S23 Ep9: NoSleep Podcast S23E09

WNSP

You're listening to WNSP's overnight programming.

I'm your host, DC, here with another broadcast of The Darkness of the Night.

Now, I know I usually start our broadcast with reports of any cryptid sightings here in Cryptid Valley.

But instead, there's something I need to to get off my chest.

Something that really grinds my gears.

A friend sent me a link to a website where they sell a game parents can order for their kids.

It features little plushy cryptids the parents can hide around the house so the kids can hunt the cryptids and collect them all.

Have you ever heard of anything so foolhardy?

Folks around these parts take cryptid sightings seriously.

We issue warnings for them.

If we're training our kids to think of cryptids as cute little characters worth hunting, well, we're gonna have a lot fewer kids around and plenty of fat cryptids with their bellies full of little Caitlins and Madisons.

Listeners, let me be frank.

Take cryptid warnings seriously.

There's a reason we have a dedicated network of cryptid reporters.

It's so we can warn people about how and where they can stay away from the danger of cryptids.

This ain't no game, folks.

Take us and our warnings to heart before yours gets ripped from your chest.

Now, here's a warning about the terrifying tales you're about to hear on the darkness of the night.

A new episode of the No Sleep Podcast.

A rustle of the leaves.

A fleeting movement at the edge of your vision.

How often have you walked a forest trail at dusk, only to feel the unmistakable sensation that something unseen is watching you?

For centuries, humans have populated the darkness with creatures of legend whose existence remains unproven, yet whose presence is undeniable in the whispered tales of those who dare venture too deep into the wild and wild.

Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast.

Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast.

I'm your host, David Cummings.

Have you ever visited our website over at thenosleeppodcast.com?

Near the top of the page, you'll read the following.

Warning.

This is a horror fiction podcast.

It is intended for mature adults, not the faint of heart.

Join us at your own risk.

It's funny to think that I wrote that way back in the earliest days of our show.

When it comes to horror, there's good reason to warn people about the content they could experience.

In the years that followed, we added trigger warnings.

Basically, it's our way of letting people know that if they choose to listen to our tales, they can expect to be frightened and disturbed.

And yet, you listen anyway.

And for that, we are eternally and infernally grateful.

We're taught from an early age to take warnings seriously.

The world is full of necessary things which exist for a purpose, but need to be used or implemented in the proper manner, lest harm come from any tomfoolery.

Think about warning labels on household cleaners, prescription drugs, solvents, power tools, etc.

Got to keep the kids safe.

Even adults need warning signs around high voltage lines, railroad crossings, and unsafe swimming areas.

You definitely don't want to go swimming across a train track carrying a high voltage line.

Imagine the warning sign for that.

On our episode this week, we offer a warning because our tales involve people who have been warned about potential dangers and they, in turn, chose chose not to heed those warnings.

And while it's true that their warnings weren't quite as unambiguous as a sign stating, say, stay out, killer grizzly bear beyond this fence, the people still had their chance to avoid the danger, the horror.

And we'll leave it up to your horror-listening pleasure to find out if they ended up safe or rather unsafe.

So consider yourself warned.

If you choose to listen to this or any of our episodes, you are deciding to expose yourself to the horror.

So yes, we invite you to tune in and turn on, but our motto remains the same today and forevermore.

Brace yourself for our sleepless tales.

In our first tale, We meet a mom who has been awoken by a nightmare.

But not just any nightmare.

One that has racked her whole body and mind with fear for her son.

And in this tale, shared with us from the Lost Library, she tries to be thankful that the nightmare existed only in her mind.

Surely it wasn't some kind of warning.

Performing this tale is Danielle McRae.

So as much as we encourage sleepless, fear-filled nights, you really should try to be asleep at 2.27 a.m.

My eyes shot open, the nightmare having woke me up.

A nightmare about my son.

I took in a deep, stuttering breath that soon turned into a fit of coughing

as it caught in my throat.

My head swam as I reeled from the pain of my illness and the effects of the awful nightmares they worked in tandem to rip me away from my sleep.

I stiffly sat up,

my nose a stuffy mess as I looked around the room.

All was still in the moonlit summer night.

Until I broke into another coughing fit that threatened to expel my lungs.

I flung myself back into my bed.

My head hitting my moist pillow.

Causing me to sit back up in disgust and turn it over.

That's when I felt it.

A feeling that something was wrong.

Very wrong.

Goosebumps broke out on my skin as I looked around the room.

My dulled senses on full alert.

My ears popped when I flexed my jaw.

A habit I had developed when I was trying to figure something out.

Nothing looked out of place.

I couldn't shake the feeling of something missing.

Gingerly, I swung my feet off the bed.

Putting on my slippers and meekly standing up.

I groaned as I placed my palm to my forehead and nearly lost my balance.

My head pounded for a moment before settling down.

After regaining my composure,

I slowly walked to my bedroom door.

Toby!

That feeling was stronger now.

Something was very wrong.

I just knew it.

My maternal instincts kicked in as I remembered the nightmare.

I needed to know my son was okay.

I listened, popping my ears again as I flexed my jaw.

No response.

Only silence.

That wasn't right.

I should have been able to hear him moving around in his room and talking to himself like he usually did when he stargazed.

I shuffled my way to my bedroom's open doorway, leaning on the doorframe before calling out again.

Louder, this time.

Toby!

Nothing.

After some time, I pushed forward into the hallway, leaning against the wall for support.

My throat felt parched and itchy as I realized I hadn't drunk any water in a while.

Ignoring the discomfort in my throat, I shuffled my way down the hall towards Toby's room.

Toby?

Still no answer.

After a few moments, I reached his door and knocked,

calling out his name once more before twisting the knob and letting myself in.

The room stood empty before me.

The lamp on his desk, the only source of light in the entire room.

An alarm clock next to it reading, 2.30.

Toby,

the feeling of something amiss now twisted into a knot of dread in my stomach.

I looked to the big picture window.

Toby's telescope pointed to the sky above the forest outside.

A mountain range far in the the distance.

Next to it, on the floor, lay his sky journal, as he put it.

A spiral-bound notebook where he recorded his nightly observations.

My little astronomer, I like to call him.

A memory flashed in my mind.

The two of us sitting at the kitchen table as he gushed about his latest stargazing adventure.

I'd smiled smiled as I sipped my tea,

looking over the rim of my cup at his gentle face.

Lost in the wonder of his own world.

Suddenly, my smartphone rang, and I apologized as I answered.

He'd looked disappointed for a moment before he smiled and picked up his notebook.

Getting up from the table, quietly, he approached me and whispered, I'll tell you about the lights later, mom, before leaving his room.

Something itched in the back of my mind as the memory faded and I made my way into his room.

I slowly approached the telescope, bending down to pick up the notebook.

My congestion made it feel like my brain was about to spill out.

But I succeeded in retrieving his sky journal from the floor.

The page was open, and I saw saw his hastily scrawled handwriting.

1.06 a.m.

The lights are above the mountain tonight.

They haven't moved since my last report.

It looks as though two of them have split off from the main objective and are circling the area as though looking for something.

I wonder what it is.

1.22 a.m.

The lights have rejoined and are now moving slowly across the sky.

Occasionally disappearing altogether.

They're heading in a southbound direction towards the canyon.

Perhaps they're attracted to Mr.

Murphy's flock.

1.27 a.m.

The lights have stopped moving.

They're now just hovering in place over the canyon.

1.32 a.m.

The lights have disappeared.

I tried refocusing the telescope and scanning over the horizon.

But I can't make out anything.

That might be it for tonight.

2.18 a.m.

I was about to head to bed, thinking that was the last of the lights for tonight.

But they have reappeared.

Resuming observations.

2.22 a.m.

The lights are moving in a northward direction, away from the canyon.

I wonder what that little trip was all about.

2.23 a.m.

The lights have stopped.

They're hovering in place again.

But not over the canyon.

They're hovering over the forest.

There's something different about this.

Almost as if they're considering something.

2.25 a.m.

The lights are getting bigger and brighter.

I can make out the main object better now.

It looks like a pill.

It's heading this way.

I'm going to dim the lights.

2.27 a.m.

The lights are about...

The page flapped in my face.

A cool breeze starting up from seemingly nowhere.

I turned around, surveying the room once more.

It was then then that I noticed something I didn't before.

A small scattering of shattered glass near the foot of Toby's bed, sitting in a small pool of moonlight.

Slowly, I approached the mess,

my heart skipping a beat in my chest as I neared.

Dread building up even more in my system as scenes from my nightmare flashed in my head.

Everything's alright.

Toby just dropped a glass.

The moonlight poured out from above, lighting the glass shards up, sparkling like stars on the floor.

A breeze came again, pushing my hair in my face.

I brushed it away and looked up.

I screamed.

Toby loved astronomy and had always wanted to look at the night sky at any given opportunity.

He loved it so much that I had a skylight installed in his room.

My little astronomer.

Sometimes I would find him lying on the floor, staring up through it at night, yearning to touch the stars.

I looked at that same skylight now.

broken open

the jagged edges of glass dripping crimson Tears formed in my eyes as I looked at the frame where bloody handprints lay, smeared upward,

as if my son,

my Toby,

had been dragged up into the night sky.

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Now, back to WNSP's presentation of the No Sleep Podcast.

There are people who seek to learn more about the Great Beyond and those already there, and they do so by turning to mediums, those who claim to look into other dimensions of time and space.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Callum Gracie, we meet a man who says he's a medium, and if he's a fraud, it may turn out to be the least of his sins.

Performing this tale are David Ault, Erika Sanderson, and Ash Millman.

So be skeptical of what you might be told in the reading room.

I place my hands flat on the table.

She does the same.

Spirits,

be here in this place with us.

Come to me, speak through me.

Here, where the veil between life and death is thinnest, I will be your ears and your eyes and your tongue.

Spirits, we are not afraid.

We would hear whatever message you might have.

For life and death are two halves of a coin that has been flipped and is still tumbling and spinning through the air.

All I would ask is that you you reach out and catch that coin and deliver your message for

Laura?

Yes, Laura.

I am your servant in this world and though I carry the torments of a thousand spiritual messages in my heart, I will deliver them.

Spirits,

do you have a message for us?

The usual drivel seems to work.

Laura's eyes are big with the ooh and ah of it all.

It helps that the candle on the table wobbles and flickers at just the right moment.

It took me a long time to learn how to throw my breath like that to disturb the flame, but well worth it.

It really sets the mood and saw a big spike in online subscribers.

I go to work.

I struggle to find Laura, she did say that was her name, on any social media or in any newspapers, so I'm going to have to put the hard yards in for this one.

Let's see.

She's 36, according to her booking form, and her face is weighed down with grief, but not pain.

She's a chunky lady, so whoever it is that's kicked the bucket, it wasn't devastating enough to keep her off the sponge cakes.

I rule out a child, it's someone older.

I draw a deep breath in and try to get a scent.

Maybe a hint of cigarette smoke.

I smile at her, showing my teeth, and she mirrors me, exposing exposing greeny-yellow teeth.

Smoker, definitely learned behavior.

I'm getting an older person coming through.

The slightest nod of her head.

She won't even realize she's doing it.

And he's a man.

You haven't lost your father, have you?

She shakes her head.

No, he's showing me a man and then another man, so this must be your grandfather.

Bingo.

Tears touch the corner of her eyes.

He's showing me broad shoulders.

He was a big chap, yes, yes.

And I can see a letter

J,

J, Jack, John.

John?

His name was Thomas John.

But those closest called him John.

I steal those words from her mouth.

She gasps stupidly.

God, I'm good.

She dabs the tears away, and I can't help but think she's almost pretty.

Almost.

On another day, I might have invited her to one of my special after-hours readings.

Focus, focus.

She's playing with a ring on her finger, and it's an old piece, but well looked after.

An engagement ring that wouldn't have looked out of place amongst the wreck of the Titanic, but

she wears it on her right hand.

The answers form like silk spun by a busy little spider.

I touch her hand.

He says he's okay.

He's with grandma now.

Ooh, yes.

Lucy or Laura or whatever she's called is really bawling now.

I hand her a tissue.

He's asking if you're wearing your grandmother's engagement ring.

She snorts and snots in a very unattractive way into the tissue and nods.

I put it on special for today.

Yes.

John's telling me he can remember the day he gave it to her.

Shit.

I've run out of steam.

This happens sometimes.

I haven't been thinking far enough ahead.

I need to recover and quick.

Uh.

He says he's glad it went to you.

She nods happily.

That tells me something.

What?

What?

Uh, siblings, of course.

Uh, brothers, sisters, or both.

Hmm.

She's tomboyish in her nature.

Short hair that she keeps short on purpose.

Very little makeup.

She might be one of those love yourself are all beautiful morons, but I don't think so, no.

She's big because she's had to keep up with the rowdy lads in the house, and that means

you don't have a brother, do you?

She nods.

And he's named after John.

She nods.

He says he always thought of himself as having two grandsons, the way you two used to fight.

She is shaken to the core.

I was lucky there.

The phrasing wasn't right.

Too closed, too restricted.

I'm getting rusty.

I'm walking on a tightrope, and I could fall at any moment.

God, the thrill of it all.

Calm down, calm down.

Work to do yet.

Something else.

Grandparents, close relationship, engagement ring.

The ring.

Why does she have it?

Two possibilities.

Her own mother is dead or she's not on the scene.

I prefer that she's just not around.

If Lauren or whatever had a mother who'd been around, she might have taken a bit more pride in her appearance.

She might have popped a bit of makeup on and combed her hair for this reading.

I'm the great Roger Moonshade, for goodness sake.

He's showing me another man on his own.

Mum left dad when I was three.

Oh, she's just serving it up now.

She'll forget she's the one that said that, especially when I repeat it back to her in a minute.

Oh, Too easy.

I wonder if I could invite her to another reading for the mother on another night, if I told her to keep it secret.

And now,

John is showing me that dad worked, worked all the time to raise you and your brother.

He had to work because mum left when you were three, didn't she?

Yes, I thought so.

And I can see you going around to your granddad's house after school.

He did most of the childcare, didn't he?

She's gasping and choking.

Tears streak her face, and she wipes them away with the corner of the snotty tissue.

It feels good providing comfort the way I do.

Oh, shit.

What was her name again?

Um,

Laura?

Yes.

Phew.

John wants you to forgive your dad.

It wasn't easy for him going to work all the time.

Will you do that for John?

Will you forgive him?

She frowns, but I'm not concerned.

I have her.

She is my plaything.

I...

I've never blamed dad.

Not to your dad's face, no, but John's showing me something.

I close my eyes.

Your heart.

Deep in your heart, resentment.

He says you should let it go.

She sits with that one, thinks on it, then deflates right before me, slumps into herself with the weight of the truth I've just created.

My love, John has to go now.

I can feel him fading.

He leaves you with love and thanks for filling his heart.

Goodbye, Grandpa.

Intense.

I feel a funny swelling in my pants, and I'm desperate for a coin, just a little bump to keep the high going.

The end of the day can't come quick enough.

Thank you for coming, my love, and don't forget to share my page and subscribe if you haven't already.

She smiles and dabs at her reddened cheeks.

That was amazing.

She looks quite pretty as she smiles, warm and alluring, almost familiar to me.

I feel that I have simply been given a gift, and it's my job...

No.

My duty to share it with the world.

Laurie, what's her name, sighs?

Speaking of gifts, I had a feeling you might be able to give me what I needed.

So I brought a gift of my own.

For you.

She reaches beneath the table, and I catch sight of her cleavage.

Not bad.

She sits back up with a small, ornate wooden box that smells strongly of polish and glue.

Not the gift I've been hoping for.

Well, um, thanks very much.

I reach across the circular table for it, but she pulls it away just out of my reach.

I need you to understand something about this gift.

And what it means.

Oh, Christ, she's balmy.

She'll be stood outside my front gates holding a chicken head and drowning herself in blood next.

Look, I'm really busy.

I've got other people coming for readings.

I really appreciate the gift.

It's very nice.

If you just...

She holds up a finger, and I'm surprised to find myself completely silenced by her forcefulness.

You can have it.

But you need to open it now.

In front of me.

And you need to understand something about what will happen once you do open it.

Okay,

and what might that be?

I suspect she's flirting with me.

Once you open it, there'll be no undoing it.

And no taking it back.

There'll be no unknowing.

Unknowing?

Unknowing what?

The truth.

There's an answer in this box.

An answer to one question.

But you need to choose to ask it.

I sigh, very much fed up of her bullshit.

Right.

And what's the question that thing will answer?

The question that we've all asked at one point or another.

Is there life after death?

She's no longer a messy bother of a woman.

Confidence is booming from her in waves and I don't like it.

I already know the answer to that.

She shakes her head.

No.

You don't.

Don't get me wrong, you're good.

Really good.

When I pulled pulled all this together, presented myself to you this way, I had an idea in my head of what I wanted you to pick up on.

And you did.

You really did.

No wonder you're so popular.

But in here, there are real answers.

She taps the box, a chipped nail with flaking varnish making a pleasant clicking noise.

I think you should go.

Okay.

She cradles the box in her bosom.

The movement makes me lurch in my seat and the thought of not seeing that box again is suddenly unbearable.

I slap my hand on the table, and the still-burning candle flickers.

Wait,

just you stay there.

I.

I know you, don't I?

I've seen you before.

I'm sure of it now.

You've put a bit of weight on, no offense, but yes.

What is all this?

She smiles.

I was wondering when you'd remember me.

Yes, I saw you years ago.

When I was only 19.

I wait for the memory to come flooding back, but there are too many.

So,

what is this?

Unhappy with the reading or unhappy about other services rendered?

Oh, I really just want to let you see the truth.

If you'd only receive it.

I can hear the cat-like quality in her voice, but I take no notice.

My eyes are fixed on the box as it's cradled into her bust.

I click my fingers.

Let's save the games for later, shall we?

Give it here.

You want to receive the truth?

Yes, yes, the truth and all that.

Give it here.

She pushes the box across and I drag it towards me, surprised by how heavy it feels.

I set my fingers on either side of the lid and prepare to lift it.

Like this?

However you like to do it, it will work for me.

I roll my eyes.

Such a flirt.

I open the lid, peer inside, and am gripped by the unspeakable terror set on the bumpy red velvet lining.

My heart skips a dozen beats and curtains of cold sweat break out along my forehead, neck and shoulders.

I gasp and slam the box shut, breathless.

What the fuck is all this?

What was that?

I feel warm, sour breath on my neck that makes all my hair stand on end.

I nearly snap my spine turning to see who it is, who has snuck into my reading room.

But I stare at space empty but for the framed photograph of me giving a reading to David Beckham.

I shake my head, turn back.

A snapped neck, bulging eyes, a thick purple tongue poking out of a dead mouth, a taut noose stretching upwards into nothingness.

I shriek and jump from my seat, sending it skittering.

Snapping my eyes shut and slapping my face, I cower against the wall and try to collect my escaping breath.

When I look again, there is only the woman.

What did you do to me?

She shrugs.

I warned you.

Make it stop!

I told you.

Once you know, there's no unknowing.

I don't know anything!

Yes.

Yes, you do.

She clicks her fingers, and the candle extinguishes.

I close my eyes, and there's no difference in how dark it is.

I feel my way along the floor.

My hand touches a leg.

What are you doing?

I feel my way up the legs.

They feel sticky and wet, the skin hot and peeling.

I tremble and cry out when a hand that feels like it's nothing more than bone and clinging muscle caresses my face.

I scuttle back and reach out to find the wall, only to find a hand grips mine and helps me to my feet.

I feel a second hand pat my shoulder reassuringly.

I feel a third hand stroke my face.

I pull away and shove outwards into thin air.

Turn on the light, you stupid bitch!

That isn't what you called me last time.

So rude.

Her voice is layered like a broken recording.

Look, look, I remember you, okay?

If you just stop whatever is happening, I could usually settle these things by giving you a payout.

You don't always settle things by paying, though, do you?

No.

Sometimes they won't be bought, will they?

Sometimes they threaten the police, and then that's when you get really nasty.

How does she know about all this?

Who has she been speaking to?

Turn on the lights!

I'm surrounded by fly-covered corpses suspended from the air.

I've landed in a bloody abattoir of my own conquests, thick like a dense forest.

I recognize most of them.

Some have slit wrists and exposed hearts, and some have underwear.

My underwear, balled up and shoved down their stupid accusing throats.

Some of them are younger than I remember.

One in particular, what was her name?

She told me she was 16 and I believed her.

Was it my fault she was 14?

Was it my fault she was threatening the police?

What was her name?

She's hanging with the rest of them, but she's bloated from green canal water.

The stench is overpowering.

Vomit works its way to the back of my throat.

I bawl up and cover my ears.

None of this was my fault.

And then I feel the rage well up and jam in my throat.

I seem to remember you were pretty fucking happy.

I haven't paid for the taxi.

How dare you?

I gave you everything you needed and this is how you repay me.

Turn it off.

Turn it all off.

I slam my head into the wall and floating orbs flash before my eyes.

I pour at them, my hands sailing through empty air.

Nothing there.

I stand, shaking.

The room is empty.

The door is open.

The box is still on the table, closed.

The smell of glue is overpowering.

Is it glue?

Relief floods me.

That

stupid woman had obviously rigged the box with something, something noxious, some gas or something.

Can you make a vapor out of LSD?

I bet you can.

All to get back at me.

Fucking bitch!

How did she know it was me?

i try to remember if i drugged her or just brute forced the whole thing i can't remember well it doesn't matter now if she thinks she's going to get a confession out of me or any hush money now she can think again there's an etiquette a process for such things a dance we dance

she doesn't know who she's with i swam out of the door and into the waiting room It is full of people, all waiting for spiritual healing.

They're shocked.

I realize I'm all flustered and sweaty, and a bruise is already swelling up where I slammed my head into the wall.

I compose myself and put my hands out in a way that says everything is okay.

Spirits are having a rough day, as all.

Rebecca, my receptionist, cries out.

Sir, your face.

What's happened?

I've just been attacked.

Pull that woman's details up.

The woman I've just seen, Lauren, something.

She's probably run right past you.

I'm gonna report her to the police.

Sir?

I smile through gritted teeth.

Rebecca, there's a room full of customers here.

Why don't you just pull up the record, get me her details, and help me report it to the police?

Hmm?

Rebecca frowns and looks at the customers.

I beam in an effort to keep the room calm.

Don't look at them, look at me.

My one o'clock Lauren or Laura something, the woman who has just stormed out of here.

She's attacked me and left evidence behind of her efforts to drug me.

She probably wanted to kill me.

Now, help me

out.

Your one o'clock?

She types quickly, dumbly looking at her screen.

Oh, what a moron.

Yes?

Laura Alke?

Could be.

Sounds right.

She, yes.

She'll have left her phone number, her email address.

Rebecca is shaking as she types and looks at the screen.

So you want a clock didn't show up?

My stomach drops clear of my body and the world folds away.

Come again?

The booking for one, Laura Alka, didn't show up.

Her brother phoned this morning to cancel.

I told you.

He said his sister had killed herself, said she'd she'd hanged herself.

I tried to convince him to make a booking with you to get a message from her.

The waiting room shifts and dissolves and swells.

Did I do a bump this morning?

I don't think I did, but Rebecca looks so worried and she's glancing around nervously.

Maybe I did.

Suddenly, the room shifts back into focus, blurry edges dissolving into crystal clear, high definition.

There are eyes on me, and I see myself as I must look to them, a raving lunatic who claims to speak to the spirits.

I dab my forehead with my sleeve.

Sorry, Rebecca.

I think I've been working too much.

Perhaps it would be better if I took a break.

Rebecca nods quickly, too quickly for my liking.

I'll deal with that later.

I turn to the room and hope my voice doesn't crack.

I am sorry if I've upset any of you.

It can be hard speaking to the spirits.

The strain on the mind and the

soul is really hard.

I'm really sorry to let you all down, but I will have to cancel today's readings.

Now, calm down.

You will all get a full refund and you'll get priority booking.

Please.

Please leave, and Rebecca here will be back in touch.

Thank you.

Sir?

Yes, Rebecca.

Who are you speaking to?

Why, I'm speaking to all the

my waiting room is full of bodies.

All look at me hungrily.

Nooses dangle around their necks.

More corpses hang from the ceiling like sides of meat stuck by iron hooks.

Warm, wet, spreading down my trousers and trickling out of the bottom onto the flooring.

Oh, God.

Sir, sir, sir, you're...

Rebecca, no calls.

No bookings.

Nothing.

Do you understand?

I don't wait for her answer.

I turn, shifting uncomfortably in my sticky, wet clothing, and head back towards my reading room.

On the other side of the closed door, I can hear chaos, a storm of whispers and noises, and screams and laughs.

and the crunching of dreams crushed under heavy feet.

I shake.

I rest my ear against the door and close my eyes, bizarrely relieved at the way the wood cools my searing face.

I gasp.

The words seep through to me.

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Together, they uncover the truth about Joshua's place in an ancient prophecy.

Each perilous step of their journey is guided by Virginia's haunting visions while Belle's forces close in, threatening to tear their world apart.

As natural disasters erupt, Virginia must embrace her role as both mother and chosen protector.

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If you want to be an on-air news person, you have to do things that make you stand out.

Like Harriet.

She works in news, but mostly behind-the-scenes stuff.

until she gets the chance to prove her worth.

And in this tale, shared with us by author Frank Orrito, despite the warnings and risks, she heads off with a cameraman to report on an impending huge hurricane, and she meets a group of people who, oddly enough, are prepared to ride out the storm.

Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas, Dan Zapula, Aaron Lillis, Graham Rowett, Jesse Cornett, and Mary Murphy.

So tune in, turn on, and oh wait, I've already said that.

Get ready to watch the reports live from the end of the world.

Highway 28 vanishes and reappears as the windshield wipers fight a losing battle against Hurricane Francis.

This storm is my big chance.

I only hope I live through it.

The news ban hydroplanes hydroplanes for a heart-sickening moment.

Then, the tires catch asphalt again.

Maybe this wasn't my best idea.

Pete, my cameraman, sits hunkered low behind the van's steering wheel.

Eyes slit, chin jutting forward in concentration.

He shakes his head.

You wanted to be in front of the camera.

Now you will be.

Though I still don't know why.

Behind the camera is where the action is, and you're good at it.

Everybody needs a dream, Pete.

I started working for WRBC a year ago.

My communications degree still warm.

I rose rapidly from intern to assistant producer.

My coverage of the Hanson High Lunch Lady Strike was even up for a Murrow Award.

But they never put me in front of the camera.

And despite all my achievements behind the scenes, in front of that camera is where I want to be.

When other girls were dancing around their room singing Katy Perry songs, I read news articles into a hairbrush microphone in my best anchor woman's voice.

Strong and confident, speaking truth to a world hungry for answers.

I never lost that little girl's dream.

But desire and good elocution aren't enough.

At least not for the management of WRBC.

You have to look the part.

At almost six feet tall, thick features and hair that frizzes at the barest hint of humidity, I do not.

Then came Hurricane Francis.

Standing in gale-force wind and rain was the one on-air opportunity no one wanted.

No one but me, Harriet Connors.

The wipers swish, and suddenly we're out of the rain.

A battering gust of wind reminds us this is still a hurricane.

But at least we can see now.

Dare Cove, with its barbecue joints, bars, and beach shops, stretches out before us under a dark and menacing sky.

The roads, usually bumper-to-bumper with beach traffic, hold only rolling garbage cans and whirling dervishes of paper and plastic.

Pete steers the van straight down the main drag, past plywood-covered windows and empty parking lots.

A few hundred yards from where the boardwalk gives way to sand dunes, I shout for him to stop.

In the distance are half a dozen news vans.

Shit.

This isn't going to work.

I refuse to be just another reporter shouting over the wind.

All right, Pete.

Change of plans.

We got 30 minutes before your first live feed.

I don't know if there's time for plan changes.

I have an idea.

Why settle for being meteorological comedy relief?

Give the viewers a story instead.

Turn around.

I think I saw an open bar a ways back.

We talking interview?

Yeah.

The human spirit undaunted in the face of nature's fury.

You mean people too stupid to get out of town?

It might do, if they're characters.

I think it was called Castaway?

The getaway.

Pete is already putting the van through a three-point turn.

Yeah, I saw a couple of cars parked out front.

And the sign was lit up.

You sure?

Not at all.

Definitely.

A minute later, we pull into the getaway's small gravel lot.

I let out a sigh of relief at the glow of neon in the windows.

Pete grabs his camera and equipment bag.

They'll be drunk off their asses, you know.

It'll be great.

I walk up to the bar's porch, wrestle the door open against the wind, and step inside.

I'm sorry, but we're closed.

The woman speaking is thickly built and looks to be in her mid-40s.

She wears a too small getaway t-shirt and clutches a smoldering cigarette.

I've handled reluctant interviewees before.

I walk to the bar and launch into my spiel.

So, you've decided to tough out the storm?

Looks like a great place to do it.

Actually, the getaway stinks of spilt beer and shrimp boil and looks abandoned.

And graffiti, like something off a Black Sabbath album, has been scrawled all over the floor.

A middle-aged couple sits at the only upright table, sharing a bottle.

The man is dressed in a Western suit, complete with bolo tie and 10-gallon Stetson.

The woman wears a sequined gown.

Well, I wanted characters.

The woman behind the bar narrows her eyes.

You're from the TV, aren't you?

I can hear hear Pete pushing his way in, no doubt his camera already on his shoulder.

Yes, we are.

I'm Harriet Connors from WRBC News, and I'd like to tell your story to the world.

I extend a hand to the bartender.

And your name is?

The woman ignores my handshake.

The name's Wanda Reed, and I ain't no looter.

I shake my head.

Of course not.

I know how it looks, but Billy Simmons gave me the key.

He said since I was staying, I might as well keep an eye on the place.

On On account, I've been ten bar here the better part of 10 years.

That is so interesting, Wanda.

Do you mind if I have Pete here film our conversation?

I gestured toward Pete and his camera.

Wanda seems to think it over.

Fine, go ahead.

So long as you know we ain't breaking the law by being here.

The couple at the table drink and watch Pete set up.

Wanda offers me a cigarette, which I politely refuse.

All right, I'm going to say a few words just to set levels.

With Pete ready, I take my position in the shot.

This is Harriet Connors, coming to you from the getaway lounge in Dare Cove, North Carolina, as Hurricane Francis...

The doors open, letting in a howl of wind along with a muscular man dressed in jeans and a leather biking vest.

The man shakes rain from his untidy mullet and glares around the bar.

What the hell, Wanda?

In four long strides, he reaches Pete and lands a looping hook to the side of his head.

Pete goes down, hard, turning instinctively to protect his camera.

The biker brings up his other hand, and I find myself looking into the barrel of a very large handgun.

Roy!

You goddamn idiot!

The biker gestures with the gun.

Get on the floor!

I kneel awkwardly, my hands still raised.

Come on, Wanda.

The time draws nigh and all that shit.

It's zero hour, baby.

He keeps the gun pointed in my direction, but doesn't object when I crawl to where Pete is laying.

Ain't no time for strangers to be dropping in.

Wanda shakes her head.

Here's what was about to happen, Roy.

I tell Harriet over there how my granddad survived Hurricane Hazel back in 54, alone on his shrimp boat.

Give her all the goddamn local color she can stand, then she and the fellow with the camera go away.

Do you know why that plan won't work now?

Roy blushes as if in answer.

That plan won't work because you came in all captain badass, hidden people and pointing guns.

Pete gives me a weak thumbs up.

I'm okay.

He gets to his knees and examines the camera.

Roy's gun is still out, but pointed only at the oddly decorated floor.

So what do we do with them?

The older couple walks over.

The man in the suit holding his bottle of gin, words dripping from his mouth in an unhurried, low-country brogue.

Oh,

why not let them watch?

Film it even.

They could interview us before the ceremony.

A kind of a keepsake video of what we were like before we became lords of the earth.

I'm ready to jump at any opportunity, even one from an obviously insane person.

We'd be honored to record your event, wouldn't we, Pete?

Pete rubs his jaw.

Sure.

The woman in the sequent gown ignores us.

If they act up, Roy can always shoot them.

Roy's eyes are riveted on Wanda.

It's obvious who's in charge.

You think I should just shoot him now?

Wanda comes out from around the bar.

Put the gun away, Roy, and help that fella up.

She reaches a hand out to me.

I'm sorry about that.

I stand.

Wanda holds on a moment longer, as if to make sure I'm steady on my feet.

Listen, I know you think we're crazy, and that's fine.

But we're gonna need you to stay here with us until we perform our little ceremony.

And become lords of the earth?

I think Roy might hit Pete again.

The man nods so hard, his mullet bounces.

You got it, mister.

Sorry about the punch.

I get a little excited sometimes.

We have around 15 minutes before we get started.

You can interview Roy and the boars.

I think they'd like that after keeping things secret so long.

Or you can get drunk.

Just don't try to leave.

And don't mess with the ceremony, because I will shoot you dead.

What about afterwards?

Wanda gives me a sad little smile.

Afterwards,

nothing much you do will matter.

Me first.

Roy runs a hand through his greasy black hair.

I'm ready for my close-up.

Pete hoists his camera.

Could you step back a couple of feet, please?

Roy shifts position.

Yeah, that's good.

I pass a wireless mic to Roy.

I don't even know what questions to ask.

Better you just tell your story in your own way.

Hell yeah.

Me and Juana, we get the whole Western Hemisphere.

Roy scrunches up his face in concentration, but can't find the rest of the word.

We get America and all them Mexican countries.

I'm only half listening, my mind searching for a way out.

I go behind the bar and peruse bottles.

Maybe I could start a fire with one?

Cause a diversion.

I pick up a bottle of vodka marked 95 proof in proud red letters.

You gonna drink that straight?

Might as well let Roy shoot you.

She reaches over the counter and pulls out two tumblers.

There's OJ in the cooler behind you.

I get the orange juice.

A moment later, two screwdrivers sit on the bar.

Here's to the end.

Wanda lifts her tumbler.

Before I can raise my own drink, Roy's angry voice splits the air.

You think I'm funny?

The gun is still tucked in Roy's waistband, but his hand rests on the grip.

Whoa!

I put my hands up.

Hey, he didn't mean anything.

Roy turns to me.

You think I'm funny, too?

I shake my head.

I didn't even hear what you said.

I was just saying, huh?

When Wanda and me start running things, we're gonna move to that castle in Orlando.

My mind blinks for a moment.

Then, I get it.

The Disney World Castle?

Why not?

Don't we deserve to live in the happiest place on Earth?

No, that's a great choice.

And you'll have the rides, you know, if you get bored.

Roy glares back at Pete.

See?

She gets it!

Wanda picks my glass up off the bar.

Have a drink, Roy, and calm your ass down.

Roy bristles for a moment, then takes the drink.

Fine.

The older couple crowds into Pete's shot, anxious to take their turn.

I think these journalists want a more holistic version of our story.

Well, TikTok, Jerry, we ain't got all day.

Jerry pushes back his silver Stetson.

I'm aware of the timing.

After all, I created the ceremony.

He turns to face the camera.

My wife and I have been students of the occult for decades.

Him and Cheryl teach English at Beaumont High.

Roy doesn't blow a second raspberry, but his tone implies one.

Pete adjusts his frame to include the conversations back and forth.

Of which you were a poor pupil, Roy Swofford.

Our true stories are of a more esoteric nature.

Are you familiar with Frasier's Golden Bough?

Jung, Joseph Campbell.

Cheryl's eyes are glassy with gin and zealotry.

The convergence of humanity's mythologies, both greater and lesser, hint at a great coming.

Not some banal messianic savior.

But something beyond mere godhood.

An entity truly worthy of worship.

So when when Wanda's gift showed her the arrival of this dread divinity, Jerry and I were well prepared to help fling open the gates and take our reward.

Weren't we, dear?

Jerry nods, speaking with the fervor of a country minister.

Wanda was blessed above all mankind, chosen by this God of gods to be its ambassador over the earth.

With the help, of course, of three trusted lieutenants.

He gestures to himself and his wife.

She chose well,

for the most part.

Wanda Reed?

I give Wanda a closer look.

Flight 109, Wanda Reed?

The plane crash had been big news two years ago.

120 people lost.

A smaller story had made the rounds also.

This one about a North Carolina bartender who had called the airline numerous times, warning them to not let Flight 109 leave the ground.

Yeah, that was me.

Didn't do no good.

Tried to warn them, but they wouldn't listen.

Nobody wants to hear bad news.

Well, after today, every damnbody's gonna listen to you, Wanda.

Wanda finishes off the last of her drink, then leans forward and gives Roy a lingering kiss.

Let's get her done.

Ow!

Disney World, baby!

I step over to Pete.

Did you get all that?

Yeah, I got it.

Crazy, but kind of compelling, too, right?

I'm already editing segments in my mind.

Maybe I could make a documentary.

Netflix would kill for something like this.

That is, if we survive.

The would-be rulers of the Earth arrange themselves on the floor's strange design.

Jerry and Cheryl stand hand-in-hand in a large circle near the entrance, Wanda and Roy in their own circle near the bar.

Y'all stand over there where I can see him.

Roy gestures to a spot halfway down the left wall.

His other hand pats the butt of his gun.

When we reach our places, Pete adjusts the camera, panning across the floor, then from one couple to the other.

Finally, he focuses in on Wanda and Roy.

We have to go.

I'm almost regretful, but I really don't want to be around when the miraculous event these loons are hoping for fails to take place.

I put a hand on Pete's arm.

He gives me an annoyed glance.

I've seen it before.

The lens gives some cameramen a sense of detachment to the point of foolhardiness.

I lean in.

We have to make a run for it.

Pete nods toward Roy.

The biker will shoot us.

As if on cue, Roy opens his mouth and sings what sounds like Latin to the tune of the Lion King's circle of life.

He isn't bad.

I speak a little louder as Wanda and the Deboors add their voices to Roy's.

We run for the old couple by the door.

Roy won't risk shooting them and spoiling his precious ceremony.

I don't think he's that thoughtful.

You want to wait around for the human sacrifice portion of the show?

All right.

Just give me the word.

I take one last look toward Wanda and Roy.

The gun is still tucked in Roy's two tight pants.

I shift my gaze and find myself eye to eye with Wanda.

Wanda looks to the doors, then back at me.

Shit, she knows.

I run away.

Go, go, go!

Pete goes, shifting the camera from his shoulder to use it as a club if needed.

The singing stops, and everything seems to go into slow motion.

The Deboors hunker down like elderly defensive linemen, blocking the door.

Behind me, the pistol roars.

My feet tangle and I go down in a heap.

I wait for the next shot, but that shot never comes.

Roy, the would-be ruler of the Magic Kingdom, lays on the ground, blood pouring from what's left of his head.

Wanda holds the gun in a shooter's crouch, aiming in my direction.

A crunching noise comes from the doors as Pete slams his camera into the side of Jerry DeBoer's head.

The old man steps and flies across the room as he topples.

The pistol rings out again, and a red flower of blood blossoms on Cheryl

chest.

The English teacher looks at the wound, her eyes full of surprise and betrayal, then falls to the floor.

Pete reaches the doors, but they won't open.

I run to his side, adding my own strength to his effort.

Watch out!

Jerry DeBoers has gained his feet and is staggering toward us.

Then, the back of Jerry's head explodes in a geyser of blood and bone.

We turn to face Wanda, our backs to the unyielding doors.

Screw it.

There's an almost imperceptible electric whine as Pete turns the camera back on and presses his eye to the viewfinder.

The gun is in Wanda's hand, but not aimed at us.

You have to slide the deadbolt.

What?

The door.

It's got a floor-mounted deadbolt.

Wanda gestures to the bodies of her friends.

Truth is, they're better off this way.

Pete lowers his camera and examines the door.

I hear a bolt slide, followed by a blast of cold wind.

I tear my gaze from Wanda and step outside.

Pete is already unlocking the van.

A moment later, the engine starts, and he leans on the horn.

I don't move.

The passenger side window slides down.

Come on, we're out of here.

I shake my head.

I need to talk to Wanda.

Pete launches himself out of the idling van and runs to where I stand.

He looks ready to drag me back by force.

It's time to go, now.

Wanda steps out of the bar.

Instead of a gun, she carries the bottle of gin the Deboers had been drinking.

I stare at Pete.

Get your camera.

Shit.

Pete turns and goes back to the van.

Fine, but I'm calling 911.

Wanda sits down on the step and takes a long pull from the bottle.

I approach slowly, as if Wanda is a dog that might bite.

But the woman doesn't look dangerous any longer, only tired.

People don't like bad news.

And that's all I ever gave them.

Why did you kill them, Wanda?

Roy liked you.

Seemed to me he loved you.

Tears run down Wanda's cheeks.

Roy.

Roy was an idiot.

But he could be sweet.

She takes another swig of gin.

Thank God, he was gonna sack.

Killing him.

All of them.

That was a mercy.

Pete has the camera up on his shoulder again.

I'm sorry, Wanda.

I don't understand.

The whole thing was bullshit.

That I did get.

You mean your predictions?

The coming of the.

What had Cheryl DeBorse called it?

The dread divinity?

They were my only friends.

I've had the sight my whole life, but I only ever see bad things.

I try to warn people.

You'd think folks would be grateful, but they just hate you for it.

So, when I saw the end,

I figured why not try to dress things up a little.

Nothing to lose, right?

The end of what?

Wanda looks up to the sky, then at me.

Don't ask me to describe it.

You'll find out soon enough.

But it's all over, right?

You stopped the ceremony.

No, I told you the ceremony was bullshit.

I knew the Deboors were into the whole spooky magic thing.

So I told them what I'd seen, but I made it sexy.

You told them they would be kings of the world?

Yeah.

I said I'd been chosen to run the earth, and they were supposed to help me.

And Roy?

Wanda smiles a little through her tears.

My beautiful Thomas.

He believed anything I told him.

Should have heard him talking about bossing mankind around from our thrones in Orlando.

You know, I didn't even mention a ceremony.

Jerry and Cheryl just assumed we had to have one.

The three of us stand in silence for a moment while the wind batters us with stinging bursts of cold rain.

I should have shot you like I did them.

It would have been kinder.

All right, that's enough.

But I only lean closer.

Wanda, the world isn't ending.

This is only a storm.

A bad one, but still, just a storm.

As the last word leaves my mouth, A peal of faraway thunder splits the air.

Instead of fading, the thunder morphs into something something more resonant.

Something between a choir of steeple bells and radiostatic turned all the way up.

The strange noise grows louder.

But that's not right.

Bigger, not louder.

Like God's version of a stage whisper.

So big I feel myself bending beneath the weight of it all.

Then, the noise stops.

Without even an echo.

Wanda,

what was that?

I follow her gaze upward.

Red fissures appear in the slate-gray sky.

The fissures spider web out in crazy, jagged patterns like cracks in a mirror.

The cracks grow until they stretch from horizon to horizon.

Through it all, the world remains quiet but for the wind's low and constant moan.

This is the fact I can't get past.

How can the sky shatter above my head and not make a goddamn sound?

Wanda takes another swig of gin.

Go ahead and blame me if you like.

People always do.

What's happening, Wanda?

Wanda shakes her head.

Let's just say

nobody's going to Disney World.

She's nuts.

Pete pulls the camera from his shoulder and points a finger at Wanda.

You're a psycho.

Come on, Harriet.

Let's go.

The police can deal with her if the storm doesn't.

I'm about to head to the van when Wanda puts a hand on my arm.

I saw you, you know,

on the beach.

What?

In my vision.

I watched you on TV.

Everybody did.

The whole world was watching you right up to the end.

The whole world was watching.

I stare up at the shattered heavens.

The rain falling on my face is warm now.

and smells strangely metallic.

Come on, Harriet.

I need to do a live live feed.

What?

No, we're leaving.

I shake my head.

The freaking sky broke, Pete.

We can't outrun this.

Pete only stares at me, his eyes begging me to join him in denial.

The feed won't even work.

Everything will be too jammed.

I shake my head.

The broadcast will go through.

Wanda saw it happen.

I take out my phone.

There's still two bars of service.

This is Harriet.

I don't have to shout.

The wind is dying off.

Yeah, I saw the sky.

I know what's causing it.

I look at Pete as I speak.

We're heading to the beach now.

We'll need to go live in.

Pete shakes his head and sighs.

10, maybe 15 minutes to get there and set up.

He looks at Wanda.

That's too long?

Wanda's gaze gets far away for a moment.

Then she blinks.

Should be about right.

I relay the timing to the station and pocket the phone.

Pete tilts his head toward the bar.

You know, we don't have to go.

15 minutes is time enough for a few drinks, maybe a phone call to your folks.

Or yours.

But what would I say?

I see Pete thinking the same thing.

You know, I always wanted to be in front of the camera.

Live, breaking the big story.

Pete nods.

I guess it doesn't get bigger than this.

What channel?

News9 out of Salem.

Wanda turns and walks back toward the bar.

I'll be watching.

On the beach, I help set up the equipment.

The other news vans are gone.

Either they'd been evacuated earlier or took off when the sky broke.

An ABC affiliate left a remote camera behind.

Pete smashes it with a piece of driftwood.

Our shot.

Nobody else's.

Mike in hand, I stare out to sea.

The shattered sky stretches over a black ocean as still as pond water.

The wind and rain are gone.

The world's silent, holding its breath.

I'm ready when you are, Harriet.

I wait, staring out at a vista that already looks alien.

My dream of addressing the world from in front of a camera seems small in the face of this approaching end.

But the dream is still there, and I'm glad.

From the flat black waters rises rises a mountain of shifting flesh, the color of rainbows that had died and gone rancid.

In that flesh, vast, tumorous eyes bubble into existence, swelling huge as they gaze on the world, then bursting with a waterfall of icor as more rise to the surface.

Canyon-sized fissures, mouths, those are mouths, gape wide, offering glimpses into an abyss full of shape and substance my brain refuses to even try to understand.

I turn away before my mind can shake loose from its moorings.

Pete stands a few feet in front of me.

His body trembles, but the camera on his shoulder is steady.

He holds up a shaking hand, fingers extended, and counts down.

Four, three,

two,

then points at me.

A feeling of pressure hits me from behind.

The weight of something arriving.

Something completely and terribly other.

Pete's face goes slack.

Blood seeps from beneath the viewfinder, but the camera never wavers.

I open my mouth, half expecting a scream to come pouring out.

But the words are there, as strong and confident as they've been when I was 16, practicing in front of my bedroom mirror.

The world, after all, is watching.

This is Harriet Connors, coming to you live.

Our tales may be over, but they are still out there.

Be sure to join us next week so you can stay safe, stay secure, and stay sleepless.

The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media.

The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone.

Our production team is Phil Michulski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornett, and Claudius Moore.

Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McInelly, Ollie A.

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Chances are you've been to the doctor recently and you've probably handed over your insurance, your ID, and even your social security number.

Your doctor is just one of many places that has your personal info.

And if any of them accidentally expose your details, you could be at risk for identity theft.

LifeLock monitors millions of data points a second.

If you become a victim, they'll fix it, guaranteed, or your money back.

Save up to 40% your first year.

Call 1-800LIFELOCK and use promo code iHeart or go to lifelock.com slash iHeart for 40% off.

Terms apply.

Elite Basketball returns to the the Elite Caribbean destination.

It's the 2025 Battle for Atlantis men's tournament happening November 26th to 28th.

Don't miss hometown team St.

Mary's, along with Colorado State, Vanderbilt, Virginia Tech, Western Kentucky, South Florida, VCU, and Wichita State, playing 12 games over three days.

It's basketball at its best, plus everything Atlantis has to offer.

Aqua Venture Water Park, White Sand Beaches, World Class Dining, and more.

Get your tickets and accommodations at battleforatlantis.com.

A happy place comes comes in many colors.

Whatever your color, bring happiness home with CertaPro Painters.

Get started today at Certapro.com.

Each Certipro Painters business is independently owned and operated.

Contractor license and registration information is available at certapro.com.