The NoSleep Podcast - S25 Ep6: NoSleep Podcast S25E06

Episode Date: September 27, 2026

It's Episode 06 of Season 25. The frequency of fear brings you tales about the sensation of isolation."The Footsteps at 3:33" by Marwa Ayad (Story starts around 00:05:00)Produced by Jeff ClementCast: Narrator - Erika Sanderson, Building Manager - Andy Cresswell, Neighbour - James Cleveland, Widow - Penny Scott-Andrews"Random" by David McLachlan (Story starts around 00:25:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Claudius MooreCast: Narrator - Dan Zappulla, Mother - Danielle McRae"The Better Man" by Michael Harris Cohen (Story starts around 00:43:25)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Phil MichalskiCast: David - Jesse Cornett, Alec - Jeff Clement, Brian - Graham Rowat, Gaia - Nichole Goodnight, Mother - Nikolle Doolin, Guest - Atticus Jackson, Hippy - James Cleveland"Semi-Detached" by Marc Parker-Yates (Story starts around 01:23:10)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Phil MichalskiCast: Lynne Pearce - Penny Scott-Andrews"Mercy Brown and Me" by Christine Lajewski (Story starts around 01:43:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Jesse CornettCast: Julia - Mary Murphy, Mercy - Sarah Ruth Thomas, Mercy - Erin Lillis, Gina - Linsay Rousseau, Laurinda - Nichole Goodnight, Mom - Nikolle DoolinThis 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.Home Chef - Home Chef's meal kits are rated #1 in quality, convenience, value, taste, and recipe ease. Head to homechef.com/nosleep to get 50% off your first box plus free dessert for life and of course, free shipping on your first box!Indacloud - IndaCloud is a fully legal online cannabis dispensary for gummies, exotic flower, premium prerolls, Zero Sugar THC Sodas, Energy Gummies, and Extra Strength Sleep Gummies. If you're 21 or older, go to indacloud.co/nosleep to get 30% off your first subscription order.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about our guest host, Dan ZappullaClick here to learn more about Marwa AyadClick here to learn more about David McLachlan Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"Random" illustration courtesy of Catriel TallaricoThe NoSleep Podcast is Human-made for Human Minds. No generative AI is used in any aspect of work.Audio program ©2026 - Creative Reason Media - The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media. No part of this audio program may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. All rights reserved.

Subsonic closely as you brace yourself for the no-sleep podcast. Welcome to the no-sleep podcast. I'm your guest host, Dan Zapula. You know, when David asked me to host this week's episode, my initial reaction was, Hey, you, how'd you get in here? But once I'd calm down, I was delighted. Yes, I've been on the show for a decade, but

we don't get to talk directly, my. you and I, now do we? So I thought it might be fun to learn a little bit more about me, the man behind these tantalizing and confusingly arousing vocal cords. I have so many fond memories of being on this show, especially meeting some of you at Boston tour stops past. When you spend so much time recording into a microphone, actually getting to meet the people on the listening end is a pretty nice treat.

There are so many stories that have stayed with me over the years, too, creeping crimson is one that still comes to mind all these seasons later. I think above anything else, it's the friendships and relationships that you form over this long period of time that really stick with you. From David to the production team to the cast, it's a family. And I hope everyone out there feels like they're part of the family too, because you certainly are. Now, aside from my sappy reminiscing on my voice acting career, some of you may also know me through my music. When I'm not voice acting, I'm a musician on the side. I've been lucky enough to attend the past couple of Grammy Awards shows,

and I have a new album coming out this fall called Life and Death. Yes, life and death, I can't get away from these existential themes and all of the work that I do. So if you're curious about that side of my life, look up Dan Zepula on Spotify, or wherever you happen to listen to music. And you can also follow me on Instagram at Dan Zapula. I will spell it because no one can. That's D-A-N-Z-A-U-L-L-A, all one word.

And I'll be sharing more about my voice acting and music ventures there. Oh, the idea of life and death does sound right at home here, though, doesn't it? And that's what keeps drawing me into horror, the unknown. I want to discover something. Show me something I don't know and just scare the heck out of me with it. Give me one of those psychological stories where I'm trying to put the pieces together, and man, I am happy. Especially if one little detail makes me reconsider everything I've heard so far. I'll still be working on it after that story ends.

But of course, curiosity like that can become an obsession. Something gets inside your head and feeds on your attention until you barely notice how much of your life you've given up for. And the stories in this episode explore that slow type of isolation, a type of secret you can't share, an attachment you can't break. The people who care about you, they grow distant, while whatever has a hold of you keeps drawing closer. And eventually, it's just you and that thing you just can't let go of. So, brace yourself for isolation. and for the frequency of fear. In our first tale,

we meet a woman who's having trouble sleeping, and don't we all from time to time. But there's a sound that she simply can't ignore. And once she starts listening for it, oh my, the nights begin to feel very, very long. My friends, you can spend hours explaining away a noise in the dark. It's funny how none of those explanations seem quite as convincing when it starts again. Author Marwa Ayyad invites us to lie awake with her for a while.

This tale has been produced by Jeff Clement, with performances by Erica Sanderson, Andy Cresswell, James Cleveland, and Penny Scott Andrews. So, in the quiet of the night, listen for The Footer. steps at 333. It always begins at 333 a.m. The footsteps, not heavy, not hurried, just a slow, deliberate pacing above my bed, back and forth, back and forth. A restless tide pressing into plaster.

At first I thought insomnia. Some neighbor with a wandering mind and aching bones. I buried my head. under the pillow, waited for the lull. It never came. By the third night I was barefoot on the stairwell, palms sliding along the chipped banister, hair damp with unease. The flat above was always dark, curtains sealed. I knocked once. Twice, no answer. The lock held. The air beyond felt sealed too. The building manager laughed when I complained.

That place, empty for years. No one since the widow died. He shrugged, like death was the neatest lease termination. Keys chattered against his belt. You hear creaks, pipes, old buildings talk. Don't make stories of it. Then who walks up there? He scratched his jaw.

glanced towards the landing as if the word upstairs had a draft. The widow used to pace after a boy died. Ten steps stopped, ten steps back. War a groove so deep I had to replace it. Said it kept the walls from closing in. So what's walking now? He closed his mouth. I'll check the latch, but no one's in there.

Yet at 333, the footsteps returned. I started to map them, chalk on my ceiling, arrows for each turn. Ten steps east. Pause. Ten steps west. Pause. A pendulum hammering inside my skull. Five nights, or six, I can't be sure. Sleep left me. Notebooks piled at my bedside, tallies, crude footwork. diagrams, the scrawl of someone who no longer trusts memory. My body thinned, skin under my eyes purpled, lips cracked. My spine ached as though bent by some invisible metronome.

My calves knotted with cramps that never released. One dawn, a thin grey film clung to the soles of my slippers. It's tang bit at the back of my throat like rubbed raw copper. When I brushed, my gums bled. Tap water ran cloudy, leaving grit at the bottom of the glass. The kettle clicked. A rim of scum ringed my cup. I poured it down the sink and watched a grey film drag its feet along the porcelain.

Even food tasted wrong. Bread metallic, apples mealy. Milk soured two days early. The fridge hummed like a second heartbeat. The stupid hum followed me into dreams. The hum wasn't steady either. It dipped, rose, stalled, like something else was breathing through the motor. Sometimes I thought I heard words beneath the whir.

A thin rasp, counting maybe, or prayer. I went back to the stairwell with the manager. His keys jittered. He fitted one, then another. See? Still sealed. He pushed the door open. Air of disuse. Old newspapers, old breath, no furniture, no curtains, no body.

Footprints scored the dust from east to west and back again. Groves so deep it looked like someone had walked the same path forever. He crouched, pinched grime between finger and thumb, and his brow tightened at the smear it left. I cleaned this once years ago after they took her away. Took? Her sister. Come on, no good standing in it.

But I knelt. Dust smeared my fingertips, grey black, like I'd pressed them into a cold fireplace. The silence swelled after, not pure, not neat, but thick, as if the flat itself was waiting to breathe and never quite did. I whispered hello. The dust shifted, not quite. white wind, as though answering. That night I waited, 333. The steps came, only now they echoed

inside. The rhythm matched my pulse, 10 east, 10 west. My body rose without permission, feet pressing grooves into the carpet, tracing the corridor I'd memorized. I did not stop. I could not. The ceiling above stayed silent. I realised dimly that I was walking for both. For us? For... No. By the seventh night, neighbours whispered on the stairs. She never leaves her flat. The lights never go out. Even her curtains twitch, like someone pacing behind them. Someone banged once at my door at 4am. A man's voice, thin with fear. Keep it down in there. You're... You're scaring at the building. I'm not making the noise.

He sucked his teeth, stepped back, slippers slapping. Another neighbour, hair stuck in curlers, cornered me at the bins. I started to speak, throat tight, but she'd already turned, muttering into her scarf, scraps of words breaking apart before I could catch them. Whispers spread. The widow's curse. That one upstairs again. Doors shut faster when I passed.

I caught two boys scratching marks into the hallway wall, ten little lines, then a slash. They giggled when they saw me, then bolted. Skin rubbed raw where fabric clung. Flakes came off like shavings. Still, I couldn't stop. When I slumped on the chair, my heel kept twitching against the floorboards. Tap, tap, the rhythm dragging me on.

And when I passed the mirror in the hall, the face staring back at me didn't always belong. Sometimes the reflection was older, hollow-eyed, whispering numbers I hadn't yet spoken. It began to move out of sink. While I marched east, it paused. While I stumbled west, it mouthed words I couldn't hear. One night it smiled, a thin, cracked smile that made my stomach clench. Then the flat changed. Cabinets slammed in rhythm with the unseen steps.

Bulbs flickered at exactly 333. A window I had locked stood open each dawn, a blade of cold slicing in. On the sill was a crust of dust, not neat at all, scattered crescent-shaped, as though an elbow, or maybe a stupid, heavy head had leaned there to listen. Other traces bled through.

A wiry grey hair snagged in the hinge of my door. A tea stain, bleeding a perfect circle across my table even though I hadn't brewed in days. The faint perfume on my pillow. Sour sweet, old lady, sharp, not mine. Even my clothes carried it. When I pulled my jumper from the chair, the cuffs were streaked with grey. My coat pockets filled with a fine grit as if someone had reached in with dirty hands. The upstairs was bleeding down, claiming my rooms one by one.

By the 14th night I could no longer sit. I paced the groove until dusk, until dawn. My nails cracked against the floorboards. The carpet frayed under my steps, threads curling like veins. My joints popped, shoulders hunching with the rhythm. My tongue blistered from breathing the dust. Water no longer cleared it. Even in sleep, what little sleep I stole, my teeth ground grit.

When I closed my eyes, I saw the widow, or something like her, walking the same path, endless. Sometimes she wore my own face. Always the face, always the knees. The manager caught me again. You look pale. Eat something. Take a train to the coast. I can't. If I leave, it'll stop breathing. He flinched.

She used to say that. He said the building was along. If she walked, it breathed. If she stopped. He rubbed his thumb along an old scar on the banister. She asked me once to walk with her. Three in the morning. I said no. Don't go up there again. You don't want to be what a building needs. That night the walls seemed to expand and contract with my steps. The plaster creaked as if ribs adjusting.

A picture frame tipped itself an inch lower. By now I'd stopped eating properly. Toast tasted of nails. Coffee left sludge like bone dust at the bottom of the cup. I sat at the table, staring at it, and thinking, maybe this is how the widow fed herself. Maybe the dust is all there is. Neighbours avoided me now.

In the postroom they shuffled their letters fast, eyes down. Someone muttered widow's curse as the door shut behind them. A child dropped her toy car and screamed when I bent to pick it up. On the 19th night, the footsteps arrived early. 3.13. A new tempo. shorter, quicker strides. The chalk lines on my ceiling blurred as if rubbed by unseen hands.

I repainted them at 407 a.m., furious, and apologised aloud to the empty room. The bulb steadied for a minute, then stuttered harder, a sickly pulse. On the 20th night I woke at the door. Ash under my nails as if I'd clawed free of something gritty and long. My mouth tasted of plaster and coined. The sink coughed when I spat grey. Somewhere in the pipes, something thudded. Not water.

Not exactly. A sound too heavy. Like knuckles wrapping deep inside metal. The mirror showed the older face again. The delay shrank to nothing. Then it moved before I did, anticipating each step like a partner who knew the routine by heart. Sometimes its lips moved faster,

shaping numbers I couldn't yet catch. Sometimes it mouthed my name, though I never admitted it aloud. I'm certain. I'm not. On the 21st night, I passed the mirror and stopped. My reflection did not. It kept walking, pacing the corridor inside the glass.

Ten steps east. Pause. Ten steps west. Pause. Lips counting without sound. Then it turned, stared at me, and pressed its palm to the other side of the glass. Skin grey with dust, eyes hollow, mouth forming one slow word. Switch.

I tried to scream, but it jammed low in my chest, snagging like a cough. What came out wasn't sound at all, just air, thin and useless. The reflection stepped back into darkness. I felt my own body jerk forward, pulled on strings. My hands slammed into the glass. From the inside. The room wavered. Corners pulled taut like canvas in a wind.

The ceiling became a lid, the floor, a tray, collecting breath. Footsteps layered into a choir that had never stopped. Through the glass I watched myself. Younger, desperate. Freeze. Then begin to walk. Grit spills. from my mouth instead of words.

She blinked, smeared the glass clean with her palm, then went on walking. I wanted to warn her. The shards would cut, the dust would clog her stupid lungs, the whole place would just move on to another body. The hammer slipped, hit the floor hard, bounced once like it didn't want to settle. She lurched, knees buckling,

eyes gone watery and blank. I pressed both palms to the trembling glass, skin squeaking against it, begging it not to split. Then it struck back. From the inside so violent the pain boomed like a drum. The walls rippled. Covers clattered open. A picture fell.

The bulb overhead burst in a fizz of sparks. The steps weren't upstairs anymore. Not at all. Fast, deliberate strides, gray dust marking each print on the carpet. My own face came into view, but not me. Its lips moved, counting numbers I hadn't reached yet. Louder, faster, the voice scraping roar as it filled the room.

It circled the flat. Each turn closer, each step louder, until the walls themselves shuddered in time. And it kept walking, even as I froze, even as I begged my legs to move. It was louder than me, much louder. The dust thickened until I couldn't see the walls. In the blur, a figure paced. The widow, shawl trailing, head bowed, her steps matching mine. I tried to stop.

I couldn't. My body jolted. My back bowed to her steps. I opened my mouth to scream, but the sound was wrong. Her voice came out. cracked and endless. Then I saw her hands where mine should have been, grey, veined, wearing my skin like a glove,

and understood she wasn't beside me anymore. She was inside. Sleepless universe for even more. Add free on you. This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. If you're done pacing all night and wake up from a good night's sleep, Imagine this. You've awoken with the ability to be better at one thing. What would that be? It could be something fun, like being better at finding the best sales for cool tech.

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Sign up and get 10% off at BetterHelp.com slash no sleep. That's BetterH-E-L-P.com. slash no sleep. Thanks better help for allowing us to be better at what we do too. It's now autumn. That means cooler days, falling leaves, and the promise of pumpkin spiced everything. But that doesn't mean shopping and cooking meals gets any easier. That is, unless you turn to Home Chef. Home Chef makes cooking simple, fresh food delivered, easy recipes to follow, and meals that actually tastes great. Customers say they spend less time planning, shopping, and prepping meals. Plus, it's affordable. Home Chef customers save an average of $86 per month on groceries.

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Must be an active subscriber to receive free dessert. Listen closely as we return to the frequency of fear. In our next tale, we meet a teenager looking for something to watch online. No particular plans, just a little time to kill. And plenty of strangers willing to help. Most of what you find you'll forget by morning. But still, there is always that. chance that you'll stumble across something you've never seen before.

Author David McLaughlin invites us to indulge a little idle curiosity. This tale has been produced by Claudius Moore, with performances by Danielle McCray, and who's this? Some handsome young devil by the name of Dan Zapula. So let's go ahead and see what comes up when you choose Random. They are at the door, asking me to let them in. But I'll never do it. They are telling me what they're going to do to me.

They're on all fours, their mouths whispering there under the door, saying all those awful things that make me sick to my stomach. I'll never open the door. I shouldn't have watched. I never should have watched. And that's how it all began. You see, when I'm bored and I'm not sure, which stream I want to waste an hour on and let the universe decide.

They have this option. Just a button, just labeled random. You click it and boom, some stranger pops up. Usually it's just some dude sitting at his desk. He'll immediately welcome you. He's just happy to have someone there to listen to him ramble on about the game he's playing or maybe the movie he's watching. Harmless.

Usually. Not this time. This time, when I clicked the button, the universe had other ideas. I was suddenly looking into a dark room. There was no desk. There wasn't much of anything in it. The camera was high up on the wall, giving a fairly steep viewing angle. After a few seconds, I noticed a man stood in the room.

He was just shaving, a straight razor slowly cutting away the long black black beard covering his face. I typed in the chat something banal, something like, getting ready for summer? The man didn't respond. It seemed he could care less if someone joined his stream. He just kept on shaving. After the beard was gone, he started on his head. His black hair was thick and matted with filth.

It fell to the ground in dark clumps. I was fascinated. Was this some type of avant-garde experience? As far as I could tell, I was the only one who had joined the stream. Maybe ever. Before I was able to watch the man take off more hair, my mom called me down to help clean up the yard. Didn't want to step away. But I wouldn't get my allowance if I refused, and I had plans with that money.

I was going to take Jenny to homecoming. I had been saving for months. I hadn't asked her yet, but I hoped she would say yes. I still hoped she will. if things go back to the way they were. But I'm not sure if they will. I left the stream up, hoping it would still be live when I finished helping my mom. It took me about an hour to get the whole yard raked up.

I grabbed a snack and quickly headed back to my room. The stream was still going. Yet I couldn't see the man. He had rigged up a sort of harness while I was away. Sort of like a pull-up bar. Was he going to do some exercise? routine? The man stepped back into view a moment

later. I could see him from the side, dragging something large. He was completely naked, shaved ball to every inch of him. I let out a laugh, then went and quickly shut my door in case my sister or mom

happened to walk by. The large thing he was dragging was a stone, flat and seemingly very heavy. He placed it right in the center of the room underneath the harness dangling from the ceiling. The stone had these grooves in it, like it was meant to be filled with something, like my mom's cookie pan with a bunch of Christmas shapes, snowflakes and bells and whatnot.

But these weren't Christmas shapes. These were some type of strange symbols, and I felt funny if I looked at them too long. The man turned and looked at the camera then. stared right at me, just standing there for a long time, as though he was taking pains to make sure I could see him completely. Then he grabbed the bar, lifted his legs up, and brought his feet above his head, securing them into the harness. Was this some sort of acrobatic show?

Whatever it was, it was different. I didn't know many streamers that did physical performances. mostly they were just sedentary nerds. The man let go of the bar. He was upside down, his head only a foot or so from the big stone. He spread his arms out wide, like some obscene pink and naked bat. He reached over and grabbed a knife off a small table. The knife was black.

It almost looked unreal in its blackness, like a hole in reality or something. A trick of the lens, perhaps. Was he going to juggle this knife, throw it at targets, all while being strapped upside down and naked? That would be impressive. The luck of the draw, I thought. The luck of the random button. The man drew the blade across his throat. It opened him up like it was nothing at all.

I pulled back in the chair, putting a hand over my mouth, suppressing a scream. It was an act. That's what I kept telling myself. Surprisingly well done, though. Disturbingly real, in fact. The flow of blood was enormous and upsetting. It dripped down into the grooves, slowly filling up the strange symbols in the stone.

I wanted to slam my laptop shut, yet I couldn't look away. I'm not sure how much time had passed, but when the grizzly red, flow finally stopped dripping when every inch of the stone tray was filled. That was when

things got even stranger. The blood started trembling with these little ripples that slowly grew more vigorous, as though something swam within those thin grooves. I watched with horror as reedy tendrils almost imperceptible at first,

spiked out of those channels of blood, and began feeling the air, moving up, up, up, swaying like possessed, crawling plants looking to latch on to something, and latch on to something they did, the man's right thumb. It went quick after that. The tendrils wrapped the whole hand, then the other hand, then the man's skull. The blood, if it was even blood anymore, steadily rose further and further, up the man, engulfing him into a quivering skin of crimson.

I sat frozen, watching the screen, until he was coated from head to toe in that thick, oily membrane. I felt sweat trickling down my face and back. Something inside me was screaming, turn it off, turn it off, yet God, help me. I couldn't. I just couldn't. How easy it would have been to just shut my laptop, but I kept watching even as the man's fingers began to twitch.

Then his head shuddered a few times and began to sway. A moment later he leaned upwards in this strangely graceful motion, detaching his feet from the bar and dropping to the ground like a cat. By then the thick skin of blood was disappearing, as though it was being absorbed back into the man, or what I thought of as the man. When it slowly rose up and stared at me, stared at its audience of one,

the only witness to this horrific transformation, I trembled, goosebumps rising along my flesh, because looking back at me, with blood still oozing from the eyes, was myself. I was smiling. A horrific smile that seemed

predatory, lustful. I slammed my laptop shut, kicking it off my bed and disgust. I ran down the hall to the bathroom and threw up in the toilet. For a long time, I just laid there on the cold tile, wondering what I had just seen. Was it some type of elaborate joke?

Was any of it real? Had I gone crazy? I didn't touch my computer. for the rest of the night, I recoiled from its sight. I lay in my bed, shivering as though I had a fever, replaying in my mind the horrific ritual? Was it a ritual? I didn't know. And finally, exhaustion overtook me,

and I drifted into a fitful sleep. By the morning, what I had just witnessed had lost some of its power over me. Maybe it had just been a nightmare. That was my hope. Yet my laptop was there on the floor where I had kicked it away just the night before. I looked at it as though it was a rancid piece of meat, but I had to know. I snatched it up, flipping it open, dreading what I would see. Just a black screen.

The computer had died overnight. I plugged it in and went to school. Everything was normal. The strange event I witnessed was a distant yet uncomfortable memory. Jenny, as always, was sitting at the desk in front of me. She was beautiful. The most beautiful girl I knew. The first time I saw her in her cheerleading outfit,

her hair curled and tied in bows, glitter flecked on her cheeks, I felt my heart would explode. I didn't know someone could be that pretty. She was now wearing an autumn. themed dress that showed a generous portion of her thighs. She was drawing in her notepad. I was curious what she was drawing. I always found her drawings lovely.

Yet she seemed not to value them. She would toss them away after class. I would wait until everyone left, then sneak them out of the trash, flatten out the creases, and put them in a binder. I had dozens of her drawings. I hoped maybe later in life,

maybe when we were married, I would present them to her. Yet this time what I dredged up out of the trash made my breath catch in horror. I shuddered at the intricate details of unspeakable violence. I dropped the paper and stepped away from it. How could Jenny have drawn such things? How could anyone? I fell into a seat and fought back nausea, pushing the images out of my mind. When I finally felt better, I walked out into the hall.

It was bathed in shadows as though some of the lights in the building had fizzled out. Kids were at their lockers talking. Jenny was there. Her back to me. Her locker open. She was laughing. I could hear it. Just the normal Jenny.

I felt a pang of jealousy. Who was she talking to? Who was making her laugh in such an indecent way? Suddenly my body went cold. I recognized the clothes of the person. Jenny's locker slammed shut. They turned. It was me talking to her.

My eyes dripping blood. Hers too. And there was that same hungry smile on their faces, the one I'd seen just before I slammed my laptop shut. I turned and ran. Throwing open the doors to the school, running straight home, I threw myself into bed, crying. I was having a panic attack. I was going insane.

I gripped my blanket, forced myself to calm down, repeating over and over that I was fine, that I was simply exhausted from not sleeping the night before. I lay there for I don't know how long before I fell asleep. When I awoke, the sun was down. I was surprised my parents let me rest for so long. I stood, got out of bed, feeling that groginess you always feel when you take too long of a nap. There was talking downstairs. I went down the steps.

My family was there laughing and eating. The scent of roasted meat made me feel sick. When they heard me coming, the conversation died down. When I entered the dining hall, it was dark. Only the recess lighting illuminated the long wooden table. We had a guest over. Was it my sister's boyfriend? It was too dark.

I couldn't tell. Oh, honey. My mother was cutting a large piece of bloody meat, the knife grinding slowly along the plate. We've been waiting for you. Yes. I heard a voice say, seeming to come from a tunnel far away. My voice.

I saw myself turn in the chair, saw that hungry smile again. My family looked up at me, eyes all dripping blood. We've been so hungry, darling. They rose as one, came over the table. I fled upstairs, slammed my door shut, locked it. They are still there, asking me to open the door, to let them in. I can't. Sleepless universe for even more ad-free audio nightmares.

Well, that's one site you should probably avoid streaming content from. But now that the fall season is here, your favorite show finally came. back with new episodes, much safer to watch. The problem is, your brain is still replaying tomorrow's schedule over the opening credits. That's why a lot of people are looking for small ways to make life a little bit easier to move through. And that's where Indecloud is making a difference. Indecloud is a fully legal online cannabis dispensary for gummies, exotic flour, premium pre-rolls, zero-sugarc, sodas, energy gummies, and extra strength sleep gummies. Those sleep gummies are the ones I love and use regularly.

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Your subscription ships regularly and discreetly, with free gifts and free shipping on qualifying orders. Don't forget when you order, fill out the quick survey to support this show. Enjoy responsibly, and a huge thanks to Winda Cloud for helping everybody enjoy the return of routine without giving every new responsibility a starring role. Listen closely as we return to the frequency of fear. In our next tale, we meet a wedding photographer and his assistant heading out to a new assignment. And their job, as you know, is to capture a day that everybody will want to remember for the rest of their lives. Now, weddings can bring out a different side of people.

But when you're working behind the camera, you learn to keep your opinions to yourself and just carry on shooting. Author Michael Harris Cohen has arranged quite an occasion for us. This tale has been produced by Phil Mikulski, with performances by Jesse Cornett, Jeff Clement, Graham Rowett, Nicole Goodnight, Nicole Doolin, Atticus Jackson, and James Cleveland. So won't you hold that smile and look happy for The Better Man? Five miles off the highway and we're in the middle of nowhere. We're an inching GPS dot deep in the woods,

crawling a nameless road that's barely a road. There's no address. Only the coordinates the bride's father texted. Alec nurses one of his jumbo-sized hangovers. His freckled face is pale as paper. Every thump in the road has him clutching his head. Oh, the fucking boonies. If I'd known, I would have skipped today.

Look, try listening to your voicemail. I told you twice. Though honestly, I would have passed if they hadn't accepted my first bid. It's a long drive, and outdoor ceremonies are harder to shoot. But the father agreed straight off, though my bid was high by a mile, and Venmoed half before I'd even hung up the phone. Crazy to refuse so much money for a day's work. Not a chance.

At last, the trees started to thin. A few more dog legs and dodged craters in the spot comes into view. It's a vast clearing at the center of the forest, a perfectly mowed circle, big enough for a rave. A white pole tent rises in the mode part, packed with tables. Next to that stands a log altar, rimmed with flowers and a bell. Chairs rode before it.

It's a spread that must have cost a fortune to get delivered and assembled all the way out here, especially that circus tent. Carousel. I park on the edge of the clearing by the other cars, Benzes, and even a Bentley. My rusty Ford Transit is the mutt of the bunch. Next to us, cross-legged on the hood of a range rover, three long-haired men sit in snow-white robes, sharing a joint. Beyond them, more robed folk wander

the grounds, stringing lights, and planting teaky torches. It all looks like a yoga retreat. A rich, hippie wedding. My favorite kind. My pre-job tension thaws a little. I've shot a few of these around Marin. They're generally easy point shoots, versus some Palo Alto jobs. where the mother-in-law thinks she's Bergman, shadowing me with perfect moment suggestions and composition advice. As we exit the van, the three hippies turn our way. They could be triplets. Same robes, same well-groomed beards.

Welcome. The middle one stretches the joint in our direction. Alec is a moth to a flame, parting his bangs like he cited the new world. But before he can speak, I say, We're shooting the wedding video. Um, nowhere I can find Brian. The center of the trio points to the tent, then exhales a boulder of smoke.

Alec looks like he wants to cry as I lead him away. Um, I need you straight. He's my last choice for an assistant, but he is my sister's boyfriend and has a decent eye. Though he never mastered the dress coat, I remind him every time, khakis and dress shoes. Per usual, he sports faded jeans and tomato-colored converses. Worse, he's a liability if he starts drinking,

which he considers the main perk of wedding videos. Still, he works cheap. I peg Brian right off. He's in the tent directing place settings. He's an older version of the hippies by the car, though bigger and muscled like an ex-biker. He's got the same robe and long hair, just gray streaked at the temples and beard.

I introduce myself and he mashes my hand with a sweaty shake. I lay out my plan. Woods walk with the bride and groom, some family shots, the vows, cake-cutting and toasts, first dance and after-party. His stare unsettles me. like his eyes reach inside me and come up empty. Then his gaze swings to Alec and lingers.

He smiles as he gives Alec the bare grip. Alec makes a great first impression. Even hungover, he's good-looking, tall and blue-eyed and boyish, like the cover boy for some Midwest travel brochure. It's the other reason I've kept him on. I note the Patec Philippe, shackling the father's wrist. and aim for the premium package. We can do drone shots, too, if you like.

Tricky with the trees, but it'll add aerial views and a bit of grandeur. Pricey, though. He bobs his head, letting Alex's hand go. That'd be fine. Not even curious how pricey. I decide today is going to be a great day. I ask him where I can find the bride. ride and he points to a smaller tent by the trees.

Red and conical, it looks like something from a Renaissance fair. Alec and I head back to the van and unzip the equipment bags. I wrap a battery belt and check the camera settings. All right, shoot the grounds, around the tent and altar. Also, some nature shots and birds and trees, establishing stuff. I'll go talk to the bride and groom. Roger Sir. He salutes and does a heel click.

Color has returned to his cheeks, the fresh air probably. Unfortunately, it's also returned his default, wise-ass mode. I don't understand what my sister sees in him, beyond his cuteness, but then I've never understood much about relationships. Alec has a good heart, she always says. Well, so does a Labrador, I always think. My sister loves to mention his volunteer work for Greenpeace and how he once gave away all the money in his wallet to a homeless woman with a kid.

He's a better man than you, she said more than once, which I told her means next to nothing. Walking towards the bride's tent, I think what I always think. Weddings are sad affairs. People spend a fortune to construct their dream day for a relationship that's got a coins-flip chance of survival. Funerals are most honest. But then, no one wants a funeral video.

Outside the bride's tent, I voice a... Knock-knock. Come in. I pull back the flap and enter. The bride touches upper makeup in a mirror. I see her before she sees me. She's a knockout. Blonde braids pretzel the back of her lacy gown.

She's one of those cat-eyed, thin-waisted women who model for lingerie catalogs. She catches my eye in the mirror. I stride forward and stretch a hand. I'm David for the wedding photos and video. Her hand stays on the mascara brush, avoiding the shake. Her eyes hold mine in the face. the mirror, then drop. She heaves a sigh. Christ, a diva day. Then I realize she's not ignoring me. She's upset. Maybe on the verge of a breakdown. Her mascara brush quivers in her hand. Her lips

tremble. She rocks slightly on her stool, but when she whirls to face me, her eyes aren't nervous or upset. That's not it. She's scared. David? I nod. Her eyes grip mine. Can you help me? Well, that's what I'm here for. We make memories last forever. I bury my hands in my pockets and inwardly wince. The line is on my business card, but it rings corny out loud. She searches my eyes, like she lost something in them. These people, my fiancé? They're not... Who's not what?

I jump and turn. A tall woman bears chalk white teeth. Her long hair is shiny as tar, slicked back, and ponytailed. She crosses past me, reeking of patchouly, and sets her hands on the bride's shoulders. Nervous Gaia? Gaya?

I groaned inside. New age names turn my stomach. The bride's eyes crinkle into a quick smile. Her mask of fear vanished. Cold feet, I guess. Her voice is steady. Perfect features poised in the mirror. The woman introduces herself as the mother.

Her eyes give me the once-over like I'm a moldy sandwich. Then she returns her attention to her daughter. The groom isn't here, but he'll arrive soon. Fuck. If the groom is a no-show, I'm out half my fee. It wouldn't be the first time a wedding went south due to last-minute bailouts. We exit the tent, and there stands Alec. He sways a little.

The smell of fresh dope and alcohol blooms around him. Of course, I can't say a word in front of the clients. I introduce the mother Who gives Alec the up and down Then a white smile His boyish looks melt the iciest types He smiles and totters And holds her hand too long

I vowed to never hire him again Though I vowed that before I tell them we'll do some shots Just with the bride Um we'll get a couple of shots later Um, when the groom arrives. The mother nods, though she still hasn't taken her eyes off Alec. We shoot Gaia walking a path by the tree line.

The light is perfect. She's dappled in sun. I shoot her spinning and her white dress billows like a bell. It's a two shot that'll kill in slow-mo. Clients love slow-mo. Checking the shots, I can't. Get something in her face. Her eyes are damp, overly bright.

I've seen the loads of nervous brides, but... She's different. Her jitters make me nervous. She studies Alec, hunting for something in his vacant gaze. There's a connection there. I can feel it. I want to talk to you. Alec?

His jaw drops. His eyes. glassy is so bubbles. Sure. We're here to make memories for always. The idiot can't even get my cheesy slogan right. What if she smelled the alcohol? What if she reads him the riot act and fires us before I fire him?

Um, we don't want to lose the light. She nods, but her eyes stay locked on Alec. He smiles. A stoned and stupid smile I want to slap right off his face. While they're off talking, I flip on my camera to check footage. In the shots, she glows like a pre-Raphaelite painting. She looks perfect. A white-gowned fairy floating past trees.

I study her eyes. There's something I missed before. An intensity. determination? When Alec finally returns, he sits next to me and doesn't say word. How is our bride? Alec stares at his hands. What are we going to do?

Well, we'll keep shooting, and hopefully the groom will show. And the more shots we have, the more we can charge if they cancel. His gaze shifts from his hands to me. He looks scared. We have to get her out of here. Take it easy. And they said the groom's coming. He's just late.

Alex stares at the ground. You don't get it? Gaya said she's been kidnapped. She said they're forcing her to marry against her will. Come on. She's just freaking out. I've seen a groom rip off his tucks before the ceremony and jump in a river. I've got footage of plenty of brides puking pre-vows.

People say crazy things before a wedding. It's stress. This is different. She's super freaked. She says these people are dangerous. Well, getting married is dangerous. You don't believe in love at all, do you? Sure, I do.

Just not its durability. He doesn't stir. He just keeps staring at the ground like he's drilling a hole with his eyes. Something in her face. Bad dream. When he says it, I realize that's exactly how it feels. Something is off. The robes.

This place. The vibe of these people. A part of me wants to pack up and spoil. But that would be insane. Financial suicide. So, all I say is, it's time to wake up. Go grab the drone. Alex shakes his head and marches back towards the van. I decide once and for all that I'm done with him. After today, he can go save walruses or dish out grub in a homeless shelter for all I care. I settle in the main tent and order a beer. As the cold beer soothes my nerves, I decide what I'll tell my sister, how I care about her,

but not at the expense of my business, how she might want to consider dumping him as well. I'll extol the merits of single life, lonely, but far less complicated. A dreadlocked fellow sits at my table. Dude, is that a 5D mark three? He's pointing at my camera. I shake my head. No, Mark 4. Awesome.

You shoot anything besides weddings? I consider telling him about my stillborn feature film, but I'm not in the mood. I just want to drink my beer and quietly stew. No, and just weddings. A grin splits his face. His eyes are intense and too large, like he's on something stronger than pot. This union is going to be nuts. Just wait.

You can get all Herzog on this thing. You know, Herzog? Yeah, he's great. Great. He's a motherfucking genius. Camera buffs and film nuts go with the job. He drones on about Fitzcaraldo, Aguirre, Kinski. I tune him out and finish my beer.

Close to dusk. The guests settle in the chairs by the altar. The string lights flick on and the teaky torches are lit. I set a tripod camera for a constant wide shot. The rest will shoot handheld. Where the hell is the groom? And where's Alec? I checked my watch.

6.45. And the wedding starts at 7. I pan over the crowd. The light is perfect. A soft glow filtered through the treetops. The white robes of the audience glow amber. Beautiful people made more beautiful. Music kicks off.

The wedding march, tastefully done on cello. Still, no groom, no bride, no bridesmaids, though no one looks concerned. Half the crowd stares off into the woods. The other half whispers among themselves. The wedding march runs to the end. Then the clearing is silent, except for the squeak of folding chairs and the whispers. The music restarts. The cello saws through the march, though no one is marching.

No father of the bride. No bride. He did it. Alex stole the fucking bride. Abruptly, the father comes tearing up the aisle. The crowd stands with a collective gasp, heads turning, searching the clearing, and the woods. My gut flares. I kept shooting.

I want to hide behind the camera. None of this will make the clip anyway. If there's a clip. My contract has a no-show fee if the wedding aborts, but it's only half, which means I won't get another dime. No drone shots or webpages. Zero extras.

God damn, Alec. He finally lost his fucking mind. The crowd murmurs. all eyes on the woods. More hippie guys, young and old, an elderly brawed with a massive diamond brooch. Her husband, even older, a wispy-haired mummy lost in his oversized robe.

All of them are on their feet. The cello grinds on in the background. I decide this is the strangest wedding party I've ever shot. Not just the missing bride. There's something weirder, a lynchian feeling I can't pinpoint. Then I realize what it is. The crowd isn't shocked. No hand-wringing or tears.

No looks of disbelief. They're all eager. Palms pressed together, eyes sweeping the trees at the edge of the clearing. They're waiting on something to imbursed. Merge from the woods, like everyone's holding their breath. Cricket chirps volume up. Bird calls whistle from the pines. Shrill taunts or warnings.

Suddenly, one of the triplets from the joint circle shouts. Over there. All heads pivot, following the line of his finger. I zoom the spot. Nothing. trees, moss-coated rocks. I pan left, then right, then I snag a flash of white, a movement in the brush, the bride. She staggers through the trees and underbrush. Her dress is filthy and mud-stained, its neckline torn. She struggles like her body is a heavy thing, her arms stretch,

behind her back as if her wrists are bound. Jesus, Alec was right. She's in danger. I'm suddenly desperate to see him, to set eyes on his stoned and goofy smile. Then a terrible thought splinters my head. Alec is a fuck-up, but he wouldn't. I searched the woods.

Trees scroll my lens. No sign of him. Maybe he's passed out in the van, overstoned and snoozing. Maybe she ran off on her own, wandered the woods, then changed her mind and turned back? I zoom out and swing to the father. Like the rest, he's locked on the sunset-brushed woods, watching his daughter. Why isn't he running over to her? Why doesn't anyone?

The father turns and looks right at me, face stuffing my frame. His eyes dance with joy, overjoyed. What the hell? I lower the camera and there's an immediate grab of my wrist. The dreadlocked film buff. He smiles and twists my arm back. Sharp pain shoots through my shoulder. What the fuck are you doing?

You need to film her. You need to shoot everything. His free hand reaches inside his robe and, like a magic trick, a hunting knife appears in it. My mind goes weirdly clear. He whips it up to my throat. Sharp metal pricks my skin like something hot. Leaning in, he does. doesn't smile anymore. There's a speed freak certainty in his stare, like cutting my throat would be

easy as stubbing out a cigarette. My head hollows. My legs liquefy. I manage a swallow and a careful nod. I lift my camera. His knife lowers and sticks at my back. The slightest pressure there, like it's only the point of a pencil. I try to steady my hands as I focus on the bride. I try to ignore his mouth breathing near my ear, his breath like a rancid fruit. Ignore the knife's tip a half inch from my spine. She's halfway across the clearing,

nearly to the mode circle. Zoomed, she bites her lip, forehead furrowed. like she's straining. Stair fixed, braids askew. Her eyes lock on the altar, arms still behind her back as she lumbers forward. Then I see she's pulling something. Thick rope circles her wrists and stretches taut behind her.

Something heavy drags the ground after her, though the grass is too thick to see. see it. The crowd starts clapping, not applause, but a slow pulse in time with her plotting steps. The film buff lets out

a high-pitched giggle. She did it. She bested him. At last, she reaches the mode part. She's close enough that I can hear her grunts. A flash of red catches my eye.

Converse sneakers Alec His legs Raise off the ground ankles bound by the rope She drags My eye bulges at the Viewfinder

What the hell My camera follows her As she reaches the chairs Toward the back The guests bow As she struggles up the center aisle Alex's head bobs the rough ground. His hands flopped behind him. My ears crack with the sharp claps of the crowd.

My heart beats a quick counter-rhythm. I zoom in on Alex's head. There's a bloody spot on his scalp. His mouth dribbles blood. Eyes closed. Maybe he's breathing. Maybe he isn't. Halleck, what did you do? She's halfway to the altar. The crowd's rhythmic claps grow louder. A hazy feeling floods my head. I'm shooting a dream. But the camera is solid in my hands.

The bite of the knife at my back, a constant pressure. This is real. It's happening. I should do something. Clock the film buff with my camera. Help Alec. But I keep shooting. Frozen. I picture a scene.

Alec leads her through the woods. He stops and turns. A crooked smile tilts his face. He paws her dress, tears the neckline. She gropes for a log and like a golfer swings upward, catching him square in the mouth. Another swing slams into his skull, and he's out cold. The clapping becomes deafening as the bride reaches the altar. In front of it, she unwraps the rope from her thin wrists.

Alex's legs flop to the ground. I zoom. Blood smears the lower half of his face and coats his chest. But even zoomed, I can't find the wound. I can't tell if he's breathing. I think he is, but the image shakes. My hands wobble. My heart sprints like a runaway horse.

My head spins. I'm afraid I'll faint and fall back on the knife. I bite my lip till I taste blood and tilt up to the bride. Her chest heaves. Her features glow savage in the twilight eyes boiling. Stepping up to the altar, she turns and beams at the crowd. She bobs her head in time with their thunderous claps. She raises her hands in the air.

Their bloodstained. The father's voice booms. and echoes through the clearing as if it's amplified. His language is guttural and strange. A wailing, tuneless song. A soundtrack for this nightmare. The vessel. Hot, sour breath at my ear.

Knife point, jiggling in my back. You're unlucky, bud. It had to be the better man. and now it's coming at fucking last my legs buckle and shake ready to give way

but it's not my legs it's the ground throbbing and vibrating the altar bell sways and rings a dull tone like a spoon against a jar my mind contracts to a

single word. Earthquake, I dropped the camera, the neck strap bouncing into my chest. People jiggle in their folding chairs. No one stands or runs or screams. Time slows as the ground by the altar crumbles. Gotta get out. The knife pokes my back. The camera buffs putrid breath at my cheek.

Keep filming. Don't miss this. He jabs the knife through my jacket, piercing my lower back, breaking the skin with a pain like a lid cigar. I scream, but no one turns. All are transfixed. I raise the camera, tears blurring the image. My mind crumpling. The earth cracks, and the hole spreads before the altar.

Dirt sucked down like a giant drain has opened. A sinkhole. I'll die here in the middle of nowhere. Buried alive, never found. The father's voice rises to an ear-splitting volume. Then, abruptly, he stops. As suddenly as the quake started, it stops too. A silence.

feels the clearing. No birds, no crickets. Only my heartbeat, thumping in my ears, and the raspy breathing of the film buff. My legs quiver as if the tremors echo there. My back sings with pain from the knife, like hijacked pilots and bank tellers and robberies. Do the job, and you'll wake up Tomorrow, don't think. Just do the job. My camera pans the sinkhole, records the edges of this dirt wound, wide as a truck. Then there comes a blurred motion

as thousands of bugs scurry from the hole in black and brown waves. Beetles and ants, then worms and snakes. all bolting for the forest for escape. I hear my pulse in my ears, my panting breath. Then there's another sound from the hole, a skittering like a thousand crumpled newspapers. My brain squeals, run, but I can't.

My legs lock, rigid as fence posts. I don't want to see I want to squeeze my eyes shut but my camera eye refuses to close bound to look to record as a thing emerges from the crater it's long and segmented

a giant snake no not a snake it moves on legs thousands of them. It's a centipede-like creature, the thickness of a man's bicep and as long as a bus. It's an impossible thing. A jungle nightmare.

My camera is a shelter, a barrier, reducing this madness to the tiny window of my viewfinder. My mind sputters as I run the camera over the creature's slick, black, skin. I'm grateful that the world is dimmed, that I can't see it clearly, though it's still too much, even in the twilight. The creature slithers to the altar, to the bride, and her head tilts to meet it. Elation spreads her face as she pulls Alec to his feet. His chin lulls his chest, blood dribbling from his mouth. The bride's mother and father grab onto his arms holding him upright. Alex's head snaps up.

He's alive! His eyes pop with pain. His mouth stretches in a scream that doesn't arrive. Instead, he emits a toneless wail. I zoom his gaping mouth. The bloodied stumped stumped. wriggles within. He stares right at me, eyes shrieking as his mouth can't. She cut off his tongue. He tried to help her. She cut off his tongue. His face distorts as the nightmare insect

approaches him. It slithers up his belly, his chest. I'm zoomed in on his face, recording the terror in his eyes as the thing forces its way into his mouth, stretching it impossibly wide. It seems to take an eternity for it to fully enter him. But it does. All of it disappears inside him as his body bucks and convulses held upright by the parents. My stomach twists and acid floods my mouth. I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them, he's crumpled to his knees.

Eyes glassy, mouth still stretched like a gaping cavern. Though the creature is gone, all of it somehow now within him. The bride kneels before Alec and kisses him. I frame it perfectly. The money shot. Then my legs finally give. I crumple to my knees. Nothing left.

The film buff crouches by me. Knife at my back. Shoot it. I raise the camera. Heavy as cinder block. But I keep filming. The devil. The film buff whispers at my ear

is a fairy. This is older. And its time has come. A train horn sounds in the distance. A signal from another world, impossibly far off. A world now unreal to me. Then everything goes black. I watch it again and again.

Rewind and watch. My fingers skitter on the keyboard as I cut the images from two cameras into something coherent. I am not the same man who last sat in this editing chair. TV news blairs in the background. I'm half listening, waiting to hear something that will pull my whole attention. A slaughter somewhere. an emergency broadcast ordering evacuation, a town overrun by something, some things.

But there's nothing yet. Not yet. The news runs its normal course, political scandals and distant wars. Not a ripple of this thing. Though I know there will be. I thought they'd kill me at the wedding, chase me in the woods and slice my throat,

bury me in a shallow grave, or burn me. But they let me go. They want their wedding film, and they want more. The film buff walked me to my van. He hugged me, really hugged me, long and with, feeling. I drove out of there on that cratered road as if transported to another planet.

My van's wheel spun like my mind, turning over his last words. We can't wait to see what you cut together and what follows. There'll be loads more to shoot. And you're Arlini. I watch and think of Lenny. Of course, Lenny Riefenstall, filming the dark powers rise. Like her, what I've shot has never been recorded. Like the Nuremberg rallies or the moon landing.

I'm the first, the only one. I'm going to cut a fucking masterpiece. There's a hum in my blood. My mind feels wider than ever before as I return to the last shots. The images filmed after I blacked out. I view them over and over frame by frame. I watch Alec as he changes in slow motion. After the kiss, Alex spreads out on his belly.

His limbs and body elongate. There's no sound as I slowly scroll forward, but I've watched it enough at regular speed. My mind overdubs it. Sounds like snapping branches as his body extends into something else, no longer fully human. His arms and legs elongate and bend in impossible ways. and dozens more limbs burst from his chest and his belly, fully formed, raising him off the ground.

Though his head remains the same, his blue eyes spread wide with pain and terror, aware of all that is happening to him. He can't even scream. The bride raises her dress and mounts him as if he were some nightmarish horse. Her expression is fierce and dogged as she settles on his oddly curved back. Then the aleck thing skitters off the altar and over the ground. I freeze frame on the bride's face just before they descend into the earth, carrying the bride towards the hole. Its movements are abrupt and jerky than smoother as it seems to get.

gain confidence in its newly formed limbs. It needed to be part human to mate. It needed a good man. For their union. I freeze frame on the bride's face just before they descend into the earth. Unlike Alec, there's no terror in her features. Her cat eyes are wide.

Her lips part in a smile of exhilaration. and ecstasy. She's more beautiful than any woman I've ever seen. Soon, Gaya will couple and breed. The hippies dilated eyes had glittered full of moonlight. Her endless litter will roam the earth. Millions of ravenous spawn. And you'll shoot it up.

all. I feel it. The shift in things. In me. History needs those who won't look away. Like Lenny. Like me. Those who have the eyes to record the end of eras. Not better men, but men like me. Well, sleepless, that brings us to the end of this episode, and if you need a moment after that last one, I'm right there with you. My friends, we've spent this episode with people whose worlds grew smaller as something took hold of them. So, before we go, it feels good to remember the people who help to keep our own worlds open. Maybe there's someone you've been meaning to catch up with. Maybe there's someone you've been meaning to check in on.

Give them a call. It doesn't have to be about anything important. And I greatly appreciate this connection I've had with you all of these years and for countless years to come. Thank you for spending this time with me and for supporting everyone here at the No Sleep Podcast who brings these stories to life. After more than 10 years here, getting to share a little of myself with you and a few unsettling tales here and there still means a great deal. I know you'll keep finding stories here that surprise you, get under your skin, and stay with you long after they end. And I hope being part of this community continues to mean as much to you as it does to me.

Special thanks go out to our one and only maestro, Brandon Boone, to the entire no-sleep casting crew, from David to Jessica to Violet and everyone behind the scenes. It really does take a village to put this thing together. every single week, and I am continually lucky to have the privilege of working alongside each and every one of them. Dear sleepless, until we speak again, I'm Dan Zepula, and this has been the No Sleep podcast. So take care of yourselves, take care of one another, and tune that dial next week once again to the frequency of fear. To the silence, we bring our audio horror to a close for another week.

Join us again next time when we conjure up the frequency of fear for more sonic nightmares. The No Slee 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. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us, just visit sleepless.com to learn about the sleepless universe. Add free extended episodes each week and lots of bonus content for the dark hours, all for one long 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. 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.