Please report to the customer service desk. I watched the time on my phone go from 25 to 24. Hesitantly, I looked behind me, expecting a beast be staring me down. There was nothing. Slowly I got to my feet. Embarrassment shot through me as I felt my wet jeans stick to my skin. On shaky legs, I made my way to the front of the store, keeping my head down.

Did you find everything you were looking for? I gasped as the voice called out. Didn't mean to frighten you. It was the skinny kid from the customer service desk. My heart sank as I saw the blood smeared around his mouth. You aren't William Burkhard. You have both your legs. He lifted the severed leg in his arms to his mouth,

taking another bite from the flesh. I screamed as my legs propelled themselves toward the door. The old man still still. Stood there waving, his body now full of cracks. His vest covered in dust. I slammed against the doors. They rattled, but held firm. Tears streamed down my eyes as I desperately fiddled with the logging mechanism.

Security to front door. My heart skipped a beat as I heard the lock disengage. A thud attempted to bring me to me to... my knees. Thankfully, my grip on the door kept me upright. I threw myself into the night. The chilly air filled my lungs as I ran towards my car. Once inside the safety of my metal death trap, I spared a glance at the glass doors. Two red orbs surrounded by black smoke stared at me from behind the glass of the doors. I turned the key in the ignition and through the car and drive.

My tires squealed as I punched the accelerator to the floor. Once I was safely out of the parking lot, I fished my phone out of my pocket and opened the shopper's app. I had never felt so happy to hit the cancel button. I breathed a sigh of relief, seeing the cancellation confirmed notice. The phone hit the passenger seat with the thudenceau. as I turned on the radio.

Screw work and screw bills. I was headed home to soak in a hot bath. Attention shoppers. There is no escape. Chaos comes. I could hardly understand the burst of static the radio emitted. With the press of a button, I turned it off and drove on. If you've ever packed up your entire life to move to a new place to live, you know it's an arduous task.

Even more difficult if you're older. That's why one dear, sweet old lady asks her younger neighbor for help. But in this tale, shared with us by author Philip Schaefer, The packing isn't the hard part. It's the old woman's dog that is far more disconcerting. This tale has been produced by Phil Mikulski and features performances by Dan Zepula and Mary Murphy. So don't worry, I'm sure he's a good boy.

Go over and rub his belly and you'll meet Lester. I only knew Miss Gager for a short time, and in those few days, I learned things I wish I never knew. At the time I lived in Madison in a small three-story apartment building on the third floor. It was nice for the cost. It had a kitchen, a sitting room with windows facing out back,

a bedroom, full bathroom, and an adjoining walking closet. It was room 24. I'm sharing this because the apartment complex isn't there anymore. It's been gone for about a year now. I worked at a cramped coffee shop two blocks over. I don't even know why I worked there. The pay was terrible, my co-workers couldn't do crap, and the customers, they were just rude.

But anyway, one day I got this knock on my door, and it was my neighbor directly one floor down, Miss Gager. She was old, frail, a little short, and smelled like window cleaner. I didn't know her that well, apart from the few exchanges we had as I passed her on my way down the stairs. I gathered that she was nice in the way that most old ladies were, but concerning her life, I was clueless, and I felt a little bad, too. I mean, I'd already been living there for just about two years, and I practically knew everyone else on my floor and the one below. With Ms. Gager, I hadn't even tried.

She gave me a little smile and asked how my day was. I remember telling her it was going fine and making some remark about the weather we had been getting. She then threw out a request. I'm moving out very soon, and I could use some help cleaning the room up and packing boxes. It's nothing too hard. but for an old woman like me,

I can barely make it down the stairs anymore. You seem like a strong young man. I bet you could get it done in a few hours. I was a little stunned at this sudden confrontation. Why was she coming to me for help? I hardly knew her. But, of course, I couldn't refuse. I wasn't heartless, and I wanted to make up for my ignorance.

And plus, she said she paid me for my work. I really couldn't turn down some extra money. The next day, I was one floor down, knocking on room 14. I wasn't waiting for long. Ms. Gager swung the door open and ushered me inside. The layout was identical to mine, but all the furniture was way fancier in that 1960s. 60s kind of way, and everything smelled of cleaner.

She had this big pile of boxes in the living room, some already full and many not. She explained what she wanted me to do, where to put certain items, how to wrap fragile plates and cups. You get the idea. So I got to work, filling boxes, and taping them shut. Ms. Gager guided me through the job, making it very clear to me that she wanted everything to be perfect. But as I was working, I started to hear something from the other room. A sound that still haunts me to this day.

It sounded like a dog approaching, you know, claws clicking on wood floors. Only something wasn't right. It sounded exactly like a dog, but just off. When I looked up from where I stooped over a box of chinaware, I saw why I'd been confused. The sight turned my blood cold. It was a dog, a huge dog, like the kind you see in record books. But that wasn't the bad part.

The dog was standing upright, its head almost to the ceiling. Its eyes were black and wide, staring straight at me. and it wasn't moving. You'd expect a dog on its rear legs to be swaying unsteadily, but this thing was perfectly still. It was just standing there, not barking, not wagging its tail, just staring. I must have cried out an alarm because I remember Ms. Gager laughing.

She said it was just her dog, Lester. She explained how just... a few weeks ago she had gotten him at a shelter across town. She said that the day after she got him, Lester just got up and decided to walk around like a human. I haven't seen him on all four since. I just think it's the cutest thing. Cute is not the word I would use to describe it. It was one of those giant dogs. Great Danes, I think they're called, but everything about it was all. wrong. Its legs were too long and too straight, and its fur-covered skin was thin and pulled tight

against its bony frame, revealing a rack of ribs. I wondered if Ms. Gager was even feeding it. So I asked her. She thought that was a ridiculous question. Of course she had been feeding Lester. It was normal for a dog of his size to look a little underweight. That's what we're what she'd been told at the animal shelter. She was following the directions she'd been given to the letter. She again reassured me that Lester was an angel and wouldn't hurt a fly. Eventually, I returned to my work, just trying to ignore the dog and finish the job as quickly as possible.

Yet the whole time I was tense, my heart never seemed to calm down. I was constantly being watched by that. that creature. I could feel its eyes on the back of my head as I packed up an antique phone. I saw it watching me when I took down a lamp fixture. Despite what Ms. Gager would say, I didn't believe that Lester was just a dog. Dogs don't spend their entire lives walking around on two legs. That's wrong. Their anatomy isn't built to support themselves in an upright position. Lester shouldn't have been able to stand like that. It was against the laws of nature.

Now, before I continue, let me just say this. Normally, I love dogs. I grew up with them and had two golden retrievers when I was young. They were the best, always wagging their tails and licking your face, chewing on our carpets, and barking at cyclists and Girl Scouts selling cookies. They loved playing rough. and could spend hours fetching a ball in our small backyard.

Lester didn't seem to do any of these things. In fact, I think the only dog-like thing about him was that he looked like a dog. Just a really, really messed up one. After about an hour, I realized that I would not be able to finish as quickly as I had hoped. Ms. Gager really had an absurd amount of things scattered about, and I was hardly making a dent in the process. I ended up telling Miss Gager that I

had to go because of work at three. That was a lie, but I didn't care. I just had to get out of there. I couldn't stand that dog. Ms. Gager was understanding and didn't try to keep me there any longer. I told her I would come back tomorrow and finish the job. I don't know why I said that. and walking back up to my apartment, I was regretting it already. The next evening, I was back after a long shift at the cafe. I was practically asleep already, but I'd made a commitment. I wasn't going to back down. I told myself that Lester really wasn't that creepy.

I made myself believe that it was all really funny. A dog walking around on its legs is funny, right? Once again, Ms. Gager greeted me at the door with a toothy smile and moved aside to let me in. I took a step through the doorway and stopped. I saw the dog. It wasn't standing like it had been yesterday. It was sitting on the couch, propped up tall like a person watching a football game. Only, it wasn't watching the TV.

It was looking at me. From across the apartment, it was just staring at me with its deep-set eyes and soundless presence. I wanted it to bark. I wanted it to get down on all fours and come greet me with a thumping tail. I wanted it to do something that any normal dog would do. But it didn't. It just stayed where it was. I remember Ms. Gager was happy to see me,

chattering away about how she had seen a robin out on the window sill. It was early spring at this time, and the snow was just beginning to melt off the roads. I guess spring was Miss Gager's favorite season or something, because she just kept on talking about flowers coming up soon, or about how the sun was starting to feel warm again. Eventually, she led me back to the living room and told me I could continue where I left off yesterday. But that dog, I couldn't work there. Not with it sitting there following my every movement.

I actually ended up telling Miss Gager that I wasn't comfortable being so close to the dog. I know that sounds stupid and cowardly, but I really felt weird around it. Ms. Gager looked a little confused, but she didn't press me about my reasons. She just told Lester to get down and go away. Lester cocked his head just slightly at Miss Gager, then stood up straight from the couch, towering over me with its head almost to the ceiling. It walked to the bedroom and disappeared inside.

I remember as it went through the doorway it had to bend over so as not to bump its large head. It was all so wrong. But needless to say, I was able to get some boxes packed once the dog was out of my sight. I was even able to get some small talk in with Ms. Gager. I learned some stuff about her, too. It turned out that her father had fought in Germany during World War II.

She pointed out a black and white photograph I was putting away that showed her as a child, probably only three years old. In the arms of her father, who was clad in the typical military attire of the time, They were both smiling, bright smiles. Apparently, that was the last time she saw her dad. I figured it was a good time to drop that subject, and I continued my task in silence. I had made a lot of good progress,

including getting all the tableware packed away. Ms. Gager announced that she wanted to get out of the apartment in two days. I didn't see how that would be possible. The apartment was nowhere near ready, and I told her this. She looked at me and shook her head slowly. I have to be out in two days. There isn't much time left. Whether it was something in the way she said it or the way she was looking at me,

I suddenly got the chills like a pair of cold hands were gripping my shoulders. My head instinctively moved to the bedroom doorway. Lester was there, standing just behind the frame. His head ducked low and peering out. His eyes were so large, so black, so deep in his head. I decided I had worked enough that day. On my way out, Ms. Gager told me she would only need my help one more day. She'd pay me tomorrow.

I told her that was fine and I would be there in the morning. I just wanted to get the job done and forget about the whole ordeal altogether. I never thought. I wouldn't see Ms. Gager ever again. That night I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about how that dog was just below me somewhere beneath the floor. I imagined it slept standing up, looming in the dark. How did Ms. Gager live with that thing?

I decided to call my friend John. After a dozen attempts, he finally picked up, sounding dazed and annoyed. I tried to explain things as best I could, but either he was just too tired to understand, or he thought I was crazy or something, because we didn't talk for long. I shut off my phone and tried to think about anything besides Lester. I ended up keeping my bedside lamp on all night.

The next morning was Saturday. It was one of those eerie mornings, full of dark, looming clouds, and the steady downfall of rain. I took my time at the breakfast table, turning my spoon slowly in a bowl of cereal and taking careful sips from watery coffee. I didn't usually work on Saturdays,

so I decided to head down to Ms. Gagers to finish the job. I should have known something was wrong, as soon as I saw the note on her door. I should have paid more attention to the signs earlier. I never should have gone back in. But I was oblivious to it all. I took the note down and read it. Gone out, I will be back shortly.

Feel free to start without me. The note was written with black pen, and the handwriting was a little sloppy as if it had been written in a hurry, that should have been sign enough that something was amiss. I should have called the police then. I never should have let myself into that dark, dark apartment. But I did, and what happened next is why I decided to write this.

When I first stepped through the doorway, I was surprised to discover that the apartment was mostly empty. The boxes I'd been filling the previous two days were gone, as was most of the furniture. I could still see the bed in the next room over. But besides a few smaller tables, the apartment was bare. Evidently, it seemed like Ms. Gager had gotten some more help after I had left yesterday. And what about Lester? I didn't see him anywhere.

Then I noticed a single box left in the living room. I approached it and saw that there was a paper resting on top of it. It was another note written in black pen. Only this time, it contained just a single word, photographs. I saw some pictures hanging on the wall to my right and figured they were the ones Ms. Gager wanted taken down. I walked over to the wall and retreat. the first one, taking a quick glance.

I had to stop myself and look at the photo again. It was another black and white photograph of Ms. Gager as a child, standing in front of a wooden fence with a pasture on the other side. This time, however, she was a couple years older and wasn't with her father. But she wasn't alone. That dog was with her. It was Lester, standing behind her, his gaze fixated on whoever was taking the picture. I felt sick.

What was that thing doing in that picture? Ms. Gager had said she'd just gotten Lester at the shelter. And the time that the picture had been taken, no dog can live 80 years. My eyes rose to the other pictures hanging in front of me. Lester was in every single one of them. I was going to puke. This couldn't be happening. It was impossible.

Suddenly I heard it, a sound like a low, wine, coarse and deep, just barely audible coming from the bedroom. I remember freezing, the picture slipping from my fingers. I wasn't alone in the apartment. The doorway to the bedroom was just to my right. Something was in there, and I knew what. It took every fiber in my being to lean half a foot and peek into that awful darkness.

I expected to see that thing standing up in one of the corners, staring at me with its paws hanging at its side, and its head drawn low in front of its... starving body. I expected it to be right there, shrouded in the dark shadows of the windowless room, upright as it always was. I did not expect it to be under the bed. And yet, I saw it there, its face deep beneath the mattress, its hollow eyes reflecting some unseen light. And there was blood, There was blood underneath the bed where Lester hid. Then the smell hit me.

It smelled like death. Lester let out another slow wine. I screamed. I had never been so terrified, so repulsed, so shocked in all my life. I backed away blindly and tripped over the empty box meant for photographs. I hit the floor hard. Lester didn't wait for me to get back up. I watched in horror as it seemed to slither out from beneath the bed

and then rise to its full height. It then ran straight towards me, making this awful noise like a laughing hyena. I lunged to the side and grabbed the leg of one of the small tables and hurled it at the creature. It wasn't a good throw, I'll admit it. But it still hit the thing and caused it to miss its footing. It fell to the floor and started snarling and thrashing about like fish on the deck of a boat. Its paws were soaked wet with red and it was having trouble standing up.

I saw my chance and sprung up on my own two legs sprinting towards the door. I reached it and it was still unlocked. Thank God. I got out of there and ran all the way out of the apartment building and down the street for a mile. It wasn't until I was sitting on a park bench, gasping for air, that I started to relax again. The sun had come out at this point. I called the police. They ended up searching the apartment and found Ms. Gager dead. Lester wasn't found. I ended up moving away about a week later after quitting my job. Now I live a hundred miles away, renting out a small apartment with the roommate.

Today I'm working for a mechanic at an auto shop. The pay is better than the coffee shop at least. No one has really believed me when I've shared this story. I wouldn't expect them to. I didn't write this with the intent for you to believe me. I wrote this for myself. I don't know why, but maybe you do. Silence.

Join us again next time. Sonic is presented by creative re-musical scores. Were composed by Brandon Boone, Mikulski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornett, and Claudius Mawriss Jessica McAvoy, Kristen Samito, and executive producer, David Cummings, For how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us. Just visit sleepless.com to learn about the sleepless universe.

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