The NoSleep Podcast - S25 Ep4: NoSleep Podcast S25E04

Episode Date: September 13, 2026

It's Episode 04 of Season 25. The frequency of fear brings you frightening families."Edge of Decay" by Angela Sylvaine (Story starts around 00:04:40)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Claudius MooreCast: Narrator - Sarah Ruth Thomas, Dad - Jesse Cornett"My Father, the Mountain" by Josh Poole (Story starts around 00:23:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Reagen Tacker, Shopkeeper - Jesse Cornett"The Barfly" by José Ramírez (Story starts around 00:45:00)Produced by Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Erin Lillis, Luke - Jeff Clement, Dion - Peter Lewis, Lucille - Nichole Goodnight, Bartender - Graham Rowat, Not Luke - Jeff Clement"1-900-SEE-EVIL" by Viggy Parr Hampton (Story starts around 01:09:45)Produced by Jeff ClementCast: Jamie - Linsay Rousseau, Marie - Mary Murphy, Gran - Danielle McRae, Uncle Jonas - Graham Rowat"Her Brother’s Keeper" by David A. Anthony (Story starts around 01:21:30)Produced by Jesse CornettCast: Narrator - Mike DelGaudio, Quinn - Marie Westbrook, Brendan - Dan Zappulla, Colt - Atticus JacksonThis episode is sponsored by:Betterhelp - This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. Take a step towards a better you. Our listeners get 10% off their first month at betterhelp.com/nosleep.Mint Mobile - Ditch overpriced wireless with Mint Mobileís deal and get premium wireless service for 15 bucks a month. Cut your wireless bill to 15 bucks a month at mintmobile.com/nosleepDripDrop - Take hydration seriously with DripDrop's award-winning taste and doctor-developed electrolyte powder. Trusted by the best! Get 20% off your first order by using promo code NOSLEEP at dripdrop.comClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teaClick here to learn more about the First Cut Film Festival 2026Click here to learn more about Angela SylvaineClick here to learn more about Viggy Parr Hampton Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"My Father, the Mountain" illustration courtesy of Jen TracyThe NoSleep Podcast is Human-made for Human Minds. No generative AI is used in any aspect of work.Audio program ©2026 - Creative Reason Media - The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media. No part of this audio program may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. All rights reserved.

At subsonic, closely as you brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. You're listening to the No Sleep Podcast. Thanks for making us part of your horror soundtrack. I'm your host, David Cummings. How are you, my sleepless family? It's your podfather, checking in and hoping all my fully braced children are doing well. I'm so happy we're all a part of one big loving, scared family.

It's a deep and abiding connection that joins us as one big family of horror. Yeah, I can't keep this up. Look, I really do like the idea that all of us share a certain connection inso much as we all listen to this podcast, and some of you even really enjoy. enjoy it. But let's face it, aren't all of us over this idea of the family so many groups want to pitch to us? If you drive a Ford, are you part of the Ford family? You shop at Wegmans, so are you in the Wegmans family? I'll bet even the most ardent customer of, say, Verizon

doesn't want to think of themselves as being in the Verizon family of customers. Families are people we live with, grew up with, people with whom we share not only a biological connection, but also shared experiences. And speaking of shared experiences, I want to make a quick announcement about this year's first cut film festival happening in Wilmington, North Carolina, this October 10th. The No Sleep podcast is, for the second year, one of the main sponsors of this horror short film festival. I'll be at the fest, or along with some other members of the No Sleep family. I mean, team, the No Sleep Team.

Check the show notes to learn more about the festival. And if you're in or around the southeast part of North Carolina, consider checking it out. We've got an amazing lineup of short films that you might say are suddenly shocking. So, families. Like they say, you can choose your friends, but you can't choose your family. and some people really wish they could choose who they're related to, like the people we'll meet in this episode.

For this week, our tales involve people who are either dealing with, working for, being tormented by, or simply trying to figure out their family members. People who are most definitely united by blood. So since we can choose our friends, I'll say, Thank you, friends, for sharing this experience with us. Horror, in this case, is all relative. Now brace yourself for the frequency of fear.

In our first tale, we meet a young woman living a rather miserable life with her miserable parents. And it's not just the fact that they live in squalor. You see, in this tale, shared with us by author Angela Scare, Sylvain. The young woman enjoys hearing the music her brother makes on his keyboard. Music she hears even after it stops. This tale has been produced by Claudius Moore and features performances by Sarah Thomas and Jesse Cornett. So listen. Listen for the music and find meaning in it even if you live on the edge of decay. The music was and is my only relief.

Before, a small used Casio keyboard squeezed a little of the rot from inside me. Every time those off-key notes slipped beneath my bedroom door, even my parents, whose anger at each other, at the world, at what their lives had become, stopped shouting at the sound of that little keyboard. Now, a single organ plays a very different song, a thumping, repetitive bass line overlaid by a careless smattering of high notes in a minor key that twists something inside me,

at once wrenching and comforting. Death changes a person's song. I was 13 when we moved into the trailer, covered in corrugated steel painted a yellow that was already sun-fated and chipping. The backyard butted up to a gravel road that, once crossed, led to open fields filled with prairie dog burrows. Past the field, a set of train tracks. Prairie dog yelps and the blare of the horn often woke me back then. But the dogs and the trains are long gone.

That first day, I raced Sam for the bigger room. at the front of the trailer. At five years old, his size alone meant he couldn't win, a fact I used to my advantage, as big sisters often do. I won the race. Wood paneling covered every inch of every wall in our new home, lending a darkness to the space that no amount of lamplight could dispel. But daylight helped, and my room had two windows, a large bay that took up the entire wall facing the street and a small side window, the organ window. Our parents' room sat at the opposite end of the trailer, far enough away that some of their fights were muffled. Sam's room was right beside mine. When he played the Casio keyboard, he'd

spent a quarter on at a rummage sale, the notes drifted down the short hallway, seeped beneath my door, and reminded me there was one good, pure thing in my life. Other sounds fought hard to stop me believing in that good thing. The train rushing past on rusted tracks, metal scraping on metal in a sound that hurt my bones. My parents' fights, yelling that turned to the thump of fists on flesh, the prairie dog screaming when a hawk invaded their happy little dens to snatch one of their babies with a sharp beak. When dad drank too much, he and his friends made a game of hurling potatoes against the living room wall. The hollow thunk shook the walls and settled in the pit of my stomach.

To someone else, their chuckles might have sounded like they were having fun, but it had a pained quality to it, like a child's laughter hiding tears after a cruel snake bite twist skin and muscle. One bad winter, fierce hailstorms raged, a pounding of ice on metal that threatened to tear our trailer apart. Afterward, I dreamt of machine gun bullets firing through the bay window in a deafening roar, their path unleashing an explosion of glass and dust and tattered curtains in the air. After the nightmares and the potatoes and the screams, the Cassio brought me back, drew my head just enough above the water that I could suck in a deep breath before being pulled back under. until the day there was no more music.

That night I lay in my bed, which sets flush against the small side window with the headboard against the wall below the bay. My good thing was gone, and I waited, almost hoped, to drown. The breadth of the first note of the organ filled my lungs, and I sat up, knowing there was nothing in my room capable of making that sound.

It continued to play, coming from right beside me. I looked out the small window by my bed, but saw only an open patch of grass, the neighbor's driveway and his trailer. At the time, a man lived there with his dog. A German shepherd kept outside all winter with only a rickety doghouse to shelter from the brutal cold. The dog would whine, soft and sad,

until I had to clamp my hands over my ears. The phantom organ played all night, the notes blooming from the air itself. I didn't ask my parents if they heard it, knew they hadn't. The song was just for me, and it's been visiting me, playing for me,

every day since from the organ window. And each day I'm closer to understanding what Sam is trying to tell me. shoving the snarls of my dark hair from my face, I wrap an old afghan tight around my shoulders and push back the curtain to climb onto the ledge of the bay. Two pieces of corrugated metal form a wedge beneath the window, an enclosure for the trailer's hitch.

I'd used to sneak out a few times, a step between the window and the ground, but the edges of the metal are sharp and sliced deep into the meat of my palm once. Maybe it got a taste for blood that. day. A blanket of white covers the streets and dead patches of grass and caving roofs, the unmarred brightness of it hurting my eyes. There are no neighbors left, only abandoned trailers sporting smashed windows and sagging frames, sandwiched between empty lots marked by driveways of cracked cement. My hometown has curled in on itself, contracting in a last effort to stay alive and sacrificing the

appendages of the outer edges to decay. As if summoned by my sadness, the music joins me and I smile, glad for the company. Slipping from the ledge, I sway in the middle of my room. The notes are always soft, even from my spot in bed, but they live inside me now. My mind replicates the song and amplifies it until my bones vibrate with music. The tune is different today, as if some missing line of harmony has been added, and Sam's song is finally complete. My stockinged feet, soundless on the carpeted floor, I drift through the door to my room and into the hallway that takes me past his room. It's empty now. Not a single toy, piece of furniture, or shred of clothing remains. They were all burned in a giant heap in the backyard. Even that little Cassio. The jagged

ring of burnt earth is still there beneath the thin layer of snow. The wood grain of the wall shifts and curls, warping into the innocent, giggling figures of children. His ghostly playmates I hope, so I don't have to imagine he's alone in the dark. Let's play, the children call, scampering from one snarl of wood grain to the next in writhing twists. They lead me through the living room, past the recliner and sagging sofa, where my parents sit staring blankly at the TV,

their sun-weathered faces drooping like melted wax. They still hate each other, hate everything, but after Sam, They went quieter. The children frolic along the walls and into the kitchen. In a whirl that surrounds me, they turn to shadows that slide across the fermica table and skitter across the ceiling.

The figures solidify again on the far wall of the kitchen, resuming their wood grain dance on the wall and cabinets above the stove. My dad sneers from his spot in the recliner. Make yourself useful. and cook dinner. I smile. That's just what Sam wants, too. I fill a pot with water and set it to boil over the licking blue flames of the gas burner,

then pull a box of mac and cheese from the cupboard. He loved hot dogs and his, cut into little discs. We don't have any hot dogs, but there's another special ingredient that will make dinner perfect. The music whispers. The pot bubbles, and I stir it. in the macaroni, watching the half-moon swirl in the water in a dance of their own. I join in and turn circles on the cracked linoleum. My mom says something insulting, but I'm insulated in my cocoon of music, and the words hit and bounce off, not even leaving a bruise. I strain the noodles and stir in the

powdery cheese, extra margarine, milk, and the special ingredient. The day goes. The day, glow oranges muted a bit by the brown powder, but no one will be able to tell in the dim light. After dishing my parents' dinner into two bowls, the music pauses, opening a space for a memory. Dad took Sam up on the roof. I tried to stop him, but we had leaks and the boy needed to learn hard work. He was only eight, too small to labor under the hot sun painting on tar sielant. When footsteps sounded overhead, small ones running, heavier ones stomping. I knew dad had lost his temper. A roar rose in dad's throat, and I followed the footsteps through the living room, down the narrow hallway, and into my bedroom, throwing open the curtains on my bay window.

Sam fell or was pushed from the roof and slammed down on that wedge of corrugated steel. He saw me, his wide brown eyes meeting mine and his mouth forming the shape of my name. A scream tore from my throat as I threw open the window and reached for him, grabbing one small limp hand. But his eyes had gone dull, and his body bent unnaturally over the metal, his head and legs dangling over either side. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and oozed from his torso to drip down the ripped metal in a grotes.

Hesk waterfall. Sucking in a breath, I blink away the image of that terrible day. Tears burn my eyes, and I gripped the edge of the counter. I know his death wasn't my fault, but I could have stopped what came after. Mom and dad didn't scream or cry. They didn't try to save him or call an ambulance. While I huddled in the window, sobbing, they cleaned up the mess. There were still a few others living in the park then, so they had to be quick. They wrapped Sam's tiny broken body in an oil-stained canvas tarp and shoved him beneath the porch, then bleached away the blood. After dark, they removed the skirt of metal just below my side window, dug a hole, and buried my baby brother. Mom and Dad made sure to tell me I'd join him if I ever said anything to anyone.

I waited in my bed for the darkness to consume me, but Sam saved me, finding life again in the sorrowful melody of that organ. We both waited for something to happen, for someone to realize a little boy was missing, but no one ever came. This town and all the people in it were too busy trying not to die themselves. Sam knew first and told me through that wrenching melody.

We're done waiting. My special ingredient, powdered Rosal, sits on the counter. The stuff is old, bought when we first moved in to keep the prairie dogs from infesting our yard. Mom and Dad probably didn't even remember we still had it. Tucked beneath the sink behind the rat traps. After one use, they stopped using the poison. The effects too cruel even for them. The prairie dogs didn't scream.

They moaned and cried as blood seeped from their eyes and mouths, the rose-all eating them away from the inside. Dinner's ready? I pick up the bowls and deliver them to Mom and Dad, who shovel the mac and cheese into their mouths as they continue to stare at the TV. Sam's music swells beside me, a pillar of sound taking physical form, and I know he's with me. The wood grain writhes around us as the children gather to wait, to watch. The organ plays, the baseline thumping like Dad's heavy footsteps on the roof. But Mom and Dad can't hear it. Don't know that death is coming for them.

I smile, anticipation raising the fine hairs on my skin as Mom coughs, spraying the air with a fine mist of blood. A spattering of high notes. Peppers my ears. A giggle. Sponsors bring you all this content for free. Join our sleepless universe for even more. Add free audio nightmares.

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Includes up to 20 gigabytes hotspot. Capable device required. Availability speed and coverage varies. See mintmobile.com. Listen closely to the frequency of fear. When a soldier returns home from World War II, he decides to do a little hunting in the mountains of Appalachia. But he also has another reason for going up the mountain, as we'll learn in this tale,

shared with us by author Josh Poole. The man's father died on the mountain five years prior. And the man hopes to find his father's remains. This tale has been produced by Phil Mikulski and features performances by Reagan Tacker and Jesse Cornett. So if you're warned about what not to do up in the hills, best heed the warnings, even if your task is to find my father, the mountain.

I drove an old truck through the chill of an October morning, past the fields where me and Billy Younger, them put up hay from 35 to 41. That was almost five years ago, and it felt good seeing those fields again. I drove by the one-room church where I'd mumbled through hymns each Sunday and gone every winter with my father to catch black snakes who'd made their way inside. The road straightened into a lane of bare oak trees that must have been old since the Civil War. I closed my eyes, the cold air rushing in through the windows. When I opened them, I saw the nameless peaks. that rose like anvils over the foothills of my home, bright and pale as tombstones in the morning sun.

Ever since I was a kid, I'd heard stories of devils along that chain told by old rum runners and woodsmen, but those men were drunkards, and any man in any woods past dark will make myth of it in time. Wilbur nuzzled my hand from the passenger seat, a blue-tick hound whose fur had only whitened with age. My father had named him, and although Wilbur seemed too lively, a name for him anymore. He was too old to learn another. They stared blankly at me and then at the fields, his eyes pale and nearly blind. I scratched his head. At least he could feel the wind and sunlight. The engine wound down as I pulled into the gravel of a general store and parked among several other trucks. There, old men sat outside in metal chairs just as they had when I was a boy

bundled in their coats waiting for sunlight. The same doberness climbed the cinder block wall behind them, and the same tobacco stains marked by their boots, and the same pipe smoke floated. Don't go driving off while I'm inside. I said to Wilbur, petting him before closing the truck door, he climbed into the driver's seat and hung his head out the open window. I mean it now. One of the men waved to me as I walked by, but didn't speak.

I gave him a nod. A cowbell rattled against the door as I entered, and a shopkeeper bade me good morning from behind his counter. He was a heavyset man with white hair and suspenders, faintly familiar, though, no name came to mind. I picked up 30-0-06 and 22 Magnum rounds, along with enough potted meat and beans for a few days, even if I'd killed nothing but time up there in the mountains.

They were chocolate bars by the register, and so I got one of those too. They had dog food as well, but I figured meat was all the same to an old dog, and so made my way to the counter. I'll be damned. You're Townsboy, ain't you? I am. I ain't seen you since, well, since your daddy's funeral, I reckon.

I nodded. Since the funeral, yes, sir. Almost five years, by God. Well, what have you been up to? The war for a time. After that, I started putting up houses. Same as my daddy. Took up where he left off, I reckon. Good, good. And work will keep you straight.

Most men just act like they work. Hell, I know folks who roll up their sleeves just to take a leak. Like them men outside, they look to talk about how much they used to work, but they ain't never done nothing. I reckon they've talked a lot. He smiled. And what brought you back here? I thought for a moment.

A quiet, I suppose. Well, there's plenty of that around here. He rang everything up, poking at an old cash register that looked like it came from the days of the Wild West. The men outside burst into laughter, slapping their knees. I smiled and paid what I owed. The shopkeeper looked out. The shopkeeper looked out the window. They're in the truck.

Is that a... It was his. Pops left me two rifles and that there hound. The rifles work even if the dog don't. He smiled. Why, he never heard of a dog living so long. No, sir. I reckon he's the only one. The shopkeeper put everything in paper bags.

I grabbed the bags, but he held on to him, his face darkening. Ah, you ain't hunting them mountains, are you? On folks who hunt them mountains get lost. My pops hunted on plenty. Only drunks get lost up there, and I ain't a drunk and ain't never been. His eyes stayed on mine. Yeah, well, your daddy got lost up there, and he knew the mountains better than anyone. Knew the bottle better than anyone, too.

The dog made it out just fine. I'll follow him back if in the need to. All right. But you'd be careful up in them mountains. Don't build no fire. No matter how cold it gets. Don't build no fire. All right.

I replied, but I'd heard that nonsense a thousand times. Now I mean it. Up and there. Fire don't kill. keep nothing away. Do you understand me? Yes, sir. He finally let go of the bags. Good seeing you again. I'll miss your daddy coming in here. Yeah, I miss him too. I nodded.

Well, I'm going to head on up the mountain. Should be back here in a couple of days and get me another chocolate bar or something. He managed to smile before I left. A screen door swung shut behind me, and the men went on chattering, hardly intelligible in their heavy draws. Wilbur moved back into the passenger seat as I hopped in the truck. I set the bags between us. I got chocolate, but I guess they say dogs can't have none, don't they? I scratched him behind the ears and then backed the truck out onto the road. The old men in the chairs stared at us as we departed, one taking a swig and another spitting. There's all sorts of poison in the world. Ain't their boy. We drove by several more fields and then climbed into foothills of timber. There, the road became

more dirt than gravel, twisting from one bend to the next like an old rope. The mountain peaks loomed over it all, peering down at me like old and disfigured heads, wash and sunlight. The engine lugged as the grade steepened. We climbed another mile or so from the last of the fields and pulled off where a tree had fallen across the road and nobody had yet bothered to move it. I turned to the truck off and stepped out. Wind rushed by, blowing downward off the mountain like some breath from those high heads trying to get rid of us.

But Wilbur set to wagging his tail and looked like he was about to jump right on out of the truck. Don't bound to get hurt jumping down like that. I took him up gently in my arms. The dog was thin as fence wire and ranging, no more than 20 pounds,

with his ribs feeling like they'd break if I held him too long. I set him down. and he went sniffing among the dead leaves. From the truck bed, I gathered a large pack filled with the tent and cookeries and then slung my two rifles. The 22 Magnum would be good for varmints and the 30-ought-6 for deer or bear. There were rumors of cougars living in those mountains, but that was all hearsay.

Even if I did see one out there, I wouldn't shoot it. Well, maybe I would if it grabbed hold of Wilbur, went after my chocolate, but I wasn't out here to kill nothing, just to be alone with my thoughts and get away from the thudding of hammers and raising of walls and the wallering of drunk men. Another wind passed by, colder and longer than the first. I looked up at the mountains, their stone peaks barely a mile off. Sure, I'd come there for the quiet, but the quiet wasn't all I'd come for. My daddy's bones were still up there, and even if there wasn't much left of him, I'd be bringing him home. I pulled out a tin of my daddy's shoe polish and offered it to Wilbur to smell.

He put his nose in it, then licked my knuckles before trotting past me into a maze of poplars. His tail wagged, perhaps dreaming of a time when he could chase as good as any. He had trade coons and even bears in his day and was once a fine hunting hound. I hoped he still remembered all that. I pulled the rifles higher on my shoulder and followed him. The truck soon disappeared as we marched through the dead leaves and brush. I didn't know where he was going, or even if he knew where he was going, but dog didn't relent until we'd climbed up on a ridge a good mile into the forest.

There he panted, sampling the air with his wet nose. I looked around for deer signs, but none of the trees had been horned and none of the ground scraped. There was, however, the rumor of a stream echoing nearby, following the noise. We came to a line of white-barked sycamores where a creek passed through. The water ran fast and clear. I filled a canteen and drank from it as the dog lapped from a stagnant pool. We continued on, following the stream until the hillside grew steep and ravenated. Fewer trees grew up there, the ground more stone than soil.

The trees that did grow were old and broken. You sure you went up here? Wilbur simply eyed me and went on scrambling up the rocks. his blunt claws raking on the stone. All right then. We climbed for a while until reaching a flatness where the ground softened and the stream ran quiet through a broad clearing. Wilbur stopped and rolled over onto his side, panting. I snorted a laugh and then shed my pack and rifles.

That's all right, boy. We ain't got to go no further today. I sat down on the pack and ate a can of potted meat next to him, drinking from a can The dog whined until I gave him what remained of the can, but when I offered what was left, he turned his nose up at it. Well, I ain't bring no olive top of nod, so you best get eating that meat. The dog whimpered, but finally lapped up what was left. A chill ran up my spine at the sound of his jowl slopping together. I drew out the chocolate bar and ate it silently.

They'd given us something similar when I shipped out. I recalled eating mine somewhere in Rome, looking out of the chocolate. over all those ancient ruins, not knowing which had fallen to the war and which had fallen to wars past. An outcrop further up the slope stood with a rank of tall and narrow boulders that reminded me of those columns, and I thought to myself that perhaps there had once been temples up there as beautiful as those in Rome. The wind tangled around those stones, kicking up leaves as it rolled down through our little

holler. I braced inside my coat, breaking away the last few pieces of chocolate and let me take the last few pieces of chocolate and letting them melt on my tongue. Looking beyond the stones, a gap in the trees framed the mountains breaking upward and away from the forest. Their peaks seemed like the larger can of those nearby stones. Somehow still jagged after all those years of the world trying to run them smooth. I crumpled the chocolate wrapper and stuck it in my pocket, turning to see that Wilbur had dozed off with the snout next to the can. While he slept, I walked a short distance and kicked away the leaves until the ground was bare, pitching the old tent and making a ring of stone

for a campfire. He didn't wake up, even as I carried him over and stuck him inside of the tent. It was already afternoon, so I set off with the 22 Magnum to hunt squirrels and gather firewood with what daylight remained. Wilbur was awake when I returned at sunset with an arm full of dry limbs and two squirrels on a stringer, but he kept inside of the tent until I started a fire. By then, It was dark. I watched the kindling catch and spread fire to the logs. All the while, the shopkeeper's words echoed in my head. Don't build no fire, no matter how cold it gets.

Bunch of bullshit. I skinned the squirrels and the fire glow, my breath leaving in faint curls as the temperature dropped. I would have given anything for some buttermilk and scallions to soak the squirrels for frying, but only had an iron pot, water, and salt. Months in the field and a lifetime without a mama taught me to cook plenty well, at least for a man from the hills. And all my thinking of stock shelves and a stove, I didn't notice Wilbur staying in there with one of the skin squirrels in his jaws. He mouthed on it, lacking the teeth to do much but make it wet. Get off that! But Wilbur

scurried into the tent with his prize in tow. Mongrel, son of a bitch. I looked over at the squirrel that remained on the stone. He'd taken the larger of the two. A runt squirrel was hardly a meal at all, but I'd shot the thing and would see it through. I hung the pot from a tripod made of limbs, tossing the squirrel in with a pinch of salt before making my way down to the stream. The water was cold, and I washed my hands long after they were clean,

listening to the packs of coyotes driving elsewhere in the mountains and thinking about how my father had washed his hands in that very water. When I returned to the fire, I heard something far off in the leaves. Just keep quiet, boy. I fetched my 30-a-6. Wilbur was still busy chewing on his raw squirrel in the tent, unbothered or unaware of the animal approaching us. I eased away from the tent and crouched in the shadows beyond the fire glow. The steps continued in the darkness, but they sounded less like something walking and more like something being dragged. I thumbed off the safety. A buck staggered into the light, gaunt as a skeleton and leaning to one side as it dragged a carcass tangled in its antlers.

The deer trembled and seemed like it could hardly stand, its ribs heaving with every breath. It must have carried that corpse for years as there was little left of the body but bones and a shredded hunting jacket. My heart dropped. Tattered as it was, and I knew the coat. Dad? I trembled, feeling like I couldn't hardly breathe. Salava drooled from the deer's lips and long strings. Its eyes were white and blind.

I crept onto the bare ground, keeping the rifle trained on the buck as I approached. The animal couldn't weigh over 70 pounds, so frail and barely standing, and I wasn't worried about startling it. Swallowing the lump, in my throat. I started to move in for a closer look, but something else rustled in the leaves behind me. I swung my rifle around, aiming into the darkness. The gun shook in my hands as the noise

continued to drag. Another deer entered the firelight. It was frail and blind, dragging a corpse whose clothes had decomposed and left only a sunbleached rib cage and skull. The deer halted, drooling as it chattered its teeth and hissed. Wilbur howled from inside of the tent. You, you're devils. I aimed the raffle at its head. You! The first deer lunged from behind and careened into me, sending me stumbling and then falling straight into the fire.

I crashed through the tripod, boiling water scolded over my face and neck. I screamed, writhing in the coals, burning and blind. Everything was searing, pain, and light until I rolled out of the fire and kept rolling, swatting at my clothes and then lying on the cold ground. Wilbur continued to howl. I was blind in one eye, but with the other I saw my rifle on the ground nearby. Just as I reached for it, something went into my back and pressed me into the ground like someone had run a pitchfork through me. The air left my lungs. Blood warmed as it pulled between my stomach and the dirt. I craned my neck and saw that dozens of deer had surrounded the fire, each one dragging a court.

Some of those bodies were only skeletons trapped in their clothes, while others still had their flesh and skin. One of them hissed, winging spittle across my rifle. Pressure released from my back. I turned over to see what had gored me and found a deer unlike the others. Its chest and neck were still thick with muscle. Firelight danced in its eyes and warmed along its flanks as it drove its horns into my stomach. All I could manage was wheeze, feeling the antlers, my lungs and guts. In a fit of rage, I grabbed hold of its horns and leveraged my thumbs

into its eyes, gouging them until there were nothing more than a gelatinous mess. The deer wailed and kept on dragging me. It dragged me across the bare ground and then threw leaves, deeper into the forest as I felt my strength slip away. The others slowly followed, their silhouettes outlined by the fire that grew more distant each passing second. My grip released. I couldn't fight. I couldn't It was getting so cold and it felt like I'd been hollowed out. I imagined myself being dragged for eternity, dragged alongside my father and all the others killed in those mountains. I imagined slowly rotting apart as the seasons turned and the sun bleached my bones. I imagined the fire slowly going out and those mountains were turning to complete and unknowable darkness.

Howling. All I heard was howling as it all faded to black. This summer has taught me a very important lesson about staying hydrated. It's not just about preventing thirst. I noticed a pattern that when I started feeling off and my energy dipped, it coincided with realizing I hadn't had any water for quite a while. Drip drop is my go-to fix because it helps me bounce back quickly, stay clear-headed, and get me back to my day without feeling like I'm playing ketchup. It's easy to turn to drip drops proven fast hydration,

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Go to DripDrop.com and use promo code no sleep. That's dripdrop.com promo code no sleep for 20% off. Stock up now at dripdrop.com and use promo code no sleep. Listen closely as we return to the frequency of fear. These days, I don't think anyone will blame you if you've, feel a certain level of disdain for our fellow human beings. Strangers aren't that pleasant to be around, right? You never know who they really are.

And in this tale, shared with us by author Jose Ramirez, we meet someone with a deep contempt for humanity, and they have a rather unique perspective about it. This tale has been produced by Phil Mikulski, and features performances by Aaron Lerner, Lilis, Peter Lewis, Nicole Goodnight, Graham Rowett, and Jeff Clement. So, belly up to the bar, order a drink, and contemplate the words of the barfly. We pull down the mirror and rehearse, disgust, anger, joy, sadness.

We clear our throat and practice our new voice. Underneath, bears kick wolves, veterans mash and zap, great whales, fish, thick teeth, leaping and leaking, laws, in silence, victory. We snapped the mirror closed and kill the engine. We're ready to play. I join the bar. I breathe, cigarette smoke and piss fumes. Filthy apes. Two of them watch a fight on the flat screen. A young man and the bartender. I sit next to the man as he bites into a wing. The bartender looks at me.

I'll have a shiner and what he's having. I look at the young man and his wings. Sapiens love like-minded peat. The young man smiles. An ace of spades is inked behind his cauliflowerd ear. He bites into a drumstick. My beer thuds on the counter and the bartender disappears into the kitchen. The rest of the bar is quiet.

Empty, except for an older couple in a booth behind us. Too old for tonight. I glance at the TV. The young man swallows. So you, you like mixed martial arts? He licks his fingers and smiles. Yeah, I make good money off it. He laughs.

His nose is crooked. You? Oh, yeah. Big fan, actually. But I feel like it gets a little inhuman. Sometimes. Inhumane, you mean? Not the same? I drink. Cold beer slides down my throat.

He shrugs and hits his vape. We watch. The Mexican catches the American with a clean left hook. The American wrestles him against the chain fence. Blood on their faces. He looks at me. Who you got? Jones looks tired and keeps getting hit.

I feign a thought. I think Garcia takes it. He does have more experience, plus he's the favorite. Fuck that. I get 550 if Jones knocks his ass out. He's a beautiful underdog. They call it martial arts, but it's a science. Force.

Time. Energy. I can spot a loser. They wear it on their face. The best Jones has is a puncher's chance. I'm Dion, by the way. They reach out my hand. Luke, nice to meet you.

I'd shake, but... He raises his greasy fingers. All good. So you do a lot of betting. He smears his hand. hands on his jeans. A long line of green parley's fly as he scrolls his phone. He admires it like a dad with baby pictures.

He's perfect. That's impressive. Thanks. He blows another cloud. It's better than working for a loving. He gulps his beer. Foam trickles down his hair. chin. He burps.

I smell his stomach acid. Fuck, these wings are good. And you? What do you do for work? I'm a dentist. Nice. So you're rolling in it, huh?

I do all right. You know, just enough for my family to... His eyes are already back on the TV. A blonde ring girl parades a card for round four. Oh, she's odd. He gnaws on his bone. How about you?

You got anyone? Eh. He looks down at his beer. I don't need anyone telling me what to do. He snorts back his snot. Sure, I know, I'm on Tinder, but nothing longer than a night, you know. He wipes his nose, shrugging. Yeah, they just...

Cheat and spend money. No offense to your old lady. I'm sure she's nice. Well, she definitely spends my money. He laughs like a mule and smacks my shoulder. They're all the same. There's sauce on my shirt. At anger rises, I silence it.

Of course, he doesn't notice. His monkey eyes are back on the fight. The fighters circle the bloody cage. Garcia lands a high kick. Joan stumbles and the crowd roars. Only a matter of time now. Ah, shit. He takes another drink.

How about school, you study? He looks at his hands. Nah, I'm done sniffing books. I did six years of school for my old man. He was a physicist. You wanted me to use my head. Lost his mind when I picked philosophy. He smiles.

I told him it was a sexier way to get answers. I wonder what he'd say now. He finishes his beer and plants it on the bar like a flag. A wound. I can use it. My old man was the same way. I miss him every day. He nods and we take a drink.

I pat his shoulder. Do you mind watching my beer? I got a leak. Yeah, man, I got you. He vapes and blows a cloud over the bar. The old couple gather their things and threw a few bucks on the table. A warm smile from the woman's face. I smile back.

People avoid looking at me when I reflect old skin. Rinkles remind them that one day they won't be anything at all, but I don't worry about that. Death? It's just another problem we solved long ago. We walked down the hall. Our feet unstick from the floor. We slip into the women's restroom.

We lock the door behind us. We see ourselves in the mirror. A single man, middle age, tired and rindling. purple under our eyes, fat spilling over our belt. We remember Lucille, Fort Worth, 1974. Blonde hair, tattoos down her right arm, a graduate student, mathematics. She's perfect for him. We think of her.

The stubble and our chin sheaths into our skin. Our jaw cracks as it narrows. Ink fills our arm, smoke underwater. Blonde hair pours from our scalp. Bones creak. We lose the dentist's height. Our legs thin and our jeans tighten. Our brown eyes lighten to green.

Our polo shirt threads into a blouse. Dark glasses form on our face. Her memories flood our mind. Music, libraries, and loss. Sadness. Heavy rain. Years of life pour down our body. Emotions.

Enough to drown. We silence them. A deep breath. It's done. We look at ourselves in the mirror, adjust our clothes, and rehearse. I leave the bathroom and rejoin the bar. The old couple left. It's just me and the ape.

I sit with space between us. There's a cloud above Luke. The bartender bursts out of the kitchen carrying a basket of wings. He sets them next to the dentist's Shiner. Another pint for Luke, and he circles to me. I catch him glancing at my table. chest. What can I get for you? Cold beer? Hi, can I have a whiskey please? Neat, nothing expensive. Well shot. You got it. He gives me a short tumbler filled with amber. Nothing screams human like drink.

The bartender slips back through the kitchen doors. Luke stares at the screen transfixed. The cloud lingers above him. Garcia stalks Jones into a corner. Blood. and sweat rip off Jones as he gets hit. Two to the skull and another to the gut. Jones loads his final punch. A right hook catches Garcia clean on the chin. Garcia's head drops on the canvas like meat. The puncher's chance.

Nothing more. Luke's arms fly into his cloud. Woo! Yes! Fuck yes! Let's fucking go! I hear his heart race. He looks at more.

me. I mimic. Mouth open wide and eyes wider. Holy fuck. My hands are on my head. He slams back down and chugs his pint. Did you have money on it? He beams at me, so fucking glad I asked. I just got 700 bucks.

Not bad, huh? I raise my whiskey and he joins me. Our drinks vanish and we set down glass. Hey, next round's on me. He smiles wide, pleased with himself. Who's your name, by the way? Lucille. That's a pretty name.

French? Thank you. And yes, it is. My name's Luke. He smiles again. You got a boyfriend, Lucille? A dog in heat. I'm single.

Cool? Sick. I smile. He stretches his arms and drags another cloud from his vape. His eyes scan the bathroom hallway, then his fingers pluck a wing from the dentist's basket. He looks at me.

He bites. Grease pools on his chin. He wipes his mouth with his palm. He bites again. Who's at these? Some asshole in the bathroom. I guess his piss turned into a shit.

He sucks sauce off his thumb. But fuck him. I mean, he's got plenty. I take The dentist's seat and bite a wing. Luke laughs. These are fucking good. He nods and grabs another wing. We chew together.

We watch the referee lift Jones's arm in victory. The crowd is shit-faced. The monkeys scream and howl at the bloody cage. Bones pile on the basket. I finish the dentist's beer. You want to dip before he comes back? Really? He flutters and tries to laugh it off.

I look at his lips. He's smiling. We meet eyes. He stands up. You know what? I'd love to. They usually take more to isolate. Not this aunt.

It crawled right under my lens. He sticks a cigarette between his lips and lights it. Nice night, huh? I look at the August sky, south to Sagittarius. where our Milky Way used to be. They're liked for streetlights. They ruin everything. The stars are pretty.

I look back at him. We'd be able to see more of them if it wasn't for all the light pollution. There's still enough to look at. Plus, I'd like to see where I'm going. He takes another long drag and blows it out his nose. Where'd you want to go? My place is free, and just...

10 minutes away. His smile bears his teeth. Oh, how convenient. Which way is your place? He points east through the town square. Plenty of alleys. Works for me. Our feet scrape the pavement.

Lonely cars drive by, the smell of exhaust. Luke blows cigarette smoke and walks through it. So, what do you do? I'm a grad student. Sick? What field? Mathematics.

No shit. My dad loved math. I can't stand it. His eyes lighten. Nobody's perfect. Eh, whatever. It's overrated. Didn't some Czech guy prove it's incomplete or shit?

Goodell. He was Austro-Hungarian. Ah, same shit. So math isn't really... real then, right? That's not what it means. He just proved it's limited. Very limited.

Eh, who cares? He folds his arms over his head. The cigarette hangs from his mouth. I didn't need any math to beat people's asses. My hands worked just fine. Oh shit, used to fight? Hell yeah. He flexes.

I had a 2-0-pro record in MMA. Had? His arms fall. I fucked up my knee in an accident, so I can't really do it anymore. Oh, my God, I'm so sorry. It's whatever. Hey, how do you know you're not a brain in a vat somewhere? Sitting on a shelf, covered in dust, all your sensory input fed through electrodes. Like, how can you prove that?

I can't. Exactly. I grab his hand and walk. towards an alley. That's enough. What's happening? You're a smart guy. I'm sure you can imagine.

Bet. The empty lot is dark and fenced. Dead branches litter the corners. Trees hush the air. Street light glows on Luke's face. His back is against the brick. I'm close. I look at his eyes.

They're looking at my lips. I smile. I form a revolver and stick it under his chin. His hands shoot up. The cigarette falls to the ground. I step back and aim between his eyes. What the fuck? Shh.

Please. Take what you want. His heart racing, his hands shaking, he begs. They always do. Shut the fuck up and listen to me. Very carefully. We are going to play a game. If you try anything, I will turn you into ash.

What? The brick wall slides up from the ground and blocks the alley. The street light dies. He stares at the bricks frozen. I open the cylinder. Five cartridges full. to the ground, one stays in, I snap it shut. Russian roulette.

What the fuck? Why? Because you deserve it. And because I want to see you blow your head off. I spin the chamber. Oh, don't worry, Luke. There's a chance you'll see me blow my head off. You're great at playing the odds, right?

Let's see it. I hand him the revolver. It weighs on his palms. What are you? I could lie, but it won't make a difference in a few minutes. A red dwarf. Right there. I point to the southern sky.

In the microscopium constellation, you'd be able to see it if it wasn't for the streetlights. His eyes are cold. It's just 12 late years away. Your people call it La Cale 8760. I smile. My planet looks a lot like yours. Just a little bigger and a little more abundant.

Why are you here? He's buying time. To watch, we're waiting for you to fall. Extinction. Manmade or cosmic will watch just the same. It'll be better for this planet than you. I smile at him. Now it's your round.

Fuck. He breathes out, raises the gun to his temple, closes his eyes, and squeezes. He gasps. His eyes wide. Holy fuck. He's laughing? Your fucking turn. He sticks the gun in my chest.

fucking apes. Why haven't you invaded? He points to the brick wall blocking the alley. You can manipulate matter. We'd be fucked. My grip tightens on the revolver. Most of us don't believe we should. My kind ended suffering for all life on our planet long ago.

We understand life's place in the universe. It's a tide pool in an indifferent and dead ocean. We know this. So we watch and we wait. Nature always corrects. So then why are you doing this? I'm so fucking glad, he asked. Oh, because I hate you.

Your filth, your poison, you lock animals in cages and slaughter each other. You split the atom and crowned yourself God. Human exceptionalism. Destroyer of worlds. Homo sapiens, wise humans. Masturbating in the mirror while shit slides down your leg. My kind doesn't see it because they watches clouds and birds. But I'm close.

In the trenches. In the slums in your streets. I watch you sleep. You're all the same. Self-obsessed. All-consuming. You could be more. Something worth lifting from your puddle of piss.

But you're not. You're too dangerous to pick up. He points to the cigarette on the floor. Typical. I nod. He kneels to the floor, grabs his cigarette, and lights it. He blows smoke in my face. So then why'd you get so close?

We look at him. We watch the matter that makes his body, his mom. We understand it. Its structure, its composition, its character. Our body shifts. It pulls. It ripples. Gray matter folds and his mind forms.

His memories flood. We dive. He's a boy. His mom is smiling. Sunlight. He's running. from a dog. He's afraid. Chalk on a blackboard. His dad draws an orbit. His mother is on her deathbed. Tears. Death. Suffering. He's in a library. The smell of paper. So many books. It's raining outside.

His dad is dying. Anger. Denial. He's alone. He's training. He's fighting. He's fighting. He's drinking He crashed his car drunk His knee is broken Another bar Beer and smoke So many bars

He has no one Nothing to lose I clear my throat And use his voice To know you He stares at me You don't know us Do you like being

Luke? It seems a little lonely I smile. He smokes more. And you know what? You'll never know us. Humans die. Will you? I spin the cylinder and push the barrel under my chin. The bullet is loaded. I shifted to a different cylinder and pull the trigger. Not tonight.

I offer him the gun. Your turn. It'll be his last. So it's just a minute. matter of time then, huh? He takes the revolver. Humans fear death. Can you?

He thumbs the grip. He's thinking. You're me right now. So, you can feel it? That sinking feeling? I know it's in the back of my mind. He spins the revolver. It's loaded.

It's also always waiting. It's quiet, really, but It's always there. I can feel it. I felt it in every ape I have reflected. It's immaterial. I can ignore it. You know what I was thinking while they lowered their coffins?

I do. He nods. One day? That'll be me going into the dirt. He looks me in my eyes. His heart races. It's why we make art. Why we make art?

make war. Death. We scratch the earth because we know one day we'll leave it. So we make our mark. He's angry. And one day, it'll come for you too. The despair gets louder. I silence it. It must be so much worse for you. How long do you have to wait? A couple hundred? Millions, trillions? And the whole time, knowing you still have to die. He raises the gun. As I'm sure you know, I had to get teeth pulled as a kid. I couldn't sleep. I was so fucking terrified.

Then they pulled them out and, of course, it wasn't bad. But you know what it was? Waiting. Knowing, one day, I'd have to sit there and feel someone pull my teeth. peace out. Oblivion breaks into my thoughts. My heart. He's pulling something. Shut up and pull the trigger. Oh? So you know what I mean? You can feel it too, huh? He smiles so fucking arrogant. And you know what? It's a little strange that your people have these beliefs, but you're here doing this. I think I know why, though.

You've been playing in our puddle too much. You smell like piss. He pushes the barrel against his temple. Shit. Maybe you do know humans. You pretty much are one. My face is warm. A blood rush.

He's everything I hate about them. The arrogance, the consumption, the fucking delusion. I can feel them scream. Their minds are on fire. Inside of me, so much hate, so much anger, vitriol and suffering. I fucking hate them. Just shut the fuck up and pull the fucking trigger! He's right.

I'm too human. It's filthy. I'm covered in piss. I need to change. I need to be something else. Anything I need to get them off me. He shoots the revolver. We fall on the concrete.

Death? Our heart bleats. Chains rattle. Luke is climbing over a fence. Ash, he's ash. We can't do it. It's too loud. Everyone's screaming.

He's covered in leaves. He's gone. A puncher's chance. We're alive. We shift into others. The dentist. A soldier, a mother, a father. Which one am I?

I? Something's wrong. Death. We look at the stars. The earth dries up. It's lifeless. The sun dies. Every galaxy goes dark.

The last black hole vanishes. The final atom decays. We're afraid. It's getting darker, colder. Our arms won't move. We watch our lives flash. All of us. One last time, under the trees in the night, it's dark.

We're alone. I don't want to die. The sounds return to the silence. Close for another week. Join us again next time. Quincey of fear for more Sonic Nightmares. The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical scores were 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, Olly A. White, Kristen Samito, and Marcus Damanda, for host and executive producer David Cummings to discover how you can get even more. sleepless horror stories from us. Just visit sleepless. Dot the no-sleeppodcast.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 listening closely and embracing the sound. 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.

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