S25 Ep4: NoSleep Podcast S25E04

Listen. Listen closer.

To the frequency of the air.

Silence isn't safety. It's just a bread. Over the screen. Over the air. To the air.

Explore the unarkly tones. Phantom voices.

“Add some sonic river variations that trigger your body's instinct to run.”

[music] What on your headphones? Step into the dark. And listen closely as you. Raise your sound.

For the ghostly podcast. [music] [music] [music] You're listening to the no sleep podcast.

Thanks for making us part of your horror soundtrack. I'm your host, David Cummings. How are you, my sleepless family? It's your pod father. Checking in and hoping all my fully-braced children are doing well.

I'm so happy we're all a part of one big loving scared family. It's a deep and abiding connection that joins us as one big family of horror. I can't keep this up. Look, I really do like the idea that all of us share a certain connection. In so much as we all listen to this podcast.

And some of you even really enjoy it. But let's face it. Aren't all of us over this idea of the family so many groups want to pitch to us.

“If you drive a Ford, are you part of the Ford family?”

You shop at wagmans. So are you in the wagmans family? I'll bet even the most ardent customer of, say, Verizon. It doesn't want to think of themselves as being in the Verizon family of customers. Families are people we live with, grew up with.

People with whom we share not only a biological connection, but also shared experiences. And speaking of shared experiences, I want to make a quick announcement about this year's first cut film festival. Happening in Wilmington, North Carolina, this October 10th. The no sleep podcast is for the second year, one of the main sponsors of this horror short film festival. I'll be at the fest along with some other members of the no sleep family.

I mean team, the no sleep team.

“Check the show notes to learn more about the festival.”

And if you're in or around the southeast part of North Carolina, consider checking it out.

We've got an amazing lineup of short films that you might say are suddenly shocking.

So, families. Like they say, you can choose your friends, but you can't choose your family. And some people really wish they could choose who they're related to. Like the people will meet in this episode. For this week, our tales involve people who are either dealing with, working for, being tormented by,

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

In our first tale, we meet a young woman living a rather miserable life with her miserable parents.

And it's not just the fact that they live in squalor. You see, in this tale, shared with us by author Angela Sylvan. The young woman enjoys hearing the music her brother makes on his keyboard.

This tale has been produced by Claudius Moore, and features performances by Sarah Thomas and Jesse Cornett.

So, listen, listen for the music and find meaning in it even if you live on the edge of decay. The music was, and is, my only relief. Before, a small used Casio keyboard squeezed a little of the rot from inside me.

“Every time those off-key notes slipped beneath my bedroom door.”

Even my parents, whose anger at each other, at the world, had what their lives had become, stopped shouting at the sound of that little keyboard. Now, a single organ plays a very different song, a thumping, repetitive bass line, overlaid by a careless smattering of high notes in a minor key that twists something inside me, at once rinsing and comforting.

Death changes a person's song. I was 13 when we moved into the trailer covered in corrugated steel painted a yellow that was already sunfated and shipping. The backyard budded up to a gravel road that, once crossed, led to open fields filled with prairie dog burrows. Past the field, a set of train tracks. Prairie dog yelps and the Blair of the horn often woke me back then.

“But the dogs and the trains are long gone.”

That first day, I race Sam for the bigger room at the front of the trailer.

At five years old, his size alone meant he couldn't win. A fact I used to my advantage as big sisters often do. I won the race. Wood paneling covered every inch of every wall in our new home, lending a darkness to the space that no amount of lamp light could dispel.

But daylight helped, and my room had two windows. A large bay that took up the entire wall facing the street, and a small side window. The organ window. Our parents' room sat at the opposite end of the trailer.

“Far enough away that some of their fights were muffled.”

Sam's room was right beside mine. When he played the Casio keyboard, he'd spent a quarter on at a rummage sale. The notes drifted down the short hallway. Seept beneath my door, and reminded me there was one good, pure thing in my life. Other sounds fought hard to stop me believing in that good thing.

The train rushing past on rusted tracks, Metal scraping on metal in a sound that hurt my bones. My parents' bites, yelling that turned to the thump of fists on flesh. The prairie dog screaming when a hawk invaded their happy little dents to snatch one of their babies with a sharp beak. When dad drank too much, he and his friends made a game of hurling potatoes against the living room wall.

The hollow thunk shook the walls and settled in the pit of my stomach. To someone else, their chuckles might have sounded like they were having fun, but it had a pained quality to it, like a child's laughter hiding tears after a cruel sneak by twist skin and muscle. One bad winter, fierce housestorms raged, a pounding of ice on metal that threatened to tear our trailer apart.

Afterwards, I dreamt of machine gun bullets firing through the bay window in a deafening roar. Their path unleashing an explosion of glass and dust and tattered curtains in the air. After the nightmares and the potatoes and the screens, the Casio brought me back. Drew my head just enough above the water that I could suck in a deep breath before being pulled back under. Until the day there was no more music.

That night, I lay in my bed, which sets flush against the small side window, with the headboard against the wall below the bay. My good thing was gone, and I waited, almost hoped, to drown.

The breath that the first note of the organ failed my lungs, and I sat up.

Knowing there was nothing in my room capable of making that sound, it continued to play, coming from right beside me. I looked out the small window by my bed, but saw only an open patch of grass,

At the time, a man lived there with his dog, a German shepherd kept outside all winter,

“with only a rickety dog house to shelter from the brutal cold.”

The dog would wine, soft, and sat until I had to clamp my hands over my ears. The Phantom organ played all night, the notes blooming from the air itself. I didn't ask my parents if they heard it, knew they hadn't. The song was just for me, and it's been visiting me, playing for me, every day since from the organ window. And each day I'm closer to understanding what Sam is trying to tell me.

Shuffing the snorles of my dark hair from my face, I wrap an old afghan tied around my shoulders, and push back the curtain to climb onto the ledge of the bay.

Two pieces of corrugated metal form a wedge beneath the window,

an enclosure for the trailer's hitch. I'd used to sneak out a few times, a step between the window and the ground,

“but the edges of the metal are sharp and sliced deep into the meat of my palm once.”

Maybe it got a taste for blood that day. A blanket of white covers the streets, and dead patches of grass and caving roofs, the unmarked brightness of it hurting my eyes. They are no neighbors left, only abandoned trailers sporting smashed windows and sagging frames, sandwiched between empty lots marked by driveways of cracked cement.

My hometown has curled in on itself, contracting in a last effort to stay alive, and sacrificing the appendages of the outer edges to decay. As this summoned by my sadness, the music joins me and I smile, glad for the company, slipping from the ledge, I sway in the middle of my room.

The notes are always soft, even from my spot in bed, but they live inside me now.

“My mind replicates the song and amplifies it until my bones vibrate with music.”

The tune is different today, as if some missing line of harmony has been added, and Sam's song is finally complete. My stalking feet soundless on the carpeted floor, I drift through the door to my room and into the hallway that takes me past his room. It's empty now, not a single toy, piece of furniture, or shred of clothing remains.

They were all burned in a giant heap in the backyard, even that little casseo. The jagged ring of burnt earth is still there beneath the thin layer of snow. The wood grain of the wall shifts and curls, warping into the innocent, giggling figures of children. His ghostly playmates, I hope, so I don't have to imagine he's alone in the dark. Let's play the children call, scampering from one snarl of wood grain to the next and writhing twists.

They lean me through the living room, pass the recliner and sagging sofa, where my parents sit staring blankly at the TV. Their son weathered faces drooping like melted wax. They still hate each other, hate everything, but after Sam, they went quieter. The children frolic along the walls and into the kitchen. In a world that surrounds me, they turn to shadows that slide across the Firmica table and skitter across the ceiling.

The figures solidify again on the far wall of the kitchen, resuming their wood grain dance on the wall and cabinets above the stove. My dad's sneers from his spot in the recliner. I make yourself useful and cook dinner. I smile, that's just what Sam wants too.

I fill a pot with water and set it to boil over the licking blue flames of the gas burner, then pull a box of mac and cheese from the cupboard. He loved hot dogs and his, cut into little discs. We don't have any hot dogs, but there's another special ingredient that will make dinner perfect, the music whispers. The pot bubbles and I stir in the macaroni.

Watching the half moon swirl in the water in a dance of their own. I join in and turn circles on the cracked linoleum. My mom says something insulting, but I'm insulated in my cocoon of music, and the words hit and bounce off, not even leaving a bruise. I strain the noodles and stir in the powdery cheese, extra margarine, milk, and the special ingredient.

The day glow oranges muted a bit by the brown powder, but no one will be able to tell in the dem light.

Dad took Sam up on the roof.

“I tried to stop him, but we had leaks and the boy needed to learn hard work.”

He was only eight. Two small to labor under the hot sun painting on tar sealant. When footsteps sounded overhead, small ones running, heavier ones stomping. I knew Dad had lost his temper, a roar rose in dad's throat. And I followed the footsteps through the living room, down the narrow hallway, and into my bedroom. Throwing open the curtains on my bay window.

Sam fell, or was pushed, from the roof, and slammed down on that wedge of corrugated steel. He saw me, his wide brown eyes meeting mine and his mouth forming the shape of my name. A scream tore from my throat as I threw open the window, and reached for him, grabbing one small limp hand.

But his eyes had gone dull, and his body bent unnaturally over the metal.

His head and legs dangling over either side. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and oozed from his torso.

“To drip down the ripped metal in a grotesque waterfall.”

Sucking in a breath, I blink away the image of that terrible day. Tears burn my eyes, and I gripped the edge of the counter. I know his death wasn't my fault, but I could have stopped what came after. Mom and dad didn't scream, or cry. They didn't try to save him or call an ambulance.

While I huddled into window, sobbing, they cleaned up the mess. There were still a few others living in the park then, so they had to be quick. They wrapped Sam's tiny broken body in an oil stained canvas tarp, and shoved him beneath the porch. Then bleached away the blood. After dark, they removed the skirt of metal just below my side window.

Duck a hole, and buried my baby brother. Mom and dad made sure to tell me I'd join him if I ever said anything to anyone. I waited in my bed for the darkness to consume me, but Sam saved me, finding life again in the sorrowful melody of that organ. We both waited for something to happen, for someone to realize a little boy was missing,

but no one ever came. This town and all the people in it were too busy trying not to die themselves.

Sam knew first, and told me through that wrenching melody.

We're done waiting. My special ingredient, powdered rosal, sits on the counter. The stuff is old, but when we first moved in to keep the prairie dogs from investing our yard.

“Mom and dad probably didn't even remember we still had it.”

Tucked beneath the sink behind the rat traps. After one use, they stopped using the poison. The effects too cruel even for them. The prairie dogs didn't scream. They moaned and cried, as blood seeped from their eyes and mouths.

The rosal eating them away from the inside. Dinner's ready? I pick up the bulls and deliver them to mom and dad, who shovel the mac and cheese into their mouths as they continue to stare at the TV. Sam's music swells beside me, a pillar of sound taking physical form,

and I know he's with me. The wood grain rides around us as the children gather to wait, to watch, the organ plays. The base line thumping like dad's heavy footsteps on the roof. But mom and dad can't hear it. Don't know that death is coming for them.

I smile, and anticipation raising the fine hairs on my skin, as mom coughs, spraying the air with a fine mist of blood. A spattering of high notes peppers my ears. A kickle. The sonic sounds of sponsors bring you all this content for prairie.

Join our sleepless universe for even more. Add free audio nightmares. The sonic sounds of sponsors bring you all this content for prairie. Join our sleepless universe for even more. Add free audio nightmares.

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See MintMobile.com. Listen closely, as we return to the frequency of fear. When a soldier returns home from World War II, he decides to do a little hunting in the mountains of Appalachia. But he also has another reason for going up the mountain.

As we'll learn in this tale, shared with us by author Josh Poole, the man's father died on the mountain five years prior, and the man hopes to find his father's remains. This tale has been produced by Phil Michaelski, and features performances by Reagan Tucker and Jesse Cornette.

So if you're warned about what not to do up in the hills, best heed the warnings, even if your task is defined, my father, the mountain. I drove an old truck through the chill of an october morning, past the fields where me and Billy Jungung put up hay from 35 to 41. That was almost five years ago, and it felt good seeing those fields again.

I drove by the one room church where I'd mumbled through him's each Sunday, and gone every winter with my father to catch black snakes who'd made their way inside. The road straightened into a lane of railroad trees that must have been old since the Civil War. I closed my eyes, the cold air rushing in through the windows. When I opened them, I saw the nameless peaks that rose like animals over the foothills of my home.

Written, pale as tombstones in the morning sun. Ever since I was a kid, I'd heard stories of devils along that chain told bald rumrunners and woodsmen, but those men were drunkards, and any man in any woods past dark will make myth of it in time. Wilbur nuzzled my hand from the passenger seat, a blue tick-hound whose furt had only widened with age. My father had named him, and although Wilbur seemed to lively a name for him anymore, he was too old to learn another.

I scratched his head, at least he could feel the wind and sunlight.

“The engine wound down as a pulled into the gravel of a general store and parked among several other trucks.”

There, old men set outside in metal chairs just as they had when I was a boy, bundled in their coats waiting for sunlight. The same doverness clung the cinder block wall behind them, and the same tobacco stains marked by their boots. And the same pop smoke floated. Don't go driving off while I'm inside. I said to Wilbur, petting him before closing the truck door, he clarmed into the driver's seat and hung his head out the open window.

I mean it now. One of the men waved to me as I walked by, but didn't speak. I gave him a nod. A cowbell rattled against the door as I entered, and a shopkeeper bade me good morning from behind his counter. It was a heavy set man, with white hair and suspenders, faintly familiar though, no name came to mind.

I picked up 308-6 and 22 magnum rounds along with enough potted meat and beans for a few days, even if I killed nothing but time up there in the mountains. They were chocolate bars by the register, and so I got one of those too. They had dog food as well, but I figured meat was all the same to an old dog, and so made my way to the counter. I'll be damned. Who tells boy, ain't ya?

I am. Since your daddy's funeral, I reckon? I nodded. Since the funeral, yes sir. Almost five years by God.

“Well, now I don't want to be been up to.”

The war for a time. After that, I started putting up houses, same as my daddy. Took up where he left off, I reckon. Good, good. The work will keep you straight.

Most men just act like they work. Hell, I know folks who roll up their sleeves just to take a leak.

They look to talk about how much they used to work, but they never done nothing.

I reckon they've talked a lot. Hey, smiles. And what brought you back here? I thought for a moment. The quiet I suppose?

Well, there's plenty of that around here. Hey, rang everything up, poking at an old cash register that looked like it came from the days of the wild west. And then outside burst in the laughter, slap in their knees. I smiled and paid what I, the shopkeeper looked out the window. They're in the truck.

Is that it? It was his pops left me two rifles in that their hand. The rifles were, even if the dog don't. He smiled.

I had never heard of a dog living so long.

Now, sir, I reckon he's the only one. A shopkeeper put everything in paper bags. I grabbed the bags, but he held on to him and his face darkened. Are you ain't hunting the mountains, are you? I'm folks who hunt the mountains get lost.

My pops on it on plenty. The only drunks get lost up there and I and a drunken ain't never been. As I stayed on mine. Yeah, well, your daddy got lost up there. And he knew the mountains better than anyone.

And he knew the bottle better than anyone, too. The dog made it out just fine. I'll follow him back if in the need, too. All right, sir. But you'd be careful of them in the mountains.

Don't build no fire. No matter how cold it gets. Don't build no fire. All right. I replied, but I'd heard that nonsense a thousand times.

No, I mean it. Up and there. Fire don't keep nothing away. Do you understand me? Yes, sir.

He finally let go of the bags.

Good seeing you again. I miss your daddy coming in here. Yeah, I'm missing, too. I'm not it. Well, I'm going to head on up the mountain.

“Should we back here in a couple of days and get me another chocolate bar or something?”

He managed to smile before I left. A screen door swung shut behind me. And the men went on chattering. Hardly intelligible in their heavy draws. We'll remove back into the passenger seat as a hopped in the truck.

I got chocolate, but I guess they say dogs can't have none.

Don't they?

“I scratched him behind the ears and then back the truck out onto the road.”

The old men and the chairs steered at us as we departed. One taken a swig and another spit. There's all sorts of poison in the world. They're boy. We drove by several more fields and then climbed into foothills of timber.

There, the road became more dirt than gravel, twisted from one bend to the next like an old rope. The mountain peaks loomed over it all, peering down at me like old and disfigured heads, a wash and sunlight. The engine logged as the great steepened. We climbed another mile or so from the last of the fields and pulled off where a tree had fallen across the road, and nobody had yet bothered to move it.

I turned the truck off and stepped out. Wind rushed by, blowing downward off the mountain like some breath from those high heads trying to get rid of us. But Wilbur set to wagon his tail and looked like he was about to jump right on out of the truck.

“Don't bow to get hurt jumping down like that.”

I took him up gently in my arms. The dog was thin as fence wire and ranging. No more than 20 pounds with his ribs feeling like they'd break if I held him too long. I sat him down and he went sniffing him among the dead leaves. From the truck bed, I gathered a large pack filled with the tent and cookies and then slung my two rifles.

The 22 magnum would be good for garments and the 30 ought six for deer, bear. There were rumors of cougars living in those mountains, but that was all hearsay. Even if I did see one out there, I wouldn't shoot it. Well, maybe I would if and it grabbed hold of Wilbur when after my chocolate, but I wasn't out here to kill nothing. Just to be alone with my thoughts and get away from the thud of hammers and raising of walls and the wallern of drunken men.

Another wind passed by, colder and longer than the first.

I looked up at the mountains, their stone peaks barely a mile off. Sure I'd come there for the quiet, but the quiet wasn't all I'd come for. My daddy's bones were still up there, and even if there wasn't much left of him, I'd be bringing him home. I pulled out a tin of my daddy's shoe polish and offered it to Wilbur to smell. He put his nose in it and lit my knuckles before trotting past me into a maze of popplers.

His tail wagged, perhaps dreamin' of a time when he could chase his good as any. He had trade coons and even bears in his day and was once a fine hunting hound. I hoped he'd still remembered all that. I pulled the ruffles higher on my shoulder and followed him. The truck soon disappeared as we marched through the dead leaves and brush.

I didn't know where he was going, or even if he knew where he was going, but dog didn't relent until we'd climbed up on a bridge a good mile into the forest. There he painted sampling the air with his wet nose. I looked around for deer signs, but none of the trees had been horned and none of the ground scraped. There was, however, the rumor of a stream echo in nearby.

Follow in the noise, we came to a line of white-barked sickamores where creek passed through. The water ran fast and clear. I filled a canteen and drank from it as the dog laughed from a stagnant pool. We continued on, following the stream until the hillside grew steep and ravenated. Fewer trees grew up there, the ground more stone than soil.

The trees that did grow were old and broken. Are you sure you went up here?

“Will there simply odd me and went on scrambling up the rocks?”

His blunt claws raking on the stone. I'll rip it. We climbed for a while until reaching a flatness where the ground softened and the stream ran quiet through a broad clearing. Will there stop and rolled over onto his side, pan?

I snorted a laugh and then shed my pack and rifles. That's all right, boy. We ain't got to go no further today. I sat down on the pack and ate a can of potted meat next to him, drinking from my canteen, the dog lined until I gave him what remained of the can.

But when I offered what was left, he turned his nose up at it. Well, I ain't bring no olive topping nod, so you best get eaten at meat.

The dog whimpered, but finally laughed up what was left.

A chill rain up my spine at the sound of his jails sloping together. I drew out the chocolate bar and ate it silently. They'd given us something similar when I shipped out. I recall eating mine somewhere in Rome, looking out over all those ancient ruins, not knowing which had fallen to the war and which had fallen to war's past.

An outcroft further up the slope stood with a rank of tall and narrow boulders that remodeled me of those columns, and I thought to myself that perhaps there had

The wind tangled around those stones, kicking up leaves as it rolled down through our

little holler.

“I braced inside my coat, breaking away the last few pieces of chocolate,”

letting them melt on my tongue. Looking beyond the stones, a gap in the trees framed the mountains breaking upward and away from the forest. Their peaks seemed like the larger can of those nearby stones. Somehow still jagged after all those years of the world trying to run them smooth.

I crumpled the chocolate wrapper and stuck it in my pocket, turning to see that Wilbur had dosed off with the snout next to the can.

While he slept, I walked a short distance and kicked away the leaves until the ground

was bare, pitching the old tent and making a ring of stone for a campfire. He didn't wake up, even as I carried him over and stuck him inside of the tent. It was already afternoon, so I set off with the 22 magnum to hunt squirrels and gather firewood with what daylight remained.

“Wilbur was awake when I returned at sunset with an armful of dry limbs and two squirrels”

on a stringer, but he kept inside of the tent until I started a fire. By then, it was dark. I watched the Kindlin catch and spread fire to the logs. All the while, the shopkeeper's words echoed in my head. "Don't bill no fire. No matter how cold it gets."

"Bunch of bullshit." "I skinned the squirrels in the fire, Glow. My breath leaven and faint curls as the temperature dropped." "I would have given anything for some buttermilk and scallions to soak the squirrels for frying, but only had an iron pot, water and salt." Months in the field, and a lifetime with that a mama taught me to cook plenty will,

at least per a man from the hills. And all my thinking of stock shells and a stove, I didn't notice Wilbur's staying in there if one of the skin squirrels in his jaws. "Hey, mouth on it. Like in the teeth to do much, but make it wet." "Get off that."

But Wilbur's scurried into the tent with his prize in tow. "Mongrel son of a bitch." "I looked over at the squirrel that remained on the stone. He'd taken the larger of the two." "A runt squirrel was hardly a meal at all, but I'd shot the thing and went see it through." "I hung the pot from a tripod made of limbs, tossing the squirrel in with the pinch of salt

before making my way down to the stream. The water was cold and I washed my hands long after they were clean, listening to the packs of cows, driving elsewhere in the mountains, and thinking about how my father had washed his hands in that very water. When I returned to the fire, I heard something far off in the leaves." "Just keep quiet, boy."

"I fetched my thirty-eight-six. Wilbur was still busy chewing on his raw squirrel and the tent, non-bothered or unaware of the animal approachiness. I used away from the tent and crouched in the shadows beyond the fire glow. The steps continued in the darkness, but they sounded less like something walking and more like something being dragged. I thumbed off the safety. A book staggered into the light, gaunt as a skeleton, and leaning to one side

as a drag to carcass tangled in its antlers. The deer trembled in seemed like it could hardly stand as ribs even with every breath. It must have carried that corpse for years as there was little left of the body but bones in a shredded hot and jacket. My heart dropped.

“Tattered as it was, I knew the coat. Dad? How trembled, feeling like I couldn't hardly breathe?”

Salava drooled from the deer's lips in long strings. Its eyes were white and blonde. I crept onto the bare ground, keeping the rifle trained on the buck as I approached. The animal couldn't weigh over 70 pounds, so frail and barely stand and I wasn't worried about startling it. So I lo and the lump in my throat. I started to move in for a closer look, but something else rustled in the leaves behind me. A swung marafel around, aiming into the darkness.

The gun shook in my hands as the noise continued to drag. Another deer entered the far line. It was frail and blonde, dragging a corpse whose clothes had decomposed and left only a sun bleached ribcage and skull. The deer halted, drooling as it shattered its teeth and hissed, will be held from inside of the tent. You? Your devil's. I'm the raffle at its head. You?

The first deer lunge from behind and creamed into me, sending me stumbling and following straight into the fire.

I crashed through the tripod, boiling water scolded over my face and neck, a screened rather than in the colds, burning and blonde. Everything was searing, pain and lot until I rolled out of the fire and kept rolling, swatting at my clothes and then lying on the cold ground.

Just as I reached for it, something went into my back and pressed me into the ground like someone had run a pitch for it through me. The air left my lungs, blood warmed as it pulled between my stomach and the dirt. A crane my neck and saw that dozens of deer had surrounded the fire, each one dragging a corpse. Some of those bodies were only skeleton trapped in the clothes, while others still had their flesh and skin. One of them hissed, swinging spittle across my raffle.

Pressure released from my back. I turned over to see what had gourd me and found a deer unlike the others. It's just a neck, we're still thick with muscle. Firelight danced in its eyes and warmed along its flanks as it drove its horns into my stomach. All I could manage was lease, feeling the antlers puncture my lungs and guts. In a fit of rage, I grabbed hold of its horns and leveraged my thumbs into its eyes,

gouging them until there were nothing more than a gelatinous mess. The deer wailed and kept on dragging me. It dragged me across the bare ground and then through leaves, deeper into the forest as I felt my strength slipped away.

The other slowly followed, their silhouettes outlined by the fire that grew more distant each passing second.

My grip released, I couldn't find it anymore. Cold, it was getting so cold and I felt like I'd been hollowed out. I imagined myself being dragged for eternity dragged alongside my father and all the others killed in those mountains. I imagined slowly rotting apart as the seasons turned and the sun bleached my bones. I imagined the fire slowly going out and those mountains were turned into complete unknowable darkness.

Howlin' all I heard was howlin' as it all faded to black. Now a short message from the sponsors who keep our audio playing. Join our sleepless night.

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Stock up now at dripdrop.com and use promo code no sleep. Listen closely as we return to the frequency of fear. These days I don't think anyone will blame you if you feel a certain level of disdain for our fellow human beings.

“Strangers aren't that pleasant to be around, right?”

You never know who they really are.

And in this tale, shared with us by author Jose Ramirez, we meet someone with a deep contempt for humanity and they have a rather unique perspective about it.

the coal good night, Graham Rowett and Jeff Clement.

“So belly up to the bar, order a drink and contemplate the words of the barfly.”

We pulled down the mirror and rehearsed. Disgust, anger, joy, sadness. We clear our throat and practice our new voice. Underneath the bears kick wolves, veterans, machines, app, great whales, fish, thick teeth, leaping and leaking laws in silence, victory.

We snapped the mirror closed until the engine. We're ready to play. I joined the bar. I breathed cigarette smoke and pissed fumes. Fill the apes.

Two of them watch a fight on a flat screen.

A young man and the bartender.

I sit next to the man as he bites into a wing. The bartender looks at me. I have a shiner and what he's having. I look at the young man and his wings. Sapiens love like minded people.

The young man smiles.

“An ace of spades is linked behind his call of lower deer.”

He bites into a drumstick. My beer thugs on the counter and the bartender disappears into the kitchen. The rest of the bar is quiet. Empty, except for an older couple and a booth behind us. Two old four tonight.

I glance at the TV. The young man swallows.

So you, he likes mixed martial arts.

He likes his fingers and smiles. Yeah, I make good money out of it. He laughs. His nose is crooked. You?

Oh yeah. Big fan, actually.

“But I feel like it gets a little inhuman sometimes.”

Inhumane, you mean? Not the same? I drink. Cold beer slides down my throat. He shrugs and hits his vape.

We watch. The Mexican catches the American with a clean left hook. The American wrestles him against the chain fence. Blood on their faces. He looks at me.

He got Jones looks tired and he keeps getting hit. I faint a thought. I think Garcia takes it. He does have more experience. Plus he's the favorite.

Fuck that. I get 550 of Jones knocks his ass out. He's a beautiful underdog. They call it martial arts, but it's a science. Force, time, energy.

I can spot a loser. They wear it on their face. The best Jones has is a plunger's chance. I'm Dion, by the way. I reach out my hand.

Luke, nice to meet you. I shake, but... He raises his greasy fingers. I hold good, so you do a lot of betting. He smears his hands on his jeans.

Along the line of green parlay's fly as he scrolls his phone. He admires it like a dad with baby pictures. He's perfect. Wow, that's impressive. Thanks.

He blows another cloud. It's better than working for a loving. He gulps his beer. Foam trickles down his hairy chin. He burps.

Smell his stomach acid. Fuck, these wings are good. And you?

I'm a dentist. Nice.

So you're rolling in, huh?

I can do all right. You know, just enough for my family to... His eyes are already back on the TV. A blonde ring girl parades a card for round four. Fuck, she's odd.

You know, it's on his bone. How about you? You got anyone? Nah. He looks down at his beer.

I don't need anyone telling me what to do. He snorts back, it's not. Sure.

“I'm on Tinder, but nothing longer than a night, you know?”

He wipes his nose, shrugging. Yeah, they just... She'd even spend money.

No, if that's your old lady.

I'm sure she's nice. Well, she definitely spends my money. He still laughs. Like a new, smacks my shoulder. They're all the same.

They're sauce on my shirt. At anger, rises, I silence it. Of course he doesn't notice his monkey eyes are back on the fight. The fighters circle the bloody cage. Garcia lands a high kick, Jones stumbles in the crowd, roars.

Only a matter of time now. Ah, shit. He takes another drink. How about school, you study? He looks at his hands.

Nah, I'm done sniffing books.

“I did six years of school for my old man.”

He was a physicist.

You want to make it use my head?

A lot of the mind when I picked philosophy. He smiles. I told him it was a sexier way to get answers. Under what he'd say now. He finishes his beer and plants it on the bar like a flag.

A wound. I can use it. My old man was the same way. Miss him every day. He nods and we take a drink.

A pad is shoulder. He might watch you in my beer. I got a leak. Yeah man, I got you. He vapes and blows a cloud over the bar.

The old couple gather their things and throw a few bucks on a table. A warm smile from the woman's face. I smile back.

“People avoid looking at me when I reflect old skin.”

Ringles remind them that one day they won't be anything at all. But I don't worry about that. Death? It's just another problem we solved long ago. We walked down the hall.

Our feet unstick from the floor. We slipped into the women's restroom. We locked the door behind us. We see ourselves in the mirror. A single man moped a aged tired and round.

Purple under our eyes. That spilling over our belt. We remember Lucille. Fort Worth, 1974. Long hair.

Tatoo's down her right arm. A graduate student. Mathematics. She's perfect for him. We think of her.

The stubble in our chin sheets into our skin. Our jaw cracks as it narrows. Ink fills our arm. Smoke underwater. Blonde hair pores from our scalp.

Bones creek. We lose the dentist's height. Our legs thin and our jeans tighten. Our brown eye is lightened to green. Our polo shirt threads into a blouse.

Dark glasses form on our face. Her memories flood our mind. Music, libraries, and moss. Sadness. Heavy rain.

Years of life or down our body. Emotions. Enough to drown. We silence them. A deep breath.

It's done. We look at ourselves in the mirror, adjust our clothes, and rehearse. I leave the bathroom and rejoin the bar. The old couple left.

I sit with space between us.

There's a cloud above Luke.

“The bartender bursts out of the kitchen carrying a basket of wings.”

He sets them next to the dentist's shiner. Another pine for Luke needs circles to me. I catch him glancing at my chest. What can I get for you? Cold bear?

Hi. Can I have a whiskey please? Nothing expensive. Well shot. You got it.

He gives me a short tumbler filled with amber. Nothing screams human like drink. The bartender slips back through the kitchen doors. Luke stares at the screen transfixed. The cloud lingers above him.

Garcia stalks Jones into a corner. Blood and sweat rip off Jones as he gets hit.

Two to the skull and another to the gut.

Jones loads his final punch. A right hook catches Garcia clean on the chin. Garcia's head drops on the canvas like meat. Ponder's chance. Nothing more.

Luke's arms fly into his cloud. Woo! Yes! Fuck yes! Let's fucking go! I hear his heart race.

He looks at me. I mimic mouth open wide and eyes wider. Holy fuck. My hands are on my head. He slams back down and chugs his pint.

Did you have money on it? He beams at me. So fucking glad I asked. I just got 700 bucks. Not bad, huh?

He raised my whiskey and he joins me.

“Our drinks vanish and we set down glass.”

Hey, next rounds on me. He smiles wide. Please do themselves. What's your name, by the way? Lucille.

That's a pretty name. French? Thank you, hand. Yes, it is. My name's Luke. He smiles again.

You got a boyfriend, Lucille? A dog in heat. I'm single. Cool? Sick.

I smile. He stretches his arms and drags another cloud from his face. His eyes scan the bathroom hallway that his fingers pluck away from the dentist's basket. He looks at me.

Shhh. He bites. Grease pools on his chin. He wipes his mouth with his palm. He bites again.

Who's at these? Some asshole in the bathroom. I guess he's a prisoner into a shit. He sucks sauce off his thumb. But fuck yeah, I mean, he's got plenty.

“I take the dentist's seat and bite a wing.”

Luke laughs. These are fucking good. He nods and grabs another wing. We chew together. We watch the referee lift Jones' arm in victory.

The crowd is shit-faced. The monkeys scream and how well at the bloody cage. Bones pile on the basket. I finish the dentist's spear. You want to dip before he comes back?

Really? He flutters and tries to laugh it off. I look at his lips. He's smiling. We meet eyes.

He stands up. You know what? I love you. They usually take more to isolate. Not this ant.

It crawled right under my lens. He sticks a cigarette between his lips and lights it. Nice night, huh? I look at the August sky. South to Sagittarius, where our Milky Way used to be.

Our light for street lights. They ruin everything. The stars are pretty. I look back at him. We'd be able to see more of them if it wasn't for all the light pollution.

They're still enough to look at. Plus, I'd like to see where I'm going. He takes another long drag and blows it out as knows. Or do you want to go? My place is free and just ten minutes away.

His smile bears his teeth. Discussed. Oh, how convenient. Which way is your place? He points east through the town square.

Plenty of alleys. Works for me. Our feet scrape the pavement. Lonely cars drive by. The smell of exhaust.

Luke blows cigarette smoke and walks through it. So, what are you doing? I'm a grad student. Sick? My field.

No shit. My dad loved math. I can't stand it. His eyes lighten. Nobody's perfect.

Oh, whatever. It's overrated.

“Didn't some check guy prove it's incomplete or shit?”

Good I'll. He was Austro-Hungarian.

Ah, same shit. So, math isn't really real then, right? That's not what it means he just proved it's limited. Very limited. Ah, it cares.

He folds his arms overhead. The cigarette hangs from his mouth. I didn't need any math to beat people's asses. My hands work just fine. Oh, shit used to fight?

Hell yeah. He flexes. I had a two-o pro record in MMA. Had? His arms fall.

I fucked up my knee and an accident so I can't really do it anymore. Oh my god, I'm so sorry. It's whatever.

Hey, how do you know you're not a brain in a vat somewhere?

Sitting on a shelf, covered in dust, all your sensory input, fed through electrodes. Like how can you prove that? I can't. Exactly.

“I grab his hand and walk towards an alley.”

That's enough. What's happening? You're smart guy. I'm sure you can imagine. Bet.

The EMD law is dark and fenced. Dead branches litter the corners. Trees hush the air. Treat like clothes on Luke's face. His back is against the brick.

I'm close. I look at his eyes.

They're looking at my lips.

I smile. I form a revolver and stick it under his chin. His hands shoot up. The cigarette falls to the ground. I step back and aim between his eyes.

What the fuck? Shh. Please. Take what you want.

“His heart racing, his hands shaking, he begs.”

They always do. Shut the fuck up and listen to me. Very carefully. We are going to play a game. If you try anything, I will turn you into ash.

What? A brick wall slides up from the ground and blocks the alley. The street light dies. He stares at the bricks frozen. I open the cylinder.

Five cartridges fall to the ground. One stays in eye snap it shut. Russian roulette. What the fuck? Why?

Because you deserve it. And because I want to see you blow your head off. I spin the chamber. Oh, don't worry Luke. There's a chance you'll see me blow my head off.

You're great at playing the odds, right? Let's see it. I hand him the revolver. It weighs on his palms. What are you?

I could lie. But it won't make a difference in a few minutes. A red dwarf? Right there? I point to the southern sky.

In the microscope-AM constellation. You'd be able to see it if it wasn't for the street lights. His eyes are cold. It's just 12 light years away. Your people call it, look, hail 8760.

I smile. My planet looks a lot like yours. Just a little bigger. And a little more abundant. Why are you here?

He's buying time. To watch. We're waiting for you to fall. Extinction. Manmade or Cosmic will watch just the same.

We'll be better for this planet than you. I smile at him. Hmm. Now, it's your round. Fuck.

He breathes out. Raises the gun to his temple closes his eyes. And squeezes. He gasps. His eyes wide.

Holy fuck. He's laughing. You're fucking turned. He sticks the gun in my chest. Fucking apes.

Why haven't you invaded?

You can manipulate matter. We'd be fucked.

My grip tightens on the revolver. Most of us don't believe we should.

“My kind ended suffering for all life on our planet long ago.”

We understand life's place in the universe. It's a tide pool in an indifferent and dead ocean. We know this. So we watch. And we wait.

Nature always cracks. So then why are you doing this? I'm so fucking glad he asked. Oh, because I hate you. You're filth.

Your poison. You lock animals and cages and slaughter each other. You split the Adam and crown yourself, God. Human exceptionalism. Destroyer of worlds.

Homo sapiens. Wise humans.

Master baiting in the mirror while shit slides down your leg.

My kind doesn't see it because they watch as clouds and birds. But I'm close. And the trenches. And the slums in your streets. I watch you sleep.

You're all the same. Self-obsessed. All consuming. You could be more.

“Something worth lifting from your puddle of piss.”

But you're not. You're too dangerous to pick up. He points to the cigarette on the floor. Typical. I know it.

He kneels to the floor, grabs his cigarette and lights it. He blows smoke in my face. So then why do you get so close? We look at him. We watch the matter that makes his body his mind.

We understand it. It's structure, it's composition, it's character. Our body shifts. It pulls. It ripples.

Grey matter folds and his mind forms. His memories flood. We dive. He's a boy. His mom's smiling.

Sun might. He's running from a dog. He's afraid. Chuck on a blackboard. His dad draws an orbit.

His mother is on her deathbed. Tears. Death. Suffering. He's in a library.

The smell of paper. So many books. It's raining outside. His dad is dying. Anger.

Denial. He's alone. He's training. He's fighting. He's drinking.

He crashed his car. Drunk. His knee is broken. Another bar. Beer and smoke.

So many bars. He has no one. Nothing to lose. I clear my throat and use his voice. To know you.

He stairs at me. You don't know us. Do you like being Luke? It seems a little lonely. I smile.

He smokes more. And you know what? You'll never know us. Humans die. Will you?

I spin the cylinder and push the barrel under my chin. The bullet is loaded. I shifted to a different cylinder and pull the trigger. Not tonight. I offer him the gun.

Your turn. It'll be his last. So it's just a matter of time then. Huh? He takes the revolver.

Humans fear death. Can you? He thumbs the grip. He's thinking. You're me right now.

So you can feel it? That thinking feeling? I know it's in the pack of my mind. He spins the revolver. It's loaded.

It's also always waiting.

It's quiet, really. But it's always there. I can feel it. I felt it in every ape I've reflected. It's a material.

I could ignore it.

“You know what I was thinking while they lowered their coffins?”

I do. He nods. One day? That'll be me going into the dirt. He looks me in my eyes.

His heart races. It's why we make art why we make war. Death. We scratch the earth because we know one day will leave it.

He's angry. And one day? He'll come for you too. The despair gets louder. I silence it.

It must be so much worse for you.

How long do you have to wait? A couple hundred? Millions, trillions? And the whole time. Knowing you still have to die.

He raises the gun. Has I'm sure you know. I had to get teeth pulled as a kid. I couldn't sleep. I was so fucking terrified.

Then they pulled them out. Of course it wasn't bad. But you know what was? Reading. Knowing.

One day.

“I'd have to sit there and feel someone pull my teeth out.”

A blivy in breaks into my thoughts. My heart. He's pulling something.

Shut up and pull the trigger.

Oh, so you know what I mean. You could feel it too, huh? He smiles so fucking arrogant. And you know what? It's a little strange that your people have these beliefs.

But you're here doing this. I think I know why, though. You've been playing in our puddle too much. You smell like piss. He pushes the barrel against his temple.

Shit. Maybe you do know humans. You pretty much. R1. My face is warm.

A blood rush. He's everything I hate about them. The air against the consumption of fucking delusion. I can feel them scream. Their minds are on fire.

Inside of me.

So much hate, so much anger.

Vittrial and suffering. I fucking hate them.

“Just shut the fuck up and pull the fucking trigger.”

He's right. I'm too human. It's filthy. I'm covered in piss. I need to change.

I need to be something else. Anything I need to get them off me. He shoots the revolver. We fall on the concrete. Death?

Our heart bleeds. Chains rattle. Luke is climbing over a fence. Ash. He's ash.

We can't do it. It's too loud. Everyone's screaming. He's covered in leaves. He's gone.

A buncher's chance. We're alone. We shift into others. The dentist. A soldier.

A mother. A father. Which one am I? I. Something's wrong.

Death. We look at the stars. The earth dries up. It's lifeless. The sun dies.

Every galaxy goes dark. The last black hole finishes. The final Adam decays. We're afraid. It's getting darker.

Our arms won't move. We watch our lives flash. All of us. One last time. Under the trees in the night.

It's dark. We're alone. I. Don't want to die. I.

Don't want to die. I. Don't want to die. I. Don't want to die.

I. Don't want to die. I. Don't want to die. I.

Don't want to die. I. Don't want to die. I. Don't want to die.

I. Don't want to die. I. Don't want to die. I.

Don't want to die. I. Don't want to die. I.

“As the sounds return to the silence, we bring our audio horror to a close for another week.”

Join us again next time when we conjure up the frequency of the air for more sonic nightmares. If a no sleep on gas is presented by creative reason media.

Our production team is film I call seed, Jeff Clement, Jesse Kornett, and Claudius Moore.

“Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashleigh McAnelly,”

Hey, white, Kristen Samito, and Marcus Demanda.

I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings.

To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us.

“Visit sleepless dot the no sleep podcast.com to learn about the sleepless universe.”

Add free extended episodes each week, and lots of bonus content for the dark hours.

All for one low monthly price. On behalf of everyone at the no sleep podcast,

“thank you for listening, low sleep, and embracing the sound.”

This audio program is called the rank 2026 by creative reason media. The copyrights or 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. [music playing] Yes, my children, you can call me Daddy.