The NoSleep Podcast - S25 Ep8: NoSleep Podcast S25E08

Episode Date: October 11, 2026

It's Episode 08 of Season 25. The frequency of fear brings you tales about perplexing paranoia."Always In Memory" by Carson Wheeler (Story starts around 00:05:45)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Jeff ClementCast: Narrator - David Ault, Oscar - James Cleveland, Kent - Jake Benson, Zelda - Erika Sanderson, Detective - Andy Cresswell"Stranger Danger" by Emily DeStafano (Story starts around 00:23:10)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Erin Lillis, Man - Reagen Tacker"Grandmummy" by A.M. Symes (Story starts around 00:35:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Jesse CornettCast: Kalli - Sarah Ruth Thomas, Troy - Atticus Jackson, Aaron - Kyle Akers, Grandma - Erin Lillis"What Pigs Eat" by Liam Moran (Story starts around 01:12:05)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Claudius MooreCast: Narrator - Peter Lewis, Bob - Jesse Cornett"The Nameless Ghost" by Peter J Stewart (Story starts around 01:36:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Ash Millman, Charly - Jake BensonThis episode is sponsored by:DripDrop - 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.comMint 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/nosleepHome 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!Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about our guest host, Sarah Ruth ThomasClick here to learn more about the Story Sirens Podcast Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"The Nameless Ghost" illustration courtesy of Hasani WalkerThe 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 as you Brace yourself for the No Sleep Sleep Podcast. Welcome, my dears, to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm so thrilled you're here with us today. You are our faithful and lovely audience

whom we cherish deeply. I know I may seem a bit effusive right now, but I was a little worried you might not show up. I keep hearing something and strange things seem to always be happening these days. Don't you think? Or is that just how I think? Oh, I'm sorry.

You probably don't recognize me since I'm not dying a horrific death or haunting some unsuspecting protagonist. I am your host today, Sarah Ruth Thomas, and I'm so happy that you've joined us for today's episode. Wait, don't you hear that? No? I could have sworn.

I must be imagining things. I do tend to have an over- I'm overly active imagination. It's one of the reasons I always record my scripts for the podcast during daylight hours. Yes, yes, I know. I work for a horror podcast and I am a giant chicken. Ha, ha. And the best part?

Worst part? I've worked for several different horror productions. Horror and I seem to have a love-hate relationship. I'm a sucker for a good horror novel and for creatures rising from the deep. And I remember feeling so grown up when my dad let me stay up late and watch the original black and white The Thing with him. But then films like Grimlins made me sleep with a nightlight for years. I wanted to see giant monsters terrorizing cities, not beer something that could fit under my bed. And don't even get me started on scary stories to tell in the dark.

And did you? You don't, I'm telling you, I hear something. But if you don't hear anything, I guess I shouldn't worry. When David invited me to join the podcast in 2019, I was over the moon. Ironically, I debuted in the season 12 story Moon Shadow Friends, where I starred alongside Darling's of the podcast, Graham Rowett and Aaron Lillis. Since that fateful recording session, I've had the pleasure to voice ghosts, fairies, mad scientists, eldritch monsters, and helpless damsels for the show.

I've made appearances at live shows in Salt Lake City, Utah, and Estes Park, Colorado, where I was finally able to meet co-stars, authors, and fans of the podcast. And speaking of fans, it's because of you that the podcast is able to show off the talents of so many individuals, and I, as a voice actor, get to discover new and terrible ways to die. I haven't lost sleep over any of the stories before, so thanks for that. But really, thank you. Anyway, when I'm not facing my fears within horror scripts, I work in video games, audiobooks, dubbing, and I co-host my own podcast, Story Sirens, Legends, Myths, and Laughs. Outside of recording, I enjoy camping, cooking, and, well, maybe I should have.

I didn't divulge too much information. You never know who is listening, after all. You understand, don't you? Right? Right? Do you ever feel like someone or something is watching you? I promise I'm not being paranoid. I'm just being cautious.

But really, what's wrong with being a bit paranoid? My parents always taught me to be situationally aware, and I am. It's one of the reasons I am really starting to become concerned that you're not hearing the same things I'm hearing. I think it's high time for you to brace yourself for the frequency of fear. In our first tale, brought to us by Carson Wheeler, we meet Oscar, who's dealing with the aftermath of the death of his friend and business partner Kent. By himself now, Oscar must deliver the pitch for their new product, an AI that scrapes a dead person's social media so the living may continue talking with them.

This story stars David Alt, James Cleveland, Jake Benson, Erica Sanderson, and Andy Cresswell, and is produced by Jeff Clement. So it would do you well to question your senses, to keep your facts straight, and to be suspicious of what is always in memory. Oscar Harold, eyes closed, breathed in deeply. He held it for tens of.

seconds, then slowly exhaled. Calmness washed over him. His heartbeat decreased, and he could feel the fog lifting. His mind cleared. He opened his eyes and stared deeply into the mirror. He wished Kent was still here. The intercom cracked, then Zelda's voice. Five minutes to go.

He turned to the camera in the corner, nodded and gave a thumbs up. He was ready. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to launch night. He sounded more confident than he felt and could feel the nerves rising. God, he so wished Kent was here. This was his forte, selling the dream. He caught himself, forget that. He just wished Kent was here full stop.

He squinted in the harsh stage lights and continued. Tonight, we see the next step in the evolution of remembrance. The next step in using technology to keep our loved ones always in our hearts, always in our minds, always in memory. The crowd went crazy. Of course they did. Rent a fanboy overload, numbers bulked out by eager interns. Maybe he was learning from Kent after all. Can you learn from a dead man? How many of you have longed to hear once again from a dearly departed loved one? You see social media post from a lost friend or a message from a missed family member. Aim can do all this and so much more.

Using the latest AI algorithms, AIM can analyze all the content a user has ever posted online. Then, depending on the package and option you decide upon, regular updates from your loved ones will be sent to you. We aim to make loss more manageable. to keep loved ones always in memory. The lights dimmed, and the screen behind him glowed into life. Zelda glided from the wings, handed him a pad, and continued across the stage without breaking stride. Kent Brocklehem was a genius.

His code is the driving force beneath the heart of aim. But he was much more than just a technical marvel. He was my friend. and I miss him dearly. He'd rehearsed this dozens of times, but still it clawed at his heart. His greatest friend, his colleague, his mentor, was dead. But in a wonderful piece of serendipity,

his life and his work were about to collide. Kent's digital footprint is, by most standards, very large. But for the rest of his mere mortals... Pause, wait for laugh. Only a few hundred SM post equivalents are enough to create a meaningful experience. What I'm doing now is sending an instant message. Hi Kent, just at the launch party, hope my aim is good. The crowd all laughed again, exactly as the script dictated.

Maybe all those focus groups had been worth it after all. AIM will also know how quickly a loved one would normally take to reply and factors this into the response, adding further layer of realism into the experience. Hi Oscar. Sounds a blast. I wish I could be there. Oscar felt a shiver. He knew it was all code, all trickery behind the scenes to link into Kent's social media accounts, to converse in approximately the way he might have done. But still, to receive a message from a dead man's account. Oscar was relieved to be off stage,

to be back in his own little world and away from the crowds. He'd be even happier back in the laps. A familiar buzz and vibration in his back pocket stopped his thoughts. He pulled out his phone, briefly glanced at it, then stopped.

He stared at it in silent horror. I know what you did. Kent's name at the top of the text burnt a hole in his retina. His mind raced. How on earth was Kent's account sending him messages? Apart from the demo earlier, it wasn't even hooked in to AIM. You are going to pay. He switched the screen off, threw the phone to the other side of the room. Either this was someone's sick idea of a joke, or something had spiraled out of control with the code. It couldn't be anything else.

Phone now out of reach, he picked up the pad from the desk, just as an email notification came through. His heart filled with dread. Even before he opened it, he knew who it was from. The subject line read, No, Oscar, this is not a joke. He didn't want to read on, but found he couldn't help it. Nor is it a coding issue.

And it's not someone messing with you or someone hacking my account. It's me. And I know what you've done. He didn't read anymore. The pad went the way of the phone. The lights in the room flickered for the briefest of moments. The room flipped into darkness before snapping back. The persistence of an image burned into his mind's eye.

Kent behind him in the mirror, his head damaged and bloodied, fragments of glass and plastic and metal puncturing the skin. in. He knew it was crazy. But he spun around, checking no one was there. Yet all the time, out of the corner of his eye, he could feel the image still in the mirror, staring at him, cursing him. I know what all this is. It's just my mind, playing tricks on me. He struggled for the words. Guilt, making me see things that just aren't there. Well, I've got nothing to feel guilty about. It was an accident.

Who are you talking to, Oscar? A small cry almost leapt from his mouth, stifled at the last moment, at the thought that the mirror was responding. Without turning, he looked at the reflection over his shoulder of the open doorway. What do you want, Zelda? Just checking on how you are after the presentation.

I'm fine. Thank you. Has anyone been modifying? The code. She walked closer, frowned. Aim? Shouldn't be? A few of the developers have been tinkering away at the edges.

Cosmetic stuff only. I can check. He nodded. She moved to his laptop on the dressing table and logged in. Oh, no updates today. And nowhere is reported. All's working as expected. He remained transfixed by the mirror.

If there's nothing else, I've got some things to attend to? She went to leave, turning round and pausing briefly just as she reached the door. Oh, you've got a ton of teams messages, by the way. She smiled. Meet you back at the lab? He looked to the screen, still open, still illuminated, still on his login. He hesitated. His fingers hesitated.

Then unable to wait any longer he reached forwards. I know what you did. You won't get away with this. I'm going to make you pay. You killed me. He slammed the screen down. Terror now gripped his body. He knew.

He knew what he had done. How could he know he was dead? How could he know? How could he know anything? How could anyone know? He told no one except... His phone pinged. He looked across the room to where it lay,

battered, but still defiantly receiving messages from beyond the grave. Slowly, he walked towards it. It pinged again. He picked it up, held it in his sweaty fingers. It pinged, vibrated, then pinged again. He couldn't, not. He had to look. I know what you did. The words were burning into the screen as much as they were tearing into his skull. I know what you did.

The phone took on a life of its own. The words disappeared. Another application opened. An image appeared on screen, a car wreck. I know what you did. The car wreck again, closer, more detailed. You won't get away with this. Fuel and oil and blood mingled on the tarmac.

I'm going to make you pay. A mangled body. slumped over the steering wheel, head damaged and bloodied, fragments of glass and plastic and metal punctured the skin. Detective divers looked carefully at Zelda Harris. His instinct was telling him that something was off, but not what or why. To lose one CEO might be considered unfortunate, but two. Oscar and Kent were very close. I think the pain of losing his best friend was simply too much for Oscar. He couldn't go on. Hmm. Yes. Unfortunate.

He played idly with something loose on his jacket. Not for you, of course. He watched as the barb fired across and perfectly hit home, then quickly changed tack before a dismissal could be issued. Do you think wallowing in all this was the best way to cope with the grief? Rather than moving on? What do you mean? All this always in memory business.

Can't we just let people go? She smiled. It can be very therapeutic. Some people just need a little help in moving on. And now Oscar has moved on. The imperfection in his suit was back. You will too? I presume you're in line to take over.

If the board see fit. It seems you feel they may. most likely will. They are aware of my skills. And Oscar, was he aware of your skills? You were close, weren't she? She forced a smile. That was a long time ago.

A very long time ago. From her jacket, her phone buzzed and gave a small chirrup. If there's nothing else, detective, I have appointments. Of course. He smiled falsely, not moving. He stared intently into her eyes, daring her to look away. And as her eyes flicked down, he finally turned to depart, leaving a final comment hanging in the air. I'm sure our paths will somehow cross again soon.

Zelda didn't hear him. All her concentration was on her phone screen. The message from the now recently deceased, Oscar Harold. I know what you did. Sleepless universe for even more. Add free audio nightmares. My aim this autumn is to keep on top of my hydration.

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What did I say? It never hurts to be overly cautious, situationally aware, and yes, maybe even a touch paranoid. After all, we... There it is again. Guys, I am really getting nervous over here. Let's just move on to our next story, shall we? In our next tale, written by Emily DiStefano and produced by Phil Mikulski, we experience a woman's apprehension firsthand as she continues to see the same man

everywhere she turns. Performing this tale are Aaron Lillis and Reagan Tacker, and together, they teach us the true meaning of the term Stranger Danger. I can't recall the first time I really noticed him, I think last week, maybe. He was behind me in the paper towel aisle. I remember thinking to myself, hmm, wasn't he here the last time I was here? It's a fairly small town, so I guess it's not totally out of the realm of possibility that he happens to shop here the same days. I do. I regularly need more things. Boys eat twice their weight in a day, and my boy is no exception.

My boy is old enough to stay home alone, which is incredibly easy on me. And honestly, I don't mind the semi-frequent trips to Greg's grocery, though I think the name is dull to say out loud. Because it gives me a chance to decompress with my own thoughts and listen to my own The man is in the electronic section. Is he in that section because I'm in the book section right next to him? No, I think this is purely coincidental. I'm being paranoid.

I finish up, deciding I don't really need another book just yet. The checkout line boop, boops at me as I get closer. It's getting dark. And the pinch of unsettling dread works its way up my spot. and into my occipital lobe. The most disturbing thing about that deep, penetrating dread is that I'm not even sure why I feel it. You need help carrying all that loot out to your car?

A gravely voice grabs me, further coating my spinal cord in doubt and fear. I peer over my shoulder while I begin ringing up my items at the self-checkout. I have confirmation now that this is the paper towel an electronic aisle man, and I don't want any part of locking eyes. No, thank you. I say sternly to the man, paying extra attention to my body language. I'll be just fine.

Are you sure? You have some pretty heavy stuff there. I continue scanning, not breaking stride, though I can feel my heart beating just a bit quicker. I said I'm all right. Thanks. The man raises his hands defensively, though I'm still not completely looking at him. Okay, sorry. Figured since I parked next to you.

My stomach flips over three times. Blood leaves my periphery in an attempt to maintain my core processes. I finally make eye contact with the stranger while the boops continue around us. Hugh. What? How do you know which car is mine? He smiles, but he doesn't say anything. It disrupts me to my core, which is. still recovering from its initial blow. I beat up my scanning rate, fumbling to open bags.

Is there a tag on my car? Does he know where I live? I won't pretend I'm desirable. I don't believe that this man saw me and thought, wow, I have to have her. I'm average, and I think I look older than I really am. Having a child at home does that to a person. I love the life I've chosen,

but there's about eight times out of ten. where I don't recognize myself in the mirror the same way I used to. That being said, this man certainly doesn't look at me as though I stand out in a crowd. I ignore him while I finish bagging my items. My heart is quivering so aggressively inside my chest while I think there may be bruising. My suddenly clumsy fingers grip my shopping bags and I stride out of the store as coolly as I can manage. I sneak a glance over my shoulder at the man once more, and he's lingering by the checkout.

That's when I realized that he doesn't have anything to buy, but he's also not following me outside. Is this one of those human trafficking situations? Does he have henchmen waiting to snatch me from the parking lot and toss me in an unmarked white van, never to be seen again? It's not quite dark out yet, and there are plenty of average-looking people. people in regular cars who I think I can trust.

My breaths are quick and shallow as I leap into my driver's seat and smash the lock button with my nervous heavy finger. What the fuck? I muttered to myself, trying to count and slow my breathing. I'm in between two cars, and I'm not sure which belongs to the stranger. One is a green SUV and the other is a red pickup. They're both in relatively good shape, and neither vehicle strikes me as one that belongs to a stalker.

But they're not usually obvious, right? I decide that I don't care about confirming which vehicle belongs to him. I have a young one at home who I need to get back to. A young one at home who I may need to protect. Hey, sweet pee-pee, I'm going to make some dinner for you. I assure my boy when I get home. He's already sitting at the table like an angel patiently waiting. I'm grateful in this moment to be living on a fairly public road.

My mind keeps doing circles, and my thoughts range everywhere from, Hey, that guy was just fucking with you all the way to, he's an axe murderer and he's already here waiting until I fall asleep. And keep a close eye out the kitchen window while I prepare dinner, thinking of those two vehicles I was sandwiched in between. Green SUV, red pickup. There was nothing special. or incredibly identifying about either,

but I think I'll recognize them. My sweet, perfect boy eats his dinner without complaints, no requests. I eat with him, internally jumping every time I hear a car come near. So far, no sight of a green SUV or a red pickup. I put my sweet guy to bed and decided to stay up for a while. Can't fall asleep knowing that someone has been following me. I'm still not sure what he wants or wants. why he's chosen me.

No matter how hard my brain resists, alcohol is stronger and I can feel myself drifting off. I have no idea what time it is when I'm awoken by a bright light shining through my window. The clock eases into focus and I realize it's blinking, stopped at 1147 p.m. Did we lose power? I can usually hear something snapping or flicking when that happens.

I must have had more to drink than I intended. Someone must be outside with a flashlight. Red pickup. There's a red pickup shining its light through my window. It's the red pickup. But it's not the headlights that are blinding me. The stranger knocks on the door. No, he pounds on the door.

I glanced to my boy's bedroom door, and I feel helpless. He's defenseless, and I'm not much more equipped to deal with this man. Before I can even finish exhaling my breath, the man knocks my door down. He looks so much different in uniform. He's not alone this time either. The flashing lights aren't from his pickup. They're from the police cars accompanying him. Get on the ground!

He aims his gun at me. Don't fucking move. I'm shaking so bad that I dropped to the floor anyway. The other officers follow the trail my boy left after I took him to his bedroom from the dinner table. They opened his door too. I want to scream for him, but there's no point now. They found him. The house is drowning and coughing, gagging, and shouting.

I hear one officer pleading for God to help. I don't know if the worst part is that they're taking. my boy? Or they'll have to tell his mother how long he's been dead for. For audio playing, join our sleepless universe for even more at free audio nightmares. The last three months of the year hit us right in the holiday sweet spot. Halloween in October, Thanksgiving in November, and the festive season of December. Holidays mean busy schedules and the need for lots of good food. That's why holiday meal prep is when Home Chef really shines. Home Chef makes cooking simple, fresh food delivered,

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Anyone else feeling especially creeped out? I'm telling you, the world is a scary, scary place. And do you know what else is scary? Homeownership. When Kelly is released from prison, She and the rest of her family are startled to discover that their late grandmother has willed her home to be bad seed of the family. But Grandma's home doesn't feel as warm and welcoming to Callie as it once did. Written by A.M. Sims and produced by Jesse Cornett, this story stars Atticus Jackson,

Kyle Akers, Aaron Lillis, and, oh, how embarrassing. Me! So mind your manners, and put a smile on your face when you say hello. to Grandmummy. I cracked open the back door to let myself into Grandma's house. Immediately, the silent evening air was assaulted with the old Bless This House Chimes.

I yelped and bumped into the heavy storm door, sending it swinging into the wall. Damn, chime. I hurried inside and slammed the door shut, cutting the song off. From upstairs, I heard my younger brother laughing. Seriously? The chimes scared you.

Troy appeared at the top of the half-flight of stairs from the entryway to the kitchen. I can't believe I forgot about Grandma's security chime. The chime had been nailed to that back door for 47 years, twice as long as I had been alive. Granted, I hadn't been to Grandma's house in a long time, but I still should have remembered it. Grandma lived in a tiny town in flyover country. It was the epitome of the middle of nowhere. Most of the doors had locks, although they had never been engaged. And the closest thing grandma had to a security system was that damn chime.

The circular gold metal box was nailed to the wall, and its pull string was connected to a hook that Grandma hammered into the heavy wooden door. When someone entered the house, the string slacked and retracted into the chime box, which started playing, Bless This House. Grandma didn't call it a security feature. She just wanted to know when someone was coming in so she could holler at them to wait if she wasn't decent. I should rip the damn thing off the wall and beat it to a pulp. Don't be making changes already.

Grandma loved that thing. Coming in or what? I realized I hadn't taken a step further into the house because I was waiting for Grandma to say, come on in. But I would never hear Grandma welcome me home again. Instead, the thick silence of the house waited for me. I wasn't allowed in the house, not all the way in, until Grandma said so.

But Grandma was six feet deep in the St. Michael Cemetery on the north side of town. So despite every nerve in my body protesting, I took a step beyond the welcome mat. The foundation creaked heavy under my feet, as if the house was sighing in disappointment. First time I visit Grandma in years, and I'm already breaking the rules. A tear slipped out of my eye, and I whipped roughly at it. Grandma said tears were for the week.

Grandma wasn't here to see me cry, though, which made it even more sad. Not in the house for 60 seconds, and I was already on the verge of blubbering like a baby, with everything I'd held back since Grandma left me standing in that courtroom four years ago. Well, come on already. I ran up the stairs. In front of me was the dining room, a tiny square room with royal blue carpet, a mahogany table with four matching tall-backed chairs,

and an oversized china cabinet that took up the entire wall facing the sliding glass door, which opened to the deck. All grandma's collectibles, dozens of glass cat figurines in goofy poses and outfits, lined the shelves. Even from a few feet away and in the dark light of the setting sun, I could tell there wasn't a single speck of dust on any of the cats. Grandma took pride in keeping those cats polished. The dining room opened to the kitchen, which had the same royal blue carpet and dark wood cabinets covering most of the walls. The overhead fixture flickered a few times as it cast a yellow light across the room, which did little to brighten the place up.

Oh my gosh. Right? It's like stepping into ancient history. Hey, that reminds me. You remember what those stupid gold figures up there are for? He gestured at the walls where, right below the ceiling, copper figurines of a woman's face were glued to the wall. all around the room.

Copper. Grandma told me they're the bust of a great female leader or something, but I can't remember who. They creep me out. I'm taking them down. Don't be making changes already. Yeah, yeah. Make yourself at home. Oh, wait.

It is your home now. He punched me in the shoulder, then disappeared down. the hallway and I heard him shut the bathroom door. I dropped my bag on the table, then looked around for any clue of what I should do first. Six weeks ago, I was getting ready to spend my last night in jail. Five weeks ago, I was screaming at my mom about how it wasn't my fault that my life was so messed up. Two weeks ago, a lawyer was handing me a bunch of paperwork and a set of keys to Grandma's house. And now I was standing in a house that I owned. All right, Grandma, what are you up to? As if to answer, the toilet flushed and all the pipes in the house groaned

in protest. Grandma died the day I got out of jail within an hour of signing my release forms. As I got out of the cab at Mom's House, my older sister was running outside crying, Grammy died. It had been a whirlwind of funeral preparations, which were unbearable enough for a family who just lost their matriarch. Then all hell broke loose when my mom was handed an updated will, which left every single possession to one person, the estranged granddaughter, Callie, me. When I was little, Grandma and I were thickest thieves. I loved visiting Grandma. The town was tiny and my siblings and cousins all thought it was boring, but they just didn't know where to look for adventure. There was a town park that had a metal slide, a swing set, and a giant roundabout

where I could play for hours. Next to the park was the pond, which Kranma and I loved visiting while we watched the turtles. The three-level antique store was a maze of old relics I could be lost in for half a day before getting bored. And there was a drive-in movie theater, which Grandma took me to every Saturday night when I visited. Grandma would pop a bucket of homemade popcorn, make a small pan of brownies, and buy two glass root beers. Then we would snuggle under a blanket on the hood of the station wagon while enjoying the flick.

I looked to the corner of the kitchen, where the two counters met, and saw the old-fashioned popcorn maker. A bag of unpopped corn sat next to it, as if Grandma was waiting for me to show up that summer night for a movie. I half expected the oven timer to go off and a pan of gooey brownies to be simmering inside. What's up?

Just thinking about dinner. I lied. Popcorn looks good. You know how to run that machine? Hell yeah. That's the only way to eat popcorn. Too bad you didn't get here an hour ago. We could have made it to the outdoor movie.

Wonder what they're playing tonight. I smiled. While I was in jail, my brother promised he'd keep an eye on Grandma. In most of his letters, he talked about going to movies with Grandma and how she hated every one of them, said she missed the old movies when there was a real story. Then, a much older memory snuck into my mind. Hey, did Grandma ever do the midnight stories with you?

Is that a card game? No, midnight stories. where she told you a story at midnight? Sounds creepy. That was the best part about my visits with Grandma, the midnight stories. I would pretend to be asleep while listening for the creek of the third step to the basement.

When I heard the creek, I would slip out of bed and carefully cross the loft so I wouldn't wake Mom or my siblings. I'd sneak all the way downstairs where Grandma would be waiting with a sweet treat and a book. We would hide in the basement, eating the treats, while Grandma read books to me in our old family language. It was the only time Grandma spoke the old language.

She said it wasn't for just anyone to hear. No, not creepy. It was special. I trailed off as another wave of tears tried to escape. I stared at the keys in my hands, trying to find a distraction to stop the waterworks. There were three keys, two regular-looking ones and one skeleton key. I figured I should look around to find the matching locks

since only one of the three keys was to the front and back doors. Can you believe all this time Grandma actually had keys to the house? She said she threw them away years ago. I thought Mom was going to fall out of her chair when the lawyer handed them to me. Well, that was probably left over shock from hearing Grandma left all her money and the house to the evil kid. Troy gave me a hard pat on the back. Shut up, asshole.

Despite grandma ensuring I had a wonderful childhood, I admit I was an awful teenager. I had a long list of people to blame for cursing me with bad luck. Absent father, overworked mother, overbearing older sister, friends who drank, boyfriends insistent that school was for losers, and on and on.

Other than my happy-go-lucky little brother, Troy, Grandma was the one sturdy person in my life. I knew that no matter what trouble I got into, grandma would kiss me on the cheek and say, I don't like your decision, sweetheart, but I will always love you. Until I was arrested for armed robbery, which was my boyfriend's idea with his stupid rambo-sized knife. We were never going to hurt the old lady whose house we broke into.

We just wanted her prescriptions. But someone saw us go through the basement window. Cop showed up, the boyfriend escaped, and there was no one but me with the knife, a bag of pills, and a terrified old lady saying, She said she'd slit my throat if I moved. So I decided to forego any decisions about my new house until I peed and splashed some water on my face.

It was a six-hour drive from Mom's House to Grandma's House, and since my family was still pissed at me for the robbery, and now Grandma's willing everything to the bad kid, I made the trip alone. Troy had come up earlier in the day, saying he wanted to check out some land for sale a few miles north of town. I'm going to go choke a butt. You figure out what we're doing tonight.

He grabbed his pack of cigarettes off the table. then headed outside through the sliding glass door. I went to the bathroom, which was about the size of a closet. Grandma herself even used to joke that you had to back into the bathroom since it wasn't big enough to turn around in. I wasn't going to shut the door because I was a little twitchy about locked doors after almost three years in jail. But when I dropped my pants and sat down,

I was staring straight into Grandma's bedroom. Someone had left a nightlight on, so the room was dimly lit with a blue glow, enough to outline a single bed and small nightstand that held a glass lamp. Above the bed was our old family relic. A gigantic golden diadem band hung on the wall with a gold cobra chain wrapped around it. The elongated shadow cast on the ceiling made the relic look alive, which gave me the shivers, so I looked down at the bed. My last trip here, before the arrest, Grandma had sat on the end of the bed, staring back disappointedly as I yelled at her for ruining my life. The bathroom walls leaned closer.

I put my hand out to grab the porcelain sink. The world was spinning, and I needed something to hold steady while I focused on not hyperventilating. Then the light above the sink flickered, and in the brief second it was dark. A figure slipped across Grandma's bedroom. I quickly leaned forward and slammed the bathroom door shut, then stuck my foot out to prevent it from opening. Get out! The house was dead still.

I couldn't even hear sounds from outside. It was as if the entire town of 500 people were holding their collective breath for something to happen. Nothing answered. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me. I flushed, yanked my pants back up, and stormed out into the kitchen. Nothing was moved. And not just from the few minutes since I arrived,

nothing seemed to have moved in decades. The cookie jar shaped like an old goose still sat in the corner next to the Mr. Coffee Pot. The crocheted owl hung over the tiny, single pane window in front of the kitchen sink, which had the ceramic frog with its mouth open and a brillo pad inside. The plethora of magnets,

all from the places grandma had visited while she and grandpa were in the local church choir covered the refrigerator door. Three blue glass coffee mugs hung on the hooks below the corner cupboard next to the popcorn maker. I knew the middle cup had a crack along the handle, but they were from the old country, so grandma would never throw it away.

The floorboard creaked from the loft. Troy? He appeared at the sliding glass door. He inhaled a final puff, then squished the cigarette under his shoe and opened the door. What? Missed me already? I thought I hurt someone.

Probably just the mummies I have stashed in the basement. What's for dinner? Nearest restaurant is a million miles away and Tilly's grocery closed at like 5 p.m. I shook off the shivers still running. up my spine and walked the fridge and opened it. Inside, I found exactly what I knew I'd find. A jar of pickles, the red container of Folgers coffee, a white coffee cup filled with leftover bacon, an open package of extra thick applewood bacon, single slices of cheese, eggs,

and a variety of jams and dressings on the door. Grandma, you didn't even change your food. Troy, did you stalk this when you got here? guy went grocery shopping? Geez, you weren't locked up that long. I ate fast food exclusively. I rolled my eyes, then looked at the top of the fridge where I found an open loaf of wonder bread

and a glass jar filled with peppermints. The bread was still soft with no mold. The fridge has all of grandma's usual, but nothing looks old. How's that possible? Preservatives? I grabbed a pepper. Ripped the plastic off and popped it in my mouth.

I hated peppermints, but Grandma always offered one, and I always took it, because it was from Grandma. As soon as the minty flavor flooded my taste buds, I knew the fake, tough gal persona was dead. Tears poured down my cheeks, and my body shook hard. I heard Troy sigh before he walked over, then hesitantly wrapped an arm around my shoulder. Why did she leave me the house? I rested my head on his shoulder. He didn't answer, but I didn't expect him to. I just let my brother hold me, saliva pouring down my throat as the peppermint disintegrated on my tongue.

When the tears slowed, I turned slowly, inspecting every inch of the room, looking for any sign or clue as to why after grandma abandoned me at the courthouse, And after three years of not one single visit, letter, phone call, anything, for some reason, Grandma changed her will to leave everything to me. Listen, the bar sells those frozen little pizzas. I'll run and grab a couple, and we'll make pizza and talk about family secrets all night. I nodded and wiped away the tears. Troy kissed the top of my head, then took off down the same. stairs.

My car is blocking yours. Dude, the bar is like three blocks away. I'm going to walk. As the door shut behind him, the house grew quiet. I walked from room to room, turning on every light I found. Something was watching me, as crazy as that sounded, but the feeling wouldn't go away. I even plugged in the nightlights and turned the basement shower light on. The only room I didn't touch was Grandma's.

bedroom. I considered turning the lights on so I could clearly see no one was in there, but I couldn't muster up the courage to step inside. Instead, I lined my feet up with the edge of the hallway, careful not to touch a toe on grandma's plush pink bedroom carpet, and leaned in to grab the brass door knob. Then I whipped the door shut and jumped back a few feet. I listened for movement, but again was met only with silence. I went to the living room and flopped down on the old leather couch. One entire wall was filled with picture frames. The frames had been hung since before I was born,

but grandma every so often would swap out the photos. Each of my family members had their own frame, so new school photos and wedding photos were swapped out with the old ones. If someone had a child, a frame was added below. But there hadn't been a new baby since my niece was born five years back. In the middle of the wall, where my frame had always hung, was a gaping hole. Grandma had plucked me right off the wall. Didn't even rearrange the frames, just left the empty space.

I could see the outline of the old frame in the yellowing wall paint, where the frame had blocked the light for 20 years. You just removed me? You could have at least put my mugshot in there. I jumped up from the couch. Troy? Nothing answered. I scurried into the kitchen, then the dining room,

quickly checking behind furniture and testing the sliding glass doors. It was unlocked, of course. But it squeaked loudly when I opened it, so I would have heard someone go in or out. I looked back at the kitchen and discovered the source of the noise. The goose cookie jar was moved, and the lid balanced sideways on top. Troy, is that you?

There were three doors in and out of the house. The sliding glass door, the back door, which was the main door visitors used, but the chime was still intact, and I would have definitely heard that go off if someone opened it, and the front door. But that was connected to the living room, where I had been sitting. Yes, there were a few small windows on the first level, someone could probably squeeze through if they wanted, but Grandma never opened her windows,

so I would have heard if someone tried one, or I would have at least felt the cool night breeze or heard the crickets from outside. Whoever moved the cookie jar was still in the house. I lifted the lid off. Inside were three full chocolate chip cookies and one half cookie. Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar? If I'd been at Mom's House in the Twin Cities, I would have been nervous about a potential intruder. But out here in a town that was more bland than Pleasantville, no way. I wondered if a neighbor kid snuck in to look around the dead lady's belongings

and didn't realize someone was home. Come out, come out wherever you are! The stairs going to the basement squeaked worse than the doors, so the intruder probably wasn't down there. And the stairs going to the loft creaked a little, but the loft was directly above the kitchen, and those floorboards groaned with the slightest pressure. I would hear if someone went up there.

That left the dining room and kitchen. Listen, kid, you're not in trouble. My grandma makes... Made the best chocolate chip cookies in the world. So I get why you snuck in to steal one. I grabbed a cookie from the jar. It was still soft. as if it had been baked that morning.

How were the cookies not rock hard? The house had been empty since the coroner hauled grandma's body out the day she died. The family had been so distraught that no one wanted to go inside until after grandma was properly buried. Of course, after they found out Grandma left the house to me, then no one wanted to go inside because they were pissed. Hesitantly, I took a bite, and the chocolatey sweet with a hint of vanilla replaced the nasty peppermint flavor in my mouth. The cookie was fresh and absolutely delicious.

I'd almost forgotten how wonderful grandma's baking was. Only fresh ingredients. Add a little love and a lot of butter. That's how you bake, sweetheart, is what grandma would say. Apply that to life too, and you'll be happy as a queen. I had forgotten that. forgotten grandma's advice It made so much sense when I was a kid

And it made absolutely no sense when I was in high school The tiniest of squeaks made me drop the cookie on the counter And spin towards the fridge The cupboard next to it, which held all the Tupperware, was a jar It was big enough for a kid to fit in I'd hidden there many times during hide-and-seek games as a child It's not nice to go into other people's houses when you're not invited.

I sidestepped to the middle of the room where a particularly loud floorboard was, then whipped open the doors. A few yellow and orange Tupperware bowls spilled out onto the floor. There was no one inside. Okay, where are you? This is my house now,

and you need to get the hell out. The basement stairs groaned, and I spun around. The cookie I'd drop was now on the top step leading to the basement. God damn it. playing games? I was getting pissed off. I wasn't supposed to be here dealing with, with whatever it was I was dealing with. I was supposed to be home. Not that I had a home,

really. The boyfriend was long out of the picture, as were all the supposed friends I had prior to my arrest. Yeah, mom had let me back into her house, but my belongings were moved to the basement with a little cot set up in the corner since my niece was residing in my childhood bedroom. You're in the basement, aren't you? Then I remembered what was under the stairs. The reading room! Below the stairs was a set of swinging doors, like from an old Western movie,

which opened to a pantry filled with canned goods. But what no one knew was at the back of that pantry was a trick door. That was the room I found Grandma in for our midnight readings. The last time I had been in that room, was the summer after my senior year of high school, when I'd snuck the neighbor boy into the house to fool around. We'd gone to that room so no one would hear us.

But when the boy had tried to take my pants off, we got tangled up and fell into the back wall. Grandma was on us like a hellcat. She yanked me out of the room, then slammed the door shut and locked the boy inside. Grandma said she'd deal with him later as she kicked my butt up the stairs and into the living room where she'd laid into me

about higher standards for wrong. women in our family. I'd been so embarrassed by the whole thing that I never stepped foot in grandma's house again. I grabbed the cookie off the floor and ran to the basement, the house creaking loudly in protest as I stomped down the stairs. Spinning around the corner, I shoved the swinging doors open. My hand instinctively found the string hanging from the ceiling in the darkness, which clicked on the single bulb to illuminate the room. Just as I remembered, there were shelves neatly stacked with all kinds of canned goods. They ranged from green beans to halved pears to canned chicken, plus the special porcelain jars grandma kept on the top shelf. As a product of the Great Depression,

grandma always had a few months worth of canned goods, just in case. Sure enough, the false wall at the back of the pantry was ajar. I wondered if the kid hiding was just sneaking in that day, or if someone had been living in the house. That would explain the unspoiled food in the refrigerator and fresh cookies. It had to be someone close to Grandma because that cookie recipe was sacred. No one had the exact recipe except those Grandma deemed worthy. I used to be one of those people. And my mom was the only other person alive who had that recipe.

Grandma didn't even trust my siblings with it. I considered going upstairs to wait for Troy to return and tagged me. the intruder. I'm no lightweight, but just in case the someone was bigger than me, was armed, or there was more than one someone, it would be nice to have Troy at my side. Instead, I put the cookie on the floor and rolled it to the small opening by the wall, then waited. It was more than five minutes. Long enough, I began to wonder if I'd been wrong about where the person was hiding. It was also long enough for me to think about Grandma's cooking advice. now that I was free to start acting like an adult,

maybe it was time for grandma's advice to make sense again and get my life together. I had no idea how I would do that without Grandma, though. I wish you'd come back, Grandma. Shuffling from behind the door drew my attention. Too long, sickly gray fingers poked out. They seemed too long for a normal human, and their joints were swollen badly.

The flesh was the color of the concrete floor, like the person hadn't seen daylight in years. The fingers probed the half-cookie, then snatched it into the darkness. I heard soft nibbles from the other side of the wall. You gonna come out? It was quiet for a minute before I heard the wet slap of a tongue, like the person was licking their fingers.

Enough already! I grabbed the edge of the wall and yanked it away. The pantry light bulb was not bright enough to find the back of the secret room, but it was enough to illuminate the walls covered in pine wood, a floor of plush pink carpet and long shelves protruding from the walls. The room had been empty when I was in at last, nothing but bare walls and a concrete floor. I counted eight shelves,

four on each side stacked on top of each other like bunk beds at summer camp. Six of the beds had bodies covered in white sheets. I took a step closer. My mouth completely dry. I tried to swallow, but it felt like I'd taken a drink of sand. When I focused on the nearest body, I realized it wasn't covered in a sheet. The bodies were wrapped with strips of white cloth. They're mummies, which was exactly what they looked like.

Each body lay flat, noses pointed straight up, their heads, necks, torsos, and each arm and leg were wrapped tightly with strips of white cloth. Even the fingers and toes were individually wrapped. I fumbled for my cell phone in my back pocket, turned the flashlight on, and shone it around the room. The bottom two bodies were missing. When my flashlight found the back corner, behind a small porcelain sink, I spotted a hunched figure. The head was bald, the back thin, and the skin was that same gray color as the fingers that I'd seen take the cookie. There didn't seem to be a single hair on the person. Come out, I tried to say with some authority.

The person tucked themselves tighter to the wall, as if I had. hadn't yet seen them. Kid, come out. I'm not going to hurt you. My mind was whirling at the situation. There was no smell of rot, flesh, or even normal human body odor. Maybe the bodies were fake. This was an elaborate prank from my family for getting the house.

I couldn't fathom how this was anything but a prank, a joke, because that was the most logical thing my mind could Grasp. Come on, I see you. Get out here. The person flinched, then stood. It was a young man, and he was naked. His skin was a horrible gray color,

but it was uniformly gray. There didn't seem to be any bruises or cuts, no signs of trauma or use of restraints. I shined the flashlight on him, and he kept his face down. His hands hung low. limp at his sides. He didn't even move to cover his privates. Who are you? He looked up and I gasped. It was the neighbor boy. I hadn't seen him since Grandma slammed the door shut on him in that

same room. His shirt off, hair tousled pants at his ankles. What was in front of me was a monstrous version of him. But it was definitely him. I didn't even remember. I didn't even remember. remember his name, but I remembered those piercing green eyes. He stepped forward, and I backed into the pantry. He towered over me, but didn't look like he was more than 110 pounds. He wasn't aggressive, but I clutched my cell phone in one hand, and my right hand was bawled into a fist, just in case he lashed out. He followed me into the pantry, then turned and shut the false door behind him. Under the single bulb, his flesh looked even sicker. The bones were not poking out of his skin, but they were close. He was one missed meal away from looking like a real-life mummy.

We stared at each other, neither making a movement to escape the pantry. His eyes ran all over my body. When he looked back into my eyes, he parted his lips in what appeared to be a smile. going on. Despite the terrible thinness and color of his skin, he looked healthy. His teeth were white. His eyes weren't jaundiced. His lips weren't cracked or flaking. His skin didn't appear to be dry. But every hair on his body was gone, even his eyelashes. And while I didn't want to stare, I remembered him having plenty of pubic hair when we were last in this room and now he was as smooth as a kendall.

Well, what's going on? Why were you hiding in there? He continued to smile but made no attempt to answer. Upstairs, the sliding door squeaked open. Get down here! The young man quickly backed up to the trick wall. Troy dropped something on the floor, then ran downstairs.

He seemed to know right where to go since he spun into the pantry without me telling him where I was. Damn it. The young man shrunk down to the floor, curling himself into a ball with his head tucked between his knees. I don't know. Where do he come from? That room! That's Grandma's Midnight Story's room! Except there's like shelves or beds or some shit, and there's a bunch of bodies on them, and there's this guy, and I know this guy.

Wait, you know him? He was the guy I... Well, you remember the last time I was here? When Grandma kicked me out because I snuck a guy in? That's him! The young man lifted his head and watched the two of us intently. Huh. That explains things.

I spun around to glare at my brother. What do you mean that explains things? How is anything explained? No, I don't mean, well, damn it. So there's something grandma asked me to help her with, and I wasn't supposed to tell you. But given you let Aaron out of the tomb... Let Aaron out...

Talking about! You knew he was... Troy didn't answer. But the young man, Aaron, stood up. The quiet moment between us was interrupted by the chimes of, bless this house. I yelped and bumped into the swinging doors, sending them open before snapping back and hitting the canned food shelving. One of the special porcelain jars from the top shelf rattled, then rolled off and shattered on the ground. A wet, dark red object slopped out of the broken mess.

Aaron jumped to scoop up the object and held it close to his bare chest. Red liquid dripped down his gray flesh. What? What is that? I stammered. Terrified I already knew the answer. The door upstairs slammed shut,

cutting the chime off and returning the house to quiet. Troy and Aaron both looked up towards the door, their eyes unblinking. It worked. Something heavy thumped down the first step. My heart doubled in speed. What? What worked?

What is he holding, Troy? A second heavy thump echoed above us. Master has returned. A heart. I turned to Troy. What the hell is going on? Troy grabbed my hand and held it firmly. About those old stories?

There weren't some. stories. They were rituals. Grandma wanted to make sure her life never ended, let's say. I knew whatever was in the house was on the third stair. I tried to get away from Troy, but he held me tight. You didn't have to be this way, sis. You were the one she wanted, the favorite. You should have been the one helping prepare for grandma's rebirth. but I am now. I didn't understand what he was saying, but I'd never seen Troy so serious before,

and it scared the hell out of me. I tried to take a deep breath, tried to exhale the panic as though it was a noxious gas. Turner needs a new body. Aaron caressed the heart in his hand. Aaron moved closer to me, then reached out and grabbed my other hand before I could yank it away.

Body, the two guys had such a strong grip on me that I couldn't move. Troy? Troy, tell me what's going on! You know, Grandma, she always wanted to keep things in the family. Slow shuffling scratched along the basement's cement floor, around the corner from the stairs, and to the space outside the pantry. Eight fingers, each wrapped tightly in muddy white fabric, appeared along the top of the pantry's swinging doors.

A familiar voice called out. It's darkly. That's it. I'm turning on every light in this house. Where did I stash my holy water? You know what? Forget the holy water. I think it's time to move.

And I will not be leaving a forwarding address. David and Jessica always seem to know where to find me anyway. As for you, my dear, darling listeners, I hope you've enjoyed this adventure through paranoia and the paranormal. I know I certainly haven't. But I'm glad you are here with me to help keep. me from getting scared. It didn't work, but I appreciate your efforts. Now go close your windows, lock your doors, and turn on your nightlights, and if you hear something strange in the night,

just know that it hears you too. Thank you for joining us, dear sleepless. Until next time. To the silence, join us again next time when we could see a fear for more Sonic Nightpack. The No Sling podcast is presented by Creative Reason Medi musical scores were composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Michalski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornett, and Claudius Moore is Jessica McAvoy, Ten Samito, and Marcus Damanda for host and executive producer, David Cummings, Discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us. Just visit sleepless. The nosleeppodcast.com to learn about the sleepless universe. Add free extended episodes each week and lots of bonus content for the dark hours 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