S24 Ep21: NoSleep Podcast S24E21

Water, it gives us life. We are drawn to it.

Yet it holds immense power over us.

“It can bring unspeakable horror to the most familiar places.”

Your morning shower, a tranquil river bank, or the endless ocean. [MUSIC] It's time to dive deep into the abyss. [MUSIC] From the dark waters of the Cape Fear River,

immerse yourself in horror, as you brace yourself for the no-sleep podcast. [MUSIC] [MUSIC]

Thank you for joining us for the no-sleep podcast.

I'm your guest host, no, actually I'm just your host, David Cummings. Well, the balloons have popped, the streamers taken down, and the leftover cake has gone stale.

“Yes, we had a lot of fun celebrating our 15th anniversary.”

Thanks to everyone who made it so special. And there's no sleeping here at the no-sleep podcast, so we're well into our 16th year as we keep the horror hits Cummings. Coming, keep them coming. I also want to send a big hug of thanks to all our guest hosts

who let us up to the anniversary show. It was so encouraging to get overwhelming support from listeners who really enjoyed the new voices in the hosting chair. And while we were limited to only eight hosts before the anniversary, we have plenty more people on the team and lots of episodes to come.

So I'll be turning over the hosting to new guest hosts every few episodes as we move forward. And speaking of hearing some of our team in special roles, I know many of you will be excited to learn about a new audio project in the works, one that features the talents of many of our no-sleep family. It's called "Bex End" and the Kickstarter campaign has recently launched.

When flood waters swallow an idyllic lake district village, a stranded journalist finds herself trapped in a rising tide of fear. Cut off from the outside world, she begins to uncover horrors, both human and biblical lurking beneath the surface. "Bex End" is a folk horror audio drama about isolation, belief,

radicalization, and whether redemption is possible. "Bex End" is created by friend of the show, Mark Nixon, of shadows at the door productions, with associate producer and familiar voice around here, Ash Milman. Mark describes the inspiration for the show, one that he's been working on for the past 10 years, as a quote,

"Gritish take on Salem's lot meets rare window, underpinned by a creeping dread inspired by a horror video game, Alan Wake," end quote. "Bex End" is fundamentally a folk horror experience, defined by its soundscape and talented genre actors, exploring the quiet dread and in the city of Thunderbelly,

of small town Britain, under threat from the paranormal.

In the amazing cast, we'll feature the recognizable voices of Ericis Anderson

and David Alt amongst others, plus the theme music is composed by the Maestro Brandon Boone. Check the show notes for a link to their Kickstarter campaign to learn how you can help support this new production called "Bex End."

“Now, let's see, I think I can still remember how to host the show,”

I'm back to doing it all alone, and that seems appropriate, because like a lot of people feel, doing things alone can be a nice break from hectic crowds. But when it comes to horror, finding yourself alone in places where you expect others to be can be deeply unsettling. Our tales this week will feature people in far-worst

positions than merely playing a game of solitaire. And now, it's time to get back in the water as we plunge into the horror of our

She's a woman much more comfortable above ground, but when her friend Kat invites her to

“go caving, she reluctantly agrees. Boss in this tale, shared with us by author Jasper Downey,”

June soon discovers where her fears of spelunking come from, and how they're not so unfounded. Performing this tale, our Lindsay Russo and Kristen DiMakirio, so keep your wits about you, stay locked in, you need reality, not Phantom Perception. Did you know that when deprived of most or all sensory input,

the brain often becomes bored and begins to invent its own. Phantom Perception, they call it. When sensory deprivation causes vivid hallucinations, you may hear indistinct whispers in the silence or see faces twist themselves out of the darkness. Scareer than any horror story or movie. The things your own brain can come up with in

“the right conditions. The right conditions, like a darkness so complete, it seems to”

have a physical presence. An inky, black weight pressing all around, stealing the air from my lungs with its black hole quality. A darkness so complete, it could only be achieved

under hundreds of feet of solid dirt and stone. A natural tomb. I'd never taken to caving like

Kat had. She seemed made for the cold, damp, claustrophobic passages, braving every squeeze and forging through unmapped territory with all the confidence of someone who wasn't at risk of never seeing sunlight again with one wrong move. Not me. I had always gotten the sense that the earth wanted me. That once I was down in that clammy darkness, the stone would scrape and curl around me in a crushing hug keeping me there forever. I know it was ridiculous, of course.

The earth could no more want anything that a stone could move on its own. Still, I felt a palpable sense of relief every time Kat and I reemerged with no more than a few minor scrapes and

bangs to speak of. I was always stuck between gloating. Not this time, I got away,

you couldn't get me this time, and running with my metaphorical tail between my legs. Why did I keep going if it caused such a strong reaction for me? I guess I always had a hard time saying no to Kat. And I guess I felt I was conquering my fears a little every time I emerged from the ground victorious. Regardless, I was never exactly excited whenever Kat told me she'd found a new spot for us. She liked to consider herself a bit of an explore, I suppose. She always wanted

to find the passages that were yet unmapped, always wanted to push herself a little further. I personally preferred a nice hike in the woods over being deep in the bowels of the earth with no map, but Kat was my best friend. I would have done anything for her. It still hunts me that despite all my feelings that a dark, claustrophobic end loomed over me at all times. I was the one who made it out that day. I can't help feeling that it should have been me,

but maybe I should feel consoled by the fact that she died doing what she loved. At least I have to hope she died. Sometimes I have nightmares about crawling in the dark, constantly wet, constantly cold. Sometimes in these nightmares, a small and delicate scurrying thing runs over my hand. In these nightmares, I bring it to my mouth and there's a sickening crunch.

“In these nightmares, my body feels sore and weak. It feels realer than I think it should,”

and I tell myself it doesn't. I have to hope we both made it out in our own way. The cave was nothing special. I feel it needs a title, something to set it apart from every other hole in the ground we'd explored, but of course it had no name. It still doesn't. Maybe the cave, capital T, capital C, would do it enough justice. The entrance was little more than a hole in the ground, and it would have been easy to miss if you weren't looking for it. We, of course,

were looking for it. From the entrance there was a mild downward slope. Nothing we needed climbing gear for, but we had to watch our steps. Sometimes sending a small shower of pebbles and debris

rolling ahead out of the beams of our headlamps. It really seemed to be a novice passage at first.

As far as we could tell, there were no drop-offs or particularly difficult squeezes. The walls and ceiling of the cave were a comfortable distance away from most of the excursion, and every so often they would open into a small chamber adorned with stalactites and

I was following behind her, swinging the beam of my headlamp around slowly as I took in the

“chamber we were making our way through. There was one thing cat and I could both appreciate.”

How absolutely untouched places like this were, that we might be some of the first people to

lay eyes on these passages. Lost as I was in my musings, I didn't notice cat had stopped in front of me and nearly ran right into her. Everything alright? I was puzzled by her silence and stillness. I would have expected her to say something if she needed a break or wanted to grab a drink from her pack. June? We didn't pass a fork on her way in, did we? The words sent a spear of panic into my gut. Cat, of course, was still quite calm. Ever the brave and adventurous one, she must have

been trying to think rationally. We must have come from one passage and not even notice that it's split off behind us. She gave a nod, causing the circle of light from her headlamp to Bob. Yeah, that's it, we'll just, uh, we just have to choose one as safe it looks familiar.

“Her words didn't convince me. It sounded like she was trying to convince herself.”

We were so careful when we explored a new spot. Every fork, every split in the path was doodafly noted and marked. It seemed unthinkable to me that we would have missed something so obvious. But really, what other explanation was there? Every passage in Cavern and Tunnel in that cave had been carved by water through the limestone over hundreds or thousands of years. It was impossible that a new passage could have popped up over the course of a couple hours. Yeah, we must have missed

it. We decided to start with the left fork. Cat led the way still, but she was a little slower now. I'm sure she didn't want me to see it, but I could tell her steps were more uncertain. We walked in silence, our twin lamps illuminating grimy cave walls that were vaguely damp

and covered in fungi that had never before seen light. I have expected it to shrivel away from the

“beams cutting through the darkness, but like everything else it was still and silent.”

A cave doesn't have a lot of landmarks. It was hard to tell if we'd seen this bend, this stalactmite, this patch of cave wall before. The walls slowly closed around us as we continued forward. The passage going from spacious to scraping our shoulders with each movement, as though urging us forward. We're back. Cat steps became a little quicker, a little more confident. The last squeeze was about five minutes before that bend. Cat threw a grin back at me before the

walls forced her to turn sideways in order to continue forward. We're on the right track. Something not at me still, in the pit of my stomach, but I so badly wanted to trust her confidence. She was right after all. It did seem like a familiar path as I joined Cat in the half-shuffling half-pulling myself through the squeeze. None of them had been particularly bad on our way in. Nothing that couldn't be taken care of by sucking in and muscling through it.

This time the relief at finding ourselves back on track seemed to render me a little breathless. The walls pressed in tighter than I remembered as I struggled to get my breathing under control. I imagined, or felt, the walls moving with me. As I breathed out, the squeeze seemed to become even more constricting. When I tried to suck in a breath, mercifully, the stone drew back to

allow it. The rock face felt as rough and unforgiving as always, but yet it seemed to almost flow

around my limbs, molding around my form. I felt a crushing certainty in that moment. The stone and earth would form around me in a natural sarcophagus, encasing me miles beneath the ground until I wasted a way, until my skin slothed from my bones. And there my bones would remain, grimy and yellow with no sunlight to ever bleach them, until they too broke down and became part of the surrounding earth.

Maybe then it would no longer want. It would have. I almost screamed when a pale hand suddenly thrust into the light of my headlamp, gripping my arm firmly. As I returned to my senses, the rock suddenly seemed not so close to me. Cat pulled and I pushed, and the stone wall under my hand seemed spongy for a moment before I was free of the crevice with an almost audible pop. I imagined that it gripped at me, reluctant to let me go.

Something caught my toe as I emerged and sent my head into the cave wall with a smack. My field of view went suddenly dark, and I feared for a moment that I had suffered a head injury and lost consciousness. Luckily for me, the grimy white climbers helmet we both wore had saved me from cracking my head open. But my headlamp had taken the brunt of the impact.

asking if I was alright looking me over for scrapes or bruises. Why'd you stop? In the squeeze?

It seemed narrower than before. My head was swimming slightly, and I couldn't think of a better way to explain what I had experienced. I couldn't think of a believable way to explain what I had

“experienced. You must have been panicking still because we thought we were turned around and all that.”

Yeah, probably. Deep down, I didn't agree. As I followed cat through the passage, relying on what light came back to me from her lamp, my fears suddenly felt a lot less ridiculous. Of course the Earth could want. I felt it throaming through the ground under my feet and heard it in the whispers of water dripping down cave walls. It wanted in a way that was ancient, thoughtless, patient. It was content to let me escape again and again.

I would be back, and it would wait. It was so, so patient. Cat's light disappeared around a bend ahead of me, pulling me from my musings as I was plunged once again into darkness. I put my hand on the cave wall as I increased my pace trying to catch up with my friend. I hadn't noticed how much distance had been building between us. Cat! The darkness itself seemed to dampen my cry. It didn't echo down the passage, like I expected it to. I faintly heard cat calling my name ahead of me,

“her voice sounding further than I anticipated. What had she gotten so far ahead of me?”

I felt the sharp turn in the wall that indicated the bend my friend had disappeared around, but as I scrambled around the corner, there was still no light. Cat! Wait for me! I further increased my pace despite my inability to see what was ahead of me. I sounded frantic and breathless even to my own ears. Cat's voice sounded even fainter this time, and it had taken on a strange, tini-quality.

As if on cue, I could feel the cave walls beginning to close around me as I walked. The passage narrowed more rapidly this time, forcing me to slow down as the stone began to scrape against my shoulders and my hips. I turned sideways as the walls pressed even closer.

“It was even harder this time to keep my breathing under control, especially as the crevice”

grew tighter and there were still no sign of cat's light. I tried to call out to her again, but I couldn't get the air in my lungs to muster more than a weak cry. There was no response. The unforgiving wall began to cut into my flesh as I continued to force my body through undoubtedly leaving raw pink red scrapes in its wake, and then I was stuck. I couldn't move forward or back. At that moment, I had a thought that was possibly more terrifying

than the irrational fear that the earth wanted me, that it was absolutely indifferent to my flight. I could yell and cry all I wanted, but nothing and no one would hear me or understand or care. All there was around me was cold, stale cave air, and cold, damp cave walls, and a darkness so deep it seemed to have weight. Time passed. I'm no idea how long. No way to check my watch or my phone and no other way to track the progress of time.

Hours passed, maybe even days as the rock held me in place, alone, deep within the earth. I had no idea where cat was. If she was also stuck or if she was getting help. Thinking about that only kept me entertained for so long.

That was one thing my fears never touched on. How boring it was to be trapped.

My mind wandered, my mind played tricks on me. My mind gave me imaginary hope and imaginary nightmares. The darkness all around me may well have been a TV screen, for the way my brain conjured disturbing images from it for me to watch, anguished faces with wide staring blind eyes, not seeing but imagining that they saw. I wondered if I was seeing a vision of myself or what I would become. I wondered if I was seeing

the fate of all the other poor souls who thought they may have been the first to explore the cave. The dripping of water from beyond or behind me echoed faintly, sometimes sounding like whispers, sometimes sounding like cat's voice, sometimes my mothers, sometimes in overlapping an unfamiliar

babble. I could never make out words but the pitch and cadence of the voices was near unmistakable.

I think I drifted in and out of consciousness, but it was hard to tell the difference between

cat came back for me. Sometimes there were other people with her. Sometimes in my dreams cat came back for me and her eyes were wide and blind and her skin was pale and clammy and when she opened her mouth her voice was just like the echoey far off tripping of water and I couldn't make out a single word and pretty sure those were dreams. When I first saw light again I had to close my eyes as my retinas burned. I thought I might be dead but I registered all the aches and fatigue

in a rush and knew I wasn't. Indistinct voices pulled me from catatonia as strong hands pulled me from the squeeze. My muscles protesting after being stuck in the same position for who knows how long. I tried to speak but my tongue felt desiccated and the desert of my mouth and hardly

“a weasel left me. I don't remember much else until I woke up in the hospital bed. I'd never”

been so relieved to squint into bright off-white fluorescence. I was in the cave for about three days all in all. Cat while adventurous was not reckless. She had told one of her friends where we were planning to go and that friend had alerted the authorities when they didn't hear from cat following the

expedition. I never did find cat dead or alive. They said she must have gotten out of the cave and

gotten lost in the surrounding forest. The cave they said was a straight shot through several chambers that ended finally in a crevice much too small for any person to fit through. There was no way they could have missed her. Personally, I don't think cat ever left the cave. I organized a memorial for cat. She was my best friend. It was the least I could do. I visit every year with my wife on the anniversary of my rescue from the cave. I've gone to therapy. Sometimes I still have nightmares.

My therapist says that's normal. Says they might never fully stop. Sometimes when I can't sleep by lay awake in the bed my wife and I share and stare at the dark ceiling. It's not really that dark. Most nights. I've seen absolute darkness. Most nights the moon and stars are the street lights and slivers of lights streaming in through gaps in our curtains. Some nights when it's cloudy,

I'm reminded of the cave. The darkness in our room is never absolute. But sometimes it comes close

“and I think maybe I can make out anguished faces in that darkness. Sometimes, if I focus,”

the soothing rhythm of my wife's restful breathing next to me morphs into something else. The steady drip drip drip of water somewhere far off and echoey. So I try not to focus. I have to hope the cat and I both made it out in our own ways. Let's take a short break for our sponsors who help us keep our heads above water. For waves of ad-free horror content, join our sleepless universe by going to sleepless.com.

Some people might like a summer packed with crowded events but we're talking solitary things like calm weekends and lower air conditioning bills. Lately, I've realized I don't actually need every summer plan imaginable. I just need moments where my brain finally stops overheating for a second.

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I have a dad bod more probably a bod equal to two dads. I'd need a wide opening. That's why

“I'm changing things to get healthier. And Mars Men is a big part of that. A lot of people think”

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50% off for life plus free shipping and three free gifts at mengoetomars.com. That's mengoetomars.com for 50% off and three free gifts when you check out. After you purchase, they'll ask you where you heard about them. Please support our show and tell them the no sleep podcast sent you. Now, let's plunge back into the deep waters of horror. Many of us know what it's like to have psychological issues due to the way our parents raised us.

Sometimes we inherit their problems and this is especially common when it comes to mothers imposing body dysmorphia on their daughters. And in this tale, shared with us by author Laura Coolic. We meet a woman struggling with her body issues. Maybe a little sweet treat couldn't hurt.

“Performing this tale, our Marie Westbrook, Sarah Thomas, Erin Lilis, and Katabel and Sari.”

So when starving yourself isn't the way to go, try to find some comfort in your dead mom's chocolate cupcakes. Your mom used to say, "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels." As a kid, you thought this was incredibly stupid and asked genuinely over and over. What just can you feel like? Is it like unwrapping presents on Christmas morning? Re-watching your favorite movie? Jiving higher than

everyone else on the trampoline? Your mom never answered. Just kept trying to feed you soggy,

boiled carrots. You think about this cliche every morning as you prepare your breakfast. Today you slice an orange and a half. Carefully wrap one half in plastic and put it in the fridge. Cut the other half into three small slices. You eat them standing at the kitchen counter. Savoring the sweetness. You feel guilty about the sugar but promise yourself you'll make it up at lunch. You will ask three hours without eating anything else. You are so hungry the feeling has spread

from your stomach through your entire body. Your muscles ache. Your hands are shaky. Your brain is clouded and sluggish. You glance at the clock. 11.30. 30 minutes until lunch. You've been fantasizing about lunch since dinner last night. You know exactly what it will be, half of a panini with turkey bacon, four thin slices of cheddar cheese, and a salad with tomatoes, lettuce, carrots, and light Italian dressing. You check the clock again, 29 minutes until lunch.

You are supposed to be working on your thesis. A critical feminist reading of female saints in

the Middle Ages. You did the research, hundreds of hours pouring over old texts and interviewing Catholic scholars. It was your mom who got you interested in the topic. As a kid, she loved telling you the story of Princess Willgefortous of Portugal. Willgefortous was so devoted to God. She took a vow of celibacy. When her father tried to marry her off, she prayed for God to make her ugly, so she could escape this fate and remain a virgin. It worked. She sprouted an unsightly beard

that made her repulsive. For the crime of defiance, her father had her crucified. Your mom always made a point to mention that Willgefortous proved her love of God, but eating nothing more than the Holy Eucharist for an entire year. She was so pure all she needed was faith to sustain her. You, on the other hand, are completely consumed by thoughts of your panini. You've read and

clock. 27 minutes to lunch. You look at me in the mirror. You hate me with a burning passion. My bulging stomach fat thighs. If you could lose five pounds, I would be perfect. Beautiful. There's a knock at the front door. You frown. You can't remember the last time you had a visitor. You turn away from the mirror. But I don't turn. I stare at you. Running my eyes down your body. So much flesh. So much life. The knocking becomes more insistent. You sigh, leaving the room

without a backward glance. Your mom used to bake the most amazing banana bread,

sweet and warm with chocolate chips and walnuts. It tasted like home. Like a hug. But she refused to eat it. It's for you and your father. She insisted. When night you woke from a nightmare and heard someone in the kitchen, you found your mom standing at the counter, eating peace after peace of banana bread. You froze. You couldn't stand a watch but couldn't look away. The next morning when your father teased you for eating all the bread, you stayed silent.

At the door is your Aunt Charlotte, a pludgy woman in an unflattering school Peter Dress. Your mom used to call her chunky Charlie behind her back.

Next to Charlotte is your cousin Abby. Abby is 17 and perpetually bored. She still has that teenager's

body. Not an ounce of fat on her and she doesn't have to work for it. Fucking brat.

“You are annoyed because it is finally known which means lunch, but now you have to make awkward”

small talk for an unbearable, indeterminate amount of time. Then you see something that makes her blood run cold. Charlotte has a tray of chocolate cupcakes in her arms. We were just in the neighborhood and we thought we'd stop by. Before you can protest, Charlotte brushes past you into the apartment. You stare at the cupcake in front of you. It's stupid yellow frosting smiley face mocks you.

Charlotte is talking about a pottery class or something. It's hard as you try. You cannot concentrate on her words. It's 22 minutes past lunch.

I know chocolate is your favorite. Charlotte is on her second cupcake.

Her teeth stained brown. Little crumbs fly from her mouth as she talks. You push the plate away. I hate a big breakfast, so I'm okay for now, but I will definitely eat this later. Your mom's recipe. In this moment, you hate her. Doesn't she know how hard you're working? Can she see that if you eat this cupcake, all your sacrifice, all the nights you spent lying awake with an aching stomach will be for nothing? You take a deep breath and think of

St. Willke for this. You get a rush of superiority. You are above Charlotte and her nauseating cupcakes. You smile. I'm really full. So Abby, how's senior year? As Abby complains about some stupid high school bullshit, I watch you from the mirror above the bookshelf. You see your eyes drift back to the cupcake. A black hole pulling you in with its gravity. The mirror falls to the floor with the sharp crack. Everyone jumps. You pick it up and study me through the fractured glass.

“You should kiss me and say thank you. Instead, you just stare.”

Wondering how the mirror, which was firmly bolted to the wall a few moments ago, slipped off its screws. I stare right back at you, mocking your confused expression. Should I get a broom? It's 25 minutes past lunchtime and the thought of cleaning is infinitely exhausting. I'll do it later. You slump it back in your chair. You look really good. Like really skinny. You look at Abby with new eyes. This beautiful,

delightful, magnificent girl. She sees you. Are you on a diet or something? You blush about her words away with a giggle. Not really. I just eat super healthy. I don't really snack or eat dessert. Just cleaning, you know? I'm an idiot. I brought you a gift and left it in the car. Do you do me a favor and get it? Really? Yes, really. Abby makes the show of standing and

stalking out of the room. Along with Charlotte, you are on the edge. It's 28 minutes past lunchtime. What the fuck does she want? We missed you at dinner last Friday. Sorry. I've been busy with my

“basis. You should come over tonight. I'm making rose chicken with mashed potatoes.”

You stiffen. No way that is going to happen. You imagine sitting at Charlotte's table.

Then just a little more mashed potatoes. Then you volunteer to do the dishes. So you can eat

the scraps off other people's plates and look all the serving spoons clean and I really can't tonight. I need to get some writing done. I'm in a float today. You don't have to say all night. Just come get some food. God, you hate her. It's 31 minutes past lunchtime and you fucking hate her. You could use a hardy meal. You look so... I'm doing great. I'm in the best shape of my life. I'm happy. You jump out of your seat. You didn't mean to react so violently, but the words fly out of your mouth

like warm vomit. Charlotte doesn't break eye contact. She's looking at you with pity. Sorry, I couldn't find it. Happy lingers in the kitchen doorway afraid to get to close. Charlotte smiles without looking away from you. I'm all over the place today. It's right here. She pulls a leather bound journal out of her purse. You recognize it immediately.

“You think you should feel something, but all you feel is the asset turning in your stomach.”

She wanted you to have this. Charlotte handed over. Then stands and motions for Abby to leave. Don't forget the rest of the cupcakes. They're all for you, sweetie. The moment the door closes,

you shove the tray into the trash. Your mom always told you to cover up. You weren't allowed to

wear bikinis to the pool because, perveold men will stare at you. You knew the real reason. She was jealous. She didn't want to look at your 16-year-old body, effortlessly thin and radiant, a more desirable her. When she was feeling low, she made you feel worse. She'd say, "You'd look beautiful if you just stood up straight and wore makeup." She'd drop into conversations how nice her body was before she had you. In those moments, you vowed to never grow old,

just despite her. Your day is ruined. You are so hungry by the time you finally launch you consumed three extra slices of cheese. You spend the rest of the day staring at the intro paragraph. Thinking about those three slices of cheese, one slice of cheddar cheese has 113 calories, nine grams of fat and only seven grams of protein. You think about the rest of the cheese in your fridge. Then you mentally inventory all the food in your house, where it's crackers,

whole-grain bread, carrots, lettuce, apples, loaf at yogurt, 1% milk, soy sauce, ketchup,

“half an orange, turkey bacon, stop it. You should be working. You have an accomplished”

single thing today, you're a fucking failure. It's late. Too late to eat dinner. You look at the leather bound journal in the kitchen table. You open it. Your fingers trace your mom's flowy handwriting. It's her cookbook. All her secret recipes with little notes and doodles in the margins. There's her banana bread recipe, which you still think about in your dreams.

Got the honey chicken. Your favorite dish in fifth grade. Ginger, me so salmon. All the first

issue made together. You remember her showing you how to lay out all the ingredients, tasting the sauce to see if it needed more salt. Then finally, on the last page, chocolate cupcakes. One and a half cups flour, one cup granulated sugar, one teaspoon baking soda, one teaspoon salt, one third cup cocoa powder, one half cup oil, one cup water, one teaspoon vanilla extract, one tablespoon vinegar, a happy butterfly drawn

and purple gel pan reminds the reader. Don't forget to frost with your favorite icing. Breathless, you place the book on the table. You don't mean to, but the next thing you know you're at the trashcan. You open it and look inside. There are the chocolate cupcakes. You observe the trash is pretty much empty. You observe most of the cupcakes are still on the tray. What would be the harm? Just one bite. You did need dinner so you deserve it. No one will ever know.

“But I'll know. And I think you're fucking disgusting. A cockroach eating out of the trash.”

You jump backwards. The sound comes from inside your room. You're filled with the all-consuming dread that comes with being a woman alone at night. You creep to your bedroom and pair inside. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust. Everything is still. Except the curtains blowing in the wind. You hold your breath, stealing yourself to flee. Then you see it. They're on the floor. You're mirror. You sigh and relief. You stand the mirror back up. You catch me in the reflective glass.

Instead of looking at my body, you look at my face. The dim lighting accentuates my hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. I look tired, miserable. Tears fill your eyes. Oh boo hoo, this is what it takes.

and pull out the tray of cupcakes and put one in your mouth. Then another, then another.

“You barely taste them. Take no pleasure in them. You keep eating. You can't stop. You're out of control.”

And since you've completely fucked everything up, you just keep eating until every single one is gone. You sit on the floor of the dark kitchen and disbelief. Your belly aches. You're exhausted like you just ran a marathon. You stumbled to the trash and stick your finger down your throat. You take a deep breath.

Hoping the rotting smell will trigger your gag reflex. It doesn't. You've always been terrible about

making yourself vomit. Another one of your failures. You try sticking a spoon down your throat, but that doesn't work either. You can't bear to think about how many calories you're just consumed. Oh god, you were so good all week. Why? Why did you fuck it up? It's time now.

“I've been too kind, too, forgiving. I'm famished, ravenous. You think you know hunger? You know nothing.”

You think to the bedroom, knowing unconsciousness will be your only reprieve from shame. Just for a second, your eyes flick to the mirror. I'm gone. You have no reflection. You stand there frozen and fear. You can't think. Can't breathe. I'm in the kitchen. Come find me. I say you peeking around the corner. There I am. Tall, skeletal, silhouetted in the kitchen light. You watch and horror as my hands twist and contort. Transforming in the black claws. You're backing away slowly. You think I can't

hear? You think I can't read your thoughts. You're pathetic. Praying to God and Charlotte and you're fucking poor dead mommy. That's when I pounce, sprung toward you at full speed. You run, run to your bedroom. Your naked foot lands on a stray piece of mirror glass. It slices deep into your flesh and you fall hard on the floor. I'm close. Just an arm length away. I reach for you. You scramble to your feet and throw yourself into your room, slamming the door in my face.

You think you're safe, but I have a little trick up my sleeve. I pound on the door

by powerful claws rattling the hinges. In your room you hold your breath. There's a moment of silence.

You back away from the door. Past your laundry basket. You're bed. Right into the mirror. You don't even have time to scream as I leap through the glass into your world. I tackle you to the floor. With my claws I tear into your abdomen ripping out your intestines. I put my mouth in your exposed guts and God you taste so good. You have heartedly tried to kick me off but come on. I know you like it. I eat and eat eating you to the bone. Your mom lost a lot of weight at

the end. The chemo made her disinterested in food, not to mention the mouth source, violent diarrhea and constant vomiting. Every time you wait to the hospital she told you her weight, 125, 119, 115, 106. In the end you held tightly to her bony little hand, a child's hand.

“As she told you, 92 pounds, 92 pounds. How did she even have the strength to step on the scale?”

While you could do in the hospital was eat, you devoured every snack in the vending machine, demolished in higher bags of trader Joe's chocolate pretzels for dinner. As she watched you grow, you saw it in her eyes, a little twinkle, triumph, she finally beat you.

Breakfast today is the other half of the orange. You slice it as always into three thin strips.

There is an octave door, but you don't move to open it. And Charlotte pokes her head in, she's carrying a tubware container with chicken and mashed potatoes. The morning sweetie, I hope you don't mind me dropping by on an ounce again. She hesitates, waiting for you to turn. You don't. Can't. I'm sorry if I touched the nerve yesterday. I know you're dealing with things in your own way. I hope you won't mad at me. No, you shake your head. You're not mad at her.

How could you be? You are a saint floating on clouds. She is a pig, waterly around on the ground. She is chunky charlie. You pity her. I brought you some food from last night. I used milk instead of cream in the mashed potatoes, so it's basically like a salad.

Are you okay, sweetie? You're trying to face her revealing, a gaping bloody hole in your abdomen. Share that screams. You smile. You feel nothing. You feel thin. The horror keeps flowing. After a word from the folks who make all this free content possible, I'm going to avoid those cupcakes because I can't risk getting stains on my outfits from

quince. Some are always changes how I get dressed. I want pieces that feel lighter and more breathable.

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got herself some Bella stretch straight jeans. denim super stretch made with organic cotton for a stylish fit. She loves how they feel and how they look. And the price, well compared to comparable brands, she paid almost 80% less. And there's more choices for you, like their teas, which are soft and easy to wear. And their lightweight cotton sweaters are perfect for cooler summer nights.

Everything at quince is priced 50 to 80% less than similar brands. And quince goes

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for free shipping and 365 day returns. quince.com/nospleep. Now let's plunge back into the deep waters of horror. Was it the pandemic? Is it the unreallowy of social media? Or is it just the way life is these days? Whatever the cause, more and more people simply want to stay at home and be away from other people. Social anxiety is becoming rampant. And in this tale, shared with us by author,

Tyler John Kaziski, we meet a man who is isolated in his apartment just the way he wants it. That is, until he notices something rather unusual outside the window. Performing this tale, our Kylaigers and Izzy Bromberger. So you may think you know yourself,

“but sometimes you have to ask who will you be tonight?”

Across the alleyway, in an identical apartment building, on an identical seven-story balcony, a figure in all black stands. They're looking down at the busy market alleyway, leaning against the balconies rot iron railing. Their loose, mousey hair is blowing over their face. A black hoodie pulled over their head.

I can never tell if they're looking down or looking across. It may be both.

I'm sitting on my balcony and there they are. Watching the city breathe, watching life go by just like I do. I like to think that when I close my eyes and imagine, imagine the lives of others that they are doing the same, that they are doing it with me. It's a comforting thought. The gray, spitting sky casts a gloom over the city. But the alleyway below is a buzz with bartering street vendors, chiming bicycles,

the cumulative babble that emanates off of crowds. I look down at the alleyway market, people may enter from booth to booth despite the gray sky, despite the dribbling rain. The crowd shuffles down that seemingly endless alleyway in two lanes, walking, talking, looking, buying. Gradually, funneling out either side, with bagged produce, souvenirs, tonight's dinner. Too far up to observe more intimate details, my eyes bounced

A man in the neon green jacket stands out amongst the swarm. He's idle acting as a median.

“The crowd passing him in both directions. I close my eyes and imagine being him.”

Who is he? Who am I? I'm tall, and lanky, am young. My baby face hasn't quite caught up with the ambitions of my rapidly growing limbs. A tower over the crowd. Consider the alley extent almost infinitely, forever sandwiched between vendor booths and food stands. It's a nice change, having a view, not feeling enclosed, engulfed by those around me. And I'm looking, but looking for what? For whom? Maybe for a friend? Yes, she's supposed to meet me here.

She's much older, but we connect. Our age gap easily bridged by shared interests,

2000s indie rock in manga, and by a listening ear. I tell her about school, about professors too old to teach and impossible homework and the woes of the bachelor life. She tells me about her toddler, her rotating job schedule of subbing and bartending and waiting tables, her dreams of moving away. Why don't you join her? A soft, androgynous voice speaks into my ear, and I open my eyes, back to reality, back to my apartment balcony. I touch my left ear,

the one being whispered into, and it's cold. Looking across the alleyway, I know it's them,

the black figure, my evening companion these past months. It's where you want to be.

Her voice is close, impossible, close. It's not that easy. I say aloud to myself, no, to them.

“Why not? I think of venturing out, of interacting, of being seen, and my body begins to quiver,”

in a crowd of my eyes twitch, blink too frequently. It says if I forget how to walk, how to extend my legs and swing my arms. I think of the complexity of every potential interaction, and it's just too much. How long do I hold eye contact? Do I smile? What do I do with my hands? Sudden hyper awareness of every muscle overwhelms me. I lose the ability to hold a gaze, turning away like a wounded animal. And I think of getting caught, being noticed,

because I'm sure I'll get noticed. When I last tried to leave the apartment, I felt the gaze of a young couple standing near the exit. The sensation of being stared at makes me panic,

“so I turned around, quickened my pace, and fled back to safety. I didn't dare look back,”

imagining the confused, likely to risk of expressions on their faces. No, I would not go down there, not alone, at least. It'll be worse down there, unless you want to go down with me. I can't go down there. Though I long to. Below the people continue to flow into and out of the market, they remind me of ants, their movements and actions predictable, mutually beneficial, connected, mysteriously wired together. Why not? I'm stuck here. Like me. Sort of.

And when I watch all the people from up high, I yearn for that connection, that missing wiring. So I pretend. I imagine I fantasize, then you understand. I do. I slurped my takeout ramen and whip open the slider. I as fixed to the mirrored balcony, seeing if all of company tonight. My heart jumps when I see them standing on the black balcony.

Still as a statue, except for that mousey hair which blows and whips and swirls with the non-existent breeze. I scramble into my flimsy plastic chair and feel a cold spot former on my ear. Who will you be tonight? Taking a breath, I scan the crowd below, looking for someone to catch my eye. Draw me in. My eyes pass the flash of red and I backtrack to a runner, dodging and weaving through all the people. I close my eyes and imagine I'm in that red jumpsuit.

I imagine I've started my Saturday evening with a pleasant run through the market, enjoying the crisp cool evening. And your girlfriend is right beside you in a matching track suit.

shaking too. I imagine this is what people mean when they talk of butterflies in their stomach.

“I'm exhilarated, but apprehensive, fearful of what could go wrong. What am I might do wrong?”

With our run finished, we lock hands and begin browsing a booth of metal trinkets. Many statues of the animal kingdom made from various metal fasteners and tools, ranging from cats and dogs to elephants and two cans. I want the mouse. I pick up the mouse. It's body framed by glued drill bits and bolts. It's two big ears are made from washers. It's little feet from nails with their tips cut off. "What do you want?" I pick up a peacock. It's feathers made

from different thickness feeler gauges, each a different shade of silver. "I like that runner." Whenever they speak, the slightest draft of icy air kisses my ear. We'll put the knickknacks on the mantle on either side of our flat screen TV. "Tell me about our apartment." I can picture it clearly. It's not big, but it's cozy. The front door leads into a modern kitchenette which faces the main space, our living room. A hallway extends from a living space to our bedroom and bathroom.

Our living room is painted a dark teal that looks pressure-blood during the day, emerald at night. In the corner of the room next door, came all back sofa. There's a cat tower. "Tell me about the cat?" "We pretend until it's too dark to see, until I'm too tired to keep the images in my head, until I not off to sleep."

Tonight we are friends, weathered and wrinkled out on our weekly walk. The relentless wind whips our hair around. Care is the briny scent of the sea deep into the city. We mosey past fresh produce stands boasting tomatoes and carrots and apples. We inspect the days' catches as we walk by, snapper and groupar and salmon. We loiter between a crapes stand in a booth of watercolor paintings. Each won a surreal view of the

“harbor city. Do you remember Miss Tills' class? I asked, browsing a box of prints, imagining”

myself as this old man, imagining that I'm searching for my wife's birthday present. "How could I ever forget?" The only teacher we ever had that danced on tables. "Let us create our own work." The slightest inflection in their breathy voice tells me they're smiling. And yet, you managed to get a sea in middle school art class. "So much for grading our own work, huh?" The trick was to mark yourself down.

"I always told her I deserved a sea."

"And I always proposed an A for my work." "We turn to each other in smile. And though I was smiling too up in my seventh floor balcony, my mind just to school, to the day I left and never went back. And my smile fades, slips away. Andered that cyclical social gathering for over a decade,

“growing tired and worn from navigating social dynamics and hierarchies every day,”

for years. So I fled, ostracizing myself from my peers, connections that hadn't been made and would never be made, and ostracizing myself from my family, an intolerable failure in their eyes,

a grievance that could never be mended.

Even now, today, in the haven I fled to, where I live, where I work, where I eat and sleep, I feel the shame of that decision, abrooting, lurking shadow that follows me wherever I go, reminds me of a past I'd like to forget. But I also feel the relief of that decision,

the once foreign feeling of ease relaxing my muscles, reminding me I'm safe. What's wrong? Nothing. I closed my eyes, shaking my head into focus, to bring myself back down to the market, to the art booth. What do you think of this one? I pick up a small canvas in aerial view of the city,

in the middle, various gray-scale geometric shapes all fit together to form an octagon. Surrounding the octagon, the city, are swirls of navy blue and black. I think she'll love it. Nothing so too. Can I ask you something? They break character. They're cool, quiet voice, somehow carrying over the ruckus below,

and pulling me from the market back to my apartment balcony.

Why don't you go down? I'll be with you. I'll be talking in your ear just like now.

But I wouldn't be able to talk to you. Not like I do now. That I'll just look at me. Stare at me. A bus stops at one side of the market. It's hissing hydraulic strong my attention from a moment, as I watch the throng of passengers descend. Nothing makes me feel more alone than that. Okay. I'll go if you go down with me. I told you I can't go down there.

Because you're like me. I used to be like you. But I've been moldering in this apartment for far, far too long, and now I'm stuck here. But if we go down together, it won't be so bad. I want to go down with you. I do, but I can't.

“You're not stuck. You can go. You should go. If you can't, I won't.”

I like what we have anyways.

For as long as I've lived here, almost a year now, they've never left their balcony.

Every time I've looked up my window, they've been there. Every time I've sat on my balcony, they've been there. Not tonight. It didn't quite register until I'd already sat down. As I lowered myself into the chair, my eyes darted to their spot, like so many times before. Looking for my friend. My anchor. But they weren't there. It was disorienting. Dizzying. The sun's nearly down, and I'm waiting. Staring at their absence.

The chair has lads to backrest digs into my shoulders and back as I recline against it. The sun drops lower and lower, burning up the sky, and darkness creeps in.

“I've had myself wondering what did I do wrong. What did I say, wrong?”

I search every memory, recounting each conversation from the very beginning, studying every word.

Every play all of it in my head to see how it could have played out differently. Had I said something different here or there? Would they be here tonight? My search yields far too many results. I was probably talking too loud too fast when we imagined walking to the docks. It was a bad idea, probably boring and far too grim, to pretend to be that old couple of the smoothy stand. The examples pile up.

But one memory stands out the most. I wonder if I should have gone down to the market, like they had wanted. Having finished dinner, strained maroon and tap water, I slowly pulled the slider open, letting out a prolonged sigh at the side of the empty balcony. Settling into my flimsy lawn chair, I consider starting. But decide to hold off. I'm waiting for company. Hoping for company. Desperate for company.

Swirling nimbus clouds sweep on top of the city and large steady droplets. The market below is an everending line of umbrellas, big and small, bright and dark, wide and narrow. I tap my foot, staring at their empty balcony. It's been an entire week, seven nights by myself without their voice, without their presence. And if they're not out yet, then they're not coming.

I consider going back inside, calling it a night, sinking into my mattress, stunned by indecision and indifference till I fall asleep. But decide against it. Decide to stay, to start by myself. Surveying the crowd below through the rain, I sift through the umbrellas for something to cling to. After a few minutes of scanning, I settle on a pair of transparent umbrellas walking in pair. I close my eyes and imagine who they're covering.

Maybe a man and a woman? Sure. I picture the man wearing an elegant charcoal picoat and black slacks. Who is he? A face starts to take form. He has sharp facial features, a prominent nose, an angled jawline. His gate is confident, his posture perfect. He's formal and analytical,

“probably particular, a financial consultant visiting the city, maybe?”

Yeah, visiting the city on work, looking for entertainment on a dreary weeknight and the woman. A picture of the woman in an emerald sequence dress. She's hanging on the financial

The garment flows with her curves, making them a complimentary pair. She's tipsy for

“evening drinks, relying on my arm to keep her steady. Her motions are exaggerated, so her hands”

can grasp and wander when she stumbles, so her hands can feel me playfully. We flounder in squirm our way through the crowd, through the rain. We're just passing through, headed back to the hotel to cap off the night. For professional, she's been priming me all night, touching me lightly, whispering in my ear, holding my gaze. Who will you be tonight? A chill blooms behind my left ear. A rush of excitement prompts me to leave my seat, stand up. The white plastic lawn

chair falling to its side. I open my eyes and I see them. Black hoodie, black pants, long hair blowing with the sideways rain. They came with a distance doesn't seem right. My body

slumps. Were they always so far away? I started without you. I thought you might not show again.

Sorry. The sound of their voice energizes me. I stand up straighter. I smile like they can see my face. Where have you been? I've missed you. I thought you weren't coming back. I've been

“staying in thinking. Thinking about what? What if we did something different tonight?”

Their voice drowns out the noisy city. The honking taxis racing perpendicular to the market alleyway. The shrill bus hydraulics, the wailing sirens, all muffled, secondary.

Like what? Just trust me. Okay. Close your eyes. I do. I want you to see me.

Really? See me. Would you like that? I would. More than anything. Okay. Open. Their outstretched hand is right in front of me. It extends impossibly through the night air connecting our apartments, connecting us. Come see me. That chill behind my ear grows.

“Extends to my neck. Sufuses through my shoulders and torso. I reach. And just short of my”

outstretched hand, there's slowly retracts. I rise though my movements are dampened. I'm slowed. Everything around me is slowed. That half speed. Cars creep down the road. Everyone below is stuck mid step. Their movement in perceptible. Trudging forward. Like walking the ocean floor. My outstretched hand reaches and reaches and reaches for theirs. Before my waist meets the black and steel railing.

Their outstretched hand continues to reel backward. Over the crowded market. Back to their apartment balcony. I climb the railing and leap for the hand. And though I don't reach it, I find myself floating. Swimming between the apartments. Over the crowded market and towards the retreating hand. Except. I'm just falling. Slowly. The city is breathing. Races back to normal speed.

It's honking and hissing and wailing. All the ones that's loud and people are walking. Talking and shouting below. Your hand reels back in a flash. And as I fall, I'm looking at them. We'll go down together. I fall. Fast. I'll be right here with you. Right behind your ear. The whole time. Toward all the people. Don't worry. You won't be alone and you won't be like me. Toward their collective war.

How are we going to do that? As our stories sink beneath the waves, we claw our way back onto dry land. Join us again next time.

The no sleep podcast is presented by creative reason media. The musical scores are composed

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and Claudius Moore. Our editorial team is Jessica McEvoy, Ashleigh McEnelly,

Ollie A. White, and Kristen Samito. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings.

“To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us, just visit”

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we thank you for taking the plunge into our dark waters. This audio program is copyright 2026 by creative reason media. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of creative reason media. No part of this audio program may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or

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