S23 Ep8: NoSleep Podcast - S23E08

Suffs, the new musical has made Tony award-winning history on Broadway.

We demand to be home.

Winner, best score.

We demand to be seen.

Winner, best book.

We the man to be quality.

It's a theatrical masterpiece that's thrilling, inspiring, dazzlingly entertaining, and unquestionably the most emotionally stirring musical this season.

Suffs.

Playing the Orpheum Theater, October 22nd through November 9th.

Tickets at BroadwaySF.com.

WNSP

Welcome back to hour two of WNSP's overnight programming.

DC with you here for the darkness of the night.

I want our devoted listeners to know how much I appreciate all the emails and messages you send me.

It's always nice to hear from the people who tune into our show here in the Cryptid Valley area.

But I do find it odd that so many of you are asking about that other valley not too far from here.

I mean, look, we have plenty of great camping in Cryptid Valley, if you're smart and stay safe.

But I can't say much about what goes on over in Goat Valley.

I've heard they have some campgrounds there, but if the rumors are true, well, you might want to avoid it.

I'll see what I can do about bringing you some updated tales about what goes on at Goat Valley Campgrounds.

And speaking of goats, I'm sure I don't have to warn any Cryptid Valley resident about recent sightings of the goat man.

As we know, this humanoid cryptid with a goat-like head is most commonly associated with Louisiana, Maryland, and Texas.

But he tends to show up in Cryptid Valley from time to time.

And to you teenagers out there who like to park your car and

canoodle, the goat man is known to kill young couples in parked cars or to scour neighborhoods looking to kill family pets.

So if you come across the goat man, get out of his sight as fast as possible.

Because you mess with the goat, you're gonna get the horns

now it's time to present the horror podcast we consider the goat here 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.

I want to start with two quick announcements.

As mentioned previously, anyone who purchased season passes from the Nanocast or Glow systems needs to be aware that both systems are going offline at the end of the month.

So be sure to download any episodes you want to keep in your archives.

Check the show notes for a link to a YouTube video which, I think, gives the clearest instructions on the easy method of downloading episodes from an RSS feed.

And if you have a season pass on Glow, but haven't joined our our Sleepless Sanctuary program, check your email for a special offer coming your way so you can join us at a discount.

Also, last week I told you about the upcoming First Cut Horror Film Festival in Wilmington, North Carolina on October 4th.

If you checked it out and thought the event was sold out, don't worry.

Tickets won't be going on sale until sometime in September.

I'll update you as soon as I know when they go on sale.

Now, on this episode, I have some presents for you.

Oh, but

by presents, I don't mean gifts wrapped up in a bow.

I mean presence, in terms of things that make you feel like you're not alone.

When you're by yourself, but you can't shake the feeling there's someone else with you.

Watching, listening.

And of course, that presence isn't there to do anything good for you.

And in our stories this this week, the presence that affects people isn't just hiding in the dark shadows.

No, they want to be much more proactive in their acts of disturbance.

I dare say the presence in these tales seeks to be much more present.

So, if you're listening to this episode alone, don't worry.

We'll be with you, and so will they.

Now, tune in, turn on, and brace yourself for our sleepless tales.

In our first tale, we meet two ornery varmins, a couple of men who wouldn't think twice about swiping a bag of silver coins from unsuspecting victims, and they're camping out with their ill-gotten gains.

But in this tale, Shared with us by author Don Tobin, they soon realize their isolated setting isn't as safe as they thought, and things for them don't go very well.

Performing this tale are Reagan Tacker and Jesse Cornett.

So, when you have that insatiable need, make sure you quench it in the right way, otherwise, you'll end up with nothing but thirst.

I was 15 when I met Jeb, the first man who ever taught me what it meant to be hungry for something you'd never get your fill of.

We were thieves, but I wouldn't say partners.

We just happened to be the kind that didn't stick knives in each other's ribs when backs were turned.

I'd grown up learning to make do with what I had.

Jeb was a man who thought he was owed more than he got.

He had a wild-eyed look, like he was seeing something beyond what was in front of him, even when it was just a dusty trail stretching out forever.

We didn't talk much.

We didn't have to.

We were camping out in the canyon on the way to the next town, though it was hard to say where exactly.

The night was creeping in cold and the desert sky was a smear of deep purples and faint stars.

We'd scored a bounty earlier that day, three bags of silver coins from a coach with loose shutters, and Jeb had been acting restless ever since, like it wasn't enough, like it never would be.

He kept those bags close, tucked under his coat, hands always brushing the silver like it'd disappear if he didn't keep track of it.

We hadn't had water most of the day, our canteens bone dry, and our throats felt lined with grit.

Imagine our surprise when we found the well.

I had no idea what it was doing out there.

Some initial attempt at prospecting the area, maybe.

It was half buried in sand and sagebrush, its stones worn smooth and uneven, and the bricks half sunken and caked with dry grime.

A low, crumbling lip marked the edge, lined with bits of rusted iron that held an old weather-worn bucket at the end of a frayed rope.

We grabbed it eagerly and lowered it down, listening as it scraped against the stone.

When it hit the bottom, there was no splash, just the dull thud of wood against rock.

Jeb hauled it back up, and all we got was dust.

He cursed, kicking at the stones in frustration, but he didn't move away.

I could see it in his eyes.

Disappointment, sure, but something else, too.

He stared down into that old well like it had cheated him.

I hear something.

He spoke softly, as though not meant for my ears, like his voice was jailed behind his whiskers.

What?

A woman's voice.

Sounds like a girl the last town over.

What girl?

But he was done talking, and I wondered if he meant the one he looked at in ways that made me uncomfortable.

I leaned over, careful not to lose my footing on the loose stones.

All I heard was the wind rattling against the canyon walls and maybe the faintest echo of something far below, but it wasn't a voice.

Not to me.

You're hearing things.

This place has been dry for longer than either of us been alive.

He looked at me, his eyes shadowed and hollow.

She's asking for me.

She's down there.

I frowned.

I'd never seen Jeb like this.

He'd always been the one with the plan, even when the plans were bad.

But tonight, something had crawled under his skin.

Something that made him jittery and eager, like a dog that's found a sin it can't let go of.

Just forget it.

We got what we came for.

Let's move on.

Ain't nothing down there but thirst.

But Jeb wouldn't move.

He stayed there, sitting by the well, muttering to himself.

I could tell he wasn't talking to me any more.

Darkness like you wouldn't believe.

That night, he didn't sleep.

Neither did I, not really.

I kept one eye on him, one eye on the bulge of those bags of silver under his coat, thinking about all the things I could do once we hit the next town.

Buy a warm meal, maybe a new pair of boots.

I'd been running with Jeb because he was better at stealing than I was, and for a while that was enough.

But looking at him now, all I saw was a man hollowed out by his own want.

Sometime in the dead of night, I heard him talking again, soft and urgent.

I caught a few words, a promise, a plea, and then I heard the scrape of boots on stone.

I jerked awake in time to see him teeter on the well's edge, the silhouette of his lanky frame bending towards the black mouth below.

I scrambled up, reaching out, but Jeb tipped over like he'd been pulled.

My gravity didn't apply to him anymore.

He disappeared without a sound, and I heard nothing but the faintest splash far below.

An impossible sound.

My heart was pounding as I stood over the well, staring down into the darkness.

The silver was down there, and so was Jeb.

We had rope on the horses tied to the saddle of mine.

Strong stuff, good for tying stolen horses or climbing out of tight spots.

I fetched it, threading it down into the well, tying knots every few feet.

I kept my hands busy even as my mind spun with thoughts of what Jeb had seen, or thought he'd seen.

With the rope secured, I descended, each knot biting into my palm.

The light from above shrank into a faint circle, and the walls were slick slick with moisture that shouldn't have been there.

My boots splashed into the water below, freezing cold and up to my knees.

I stood in the dark, the walls pressing close.

I could barely see just the faint glimmer of the rope leading back up and somewhere the soft ripple of something moving in the water.

And then I heard something.

Not a voice exactly, but something close.

A murmur that wasn't quite words.

Something that played at the edges of my mind, familiar but wrong, as if it knew all the things I wanted and twisted them into promises.

It spoke to me without speaking, offering everything I ever knew I'd wanted, tempting me with images that flickered and faded like a half-remembered dream.

Riches beyond counting.

Power over men who'd looked down on me.

The feeling of never having to be hungry or afraid ever again.

I stepped forward, drawn by those thoughts, by the idea that there was more here than water and dark.

The water deepened as I moved, each step dragging, heavy, and slow.

Whatever was down there knew me, knew the hunger I carried inside, knew the siren song of the silver that had pulled me down into this place.

It promised to fill that void, to make me more than I was.

But there was something else too.

Something beneath the sweet pull of it, an edge like a knife waiting to cut.

The water was moving now, churning with something unseen, and I felt it brush against my legs, cold and slick, shifting just out of sight.

The murmur turned sharp, the edges of the promises feeling more like hooks, tearing at the parts of me that wanted to believe.

The water wasn't just offering, it was demanding, twisting, reminding me that whatever I took, I'd pay for it.

I stumbled back, my hands groping for the rope.

I couldn't see Jeb, but the water was dark, and I knew in the back of my mind that he was gone.

The whispers clawed at my ears, crawling inside of my head, and I felt my thoughts slipping away, unraveling into that dark, empty place.

I yanked at the rope, desperate to get away, scrambling up as the murmurs rose, no longer sweet, but furious and hungry.

A roar that filled the narrow space like a storm.

The walls seemed to breathe, and the water splashed against the stone as I climbed, tearing at my hands, my breath ragged and wild.

Something cold and slick coiled around my ankle, dragging me back with a strength that rattled my bones.

I thrashed, hollering and kicking wildly as that thing pulled.

And for a moment, I saw a twisting smear of darkness just beneath the surface, writhing in a way that made my head reel to look at it.

A shape that wasn't a shape, shifting like smoke caught in water, growing and collapsing all at once.

It was the wrongness that clawed at the backs of my eyeballs, unraveling my thoughts like loose ends.

And I knew, with the deep, gut-wrenching certainty, that it was not meant to be seen by no man.

I tore free, my ankle burning from the touch, and I scrambled upward, choking on tear that tasted of salt and rye.

I don't remember reaching the top.

I just found myself there, sprawled on the ground, the sun already rising, weak and pale.

Jeb was gone, and the silver was gone, and the well was just a hole in the ground, silent and still.

I stared down into its dark, empty mouth, half expecting the voice to follow me out, but there was nothing, just the faint rustling of wind and the distant laughter of coyotes.

I thought about lowering that old bucket down again in my need, fill my canteen from safely above, but something in me knew what I'd find.

Nothing but dust and empty promises.

The well was dry, had always been dry, and whatever was down there was nothing but thirst.

I walked away, never looking back.

I've stolen plenty since, and I've made off with my share of coin, but there's a hunger that doesn't go away, no matter how much you take.

Jeb learned that too late.

I just learned to live with it.

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There is a very real condition some people suffer with.

and it resides deep within the realm of horror.

Sleep paralysis.

And if you've ever experienced it, you know why people feel there's a supernatural presence involved.

And in this tale, shared with us by author Ashley Adams, we meet a woman dealing with this nightmare.

And when events in her life push her to the breaking point, she knows it's time to fight back.

Performing this tale are Wafia White and Jesse Cornet.

So let's hear about what led up to the event she hopes is the last visit.

The tenants in my fingers were pleading for relief, body thrumming with energy.

Every cell alive and buzzing, but frozen helplessly in place.

A heavy weight pressed hard on my lungs, laboring my breathing.

I never fell asleep like this, open and exposed.

I'd curled up on my side in a nest of pillows, knees pulled close, making myself small, a grown woman trying to go back in time, folding herself into the safety of a welcoming womb.

But somehow, when she came, it was always like this.

Flat on my back, limbs spalled neatly with my palms up to the sky, a corpse waiting for the hum of a bone saw.

There was no telling how long a visit would last.

Sometimes minutes, sometimes hours.

I flicked my eyes, the only part of my body left in my control, to the foot of the bed, knowing what I see.

A gaping black maw.

The bottom half of her jaw hung open in a silent scream, broken, offset, and split far too wide.

The molded gray flesh of her cheeks was the only thing keeping it from falling off completely.

Her neck was too long, like someone had grabbed her skull and pulled, stretching the skin like putty, rendering the bones and muscles useless.

It made her head lull forward and bob side to side, closer to me than the rest of her shadowy form.

Dark curtains of matted hair clumped together, framing empty empty eye sockets.

My visitor, the same one I had my whole life.

Dave used to say, the more you look at something, the less scary it gets.

After that, instead of closing my eyes and trying to wait it out, I opened them and counted the remainder of her splintered yellow teeth over and over, night after night.

like my own demented version of sheep jumping fences.

But the fear never lessened.

Really, I couldn't believe Dave was willing to put up with it.

I was never under any impression I was an easy person to love.

The effects of my visits bled over into waking life.

I relied on black market Adderall and strong coffee to get me through the day.

Upwards of 10 cups when I was at my worst.

My little addiction parlayed into a heightened sense of anxiety that meant frequent panic attacks, an inability to hold a job, and in recent years, a little like agoraphobia just to make things extra interesting.

Dave made it seem like I was the most lovable person in the world.

He looked at me like I was something precious, something worthy of being protected.

He researched Reiki and smudging, ambient and green juices.

He scoured Reddit boards.

green eyes sparkling behind his glasses every time he got a new idea of something that might help.

I tried it all because he asked me to.

Sometimes I even lied, saying something worked when I knew full well nothing would.

Just this past Saturday, he pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose and showed me another thread as I set the tray down over his lap.

April, you gotta see this.

We gotten matching trays, ones with little feet that popped out because we always liked Sunday brunch in bed.

It made us feel fancy.

Like we were ordering room service in a hotel, even though I couldn't quite get the waffles to cook consistently.

I took the burnt ones anyway.

Look, it says that you can try to wake your body up by starting at the extremities, fingers or toes.

He gave me a wink and picked up his silverware.

I knew those talented feet would come in handy someday.

Ah, yes.

I grinned, settling to my side of the bed and half rolling my eyes as he poured an obscene amount of strawberry syrup over his plate of warm chocolate chip waffles.

Who knew?

Being able to work a TV remote with your toes could be a bona fide life-changing skill.

Don't count yourself out just yet, babe.

He sliced a giant forkful of syrup-drenched waffle with his serrated knife and stuffed it into his mouth.

Sugar always fueled his bouncy golden retriever energy.

There are a million tiny things out there that could totally change your life.

There are also a million huge things that can totally change your life.

Like your fiancé getting flattened in a crosswalk by an inebriated city bus driver less than 24 hours after that perfect cozy brunch.

The tray full of dirty dishes was still sitting on his nightstand, frozen in time, like an artifact from a different era.

Now,

staring at my visitor's familiar death-rotten face, I couldn't exactly explain it, but I blamed her.

This sad, pathetic excuse for fear, a misery I let rule my whole life, was no match for the seeping, gushing, visceral pain of losing Dave.

I had been terrified my whole 34 years of life, but I hadn't understood what terror truly was.

Wakefulness had finally become scarier than sleep.

Staring into that cold blackness where her eyes should have been, I channeled every ounce of energy I had to move one big toe.

For Dave.

I tried to force a twitch, a tremble, but nothing.

I huffed through my nose, mouth frozen shut.

teeth clenched with effort.

I tried again, and then a third time, muscles straining with each attempt.

A tear fell from the corner of my eye, whether from exhaustion, frustration, or grief, I wasn't sure.

It trailed down underneath my temple, the angle of my head on the pillow dropping it lightly in my ear.

Move.

A deep voice, but a familiar one, thrummed in my ear.

Dave.

My entire body surged, seething, trying to break free from my skin to find him.

I felt electric.

Alive.

Move.

He spoke again, softly, for me alone.

The yearning was overwhelming.

I heard only one word, but I knew what it meant.

I love you.

I miss you.

Just move your goddamn toe.

I did what Dave would do.

I took five breaths slowly, in and out through my nose.

Then, with a Herculean effort, I forced every bit of energy down, down,

down,

down further and further until there was no place left to go but the tip of my toes.

My gaze concentrated on the foot-shaped lump under my duvet.

I forced it there and let it go.

And finally, after three decades of visits, my toes curled under my command.

It worked.

I sprung up, gasping for air, bracing my arms behind me.

I threw the blanket off, ready to run, to leave, to get away from this godforsaken, hellish creature once and for all.

But my bottom half was still immobilized.

I looked down at my bare feet, grunting with effort, willing them to move, and my heart sank.

The visitor's decaying shins were dead flat to the top of her feet, forming a ballet perfect en pont.

And the top of those feet were fully fused to the living, warm souls of mine, enmeshed in an unnatural, fleshy blob.

She finally clocked my new ability to move.

Her long, sinewy neck shifting closer, head swaying wildly, so close I could smell the rotten egg sulfur emanating from the back of her throat.

And then she screamed.

The sound was almost more than I could bear.

Her stuttered, pierced crow echo bouncing off the walls of my brain was a deafening reverb.

The stench, so foul, that acid-lace vomit lurched in my throat.

Dave's voice felt like a golden sun-soaked hug.

I choked out a breath, peeling my eyes away from her screeching face, and flung the top half of my body towards the nightstand on the other side of the bed, searching for remnants of our last brunch.

My clumsy fingers hit the tip of the sticky syrup-soap blade, and the knife spun on the crusty plate, agonizingly slow.

My head pounded with screams until the moment the handle was within my reach.

And for one second, my brain went quiet.

I grabbed the knife's handle with an angry fist and swung with a manic, renewed energy, praying the serrated edge would sink into the meaty chunk of rotting flesh.

Instead, I found nothing, stabbing wildly at her shaped air.

I was so tired of this feeling.

Pointless, useless, helpless.

I bent over my still paralyzed thighs, defeated, and plunged the knife into the mattress next to my calf, aching for it to tear into something.

My eyes flicked to my feet, studying the root of the problem.

The attachment.

Cut.

And it sounded so very much like Dave.

Like my Dave.

The Dave that would never hurt me and only ever wanted the best for me.

I leaned forward, pulling the tip of my toe backward, watching the warm pink flesh pulse into her her rotted ankle.

It was feeding on me, getting life from me.

I set the knife on the bulbous part of my big toe, the part that was on the human side of the sickly bond, and sawed.

The screams roared.

I couldn't tell if they were mine or hers, and it didn't matter.

When she screamed, I screamed louder, both of us, feral, angry, demonic, in pain.

I pulled the half-loose pelt of skin back with one hand and worked the knife with the other.

Back and forth, back and forth.

The arch was the worst of it.

My legs convulsing involuntarily made it far more difficult to complete.

I clamped both palms together to rip the final stitches of flesh from my second heel.

Fingers cramped and worthless from the pain at this point.

Finally, she was untethered.

She hit the ceiling with a sickening thud.

Her elbows and knees folded backward, sockets rotating to form a four-legged creature.

Sagging, exposed breasts dangling low with every jerky movement.

She scuttled like a roach towards the back corner of the ceiling, giving one last stuttering, angry screech before she palmed open the window and crawled into the night.

The midday sunshine woke me, light flooding into the gap between the IKEA curtains.

My eyes fluttered.

Visits were always vivid, sure, but they were never as close to reality as last night.

Maybe it was a good thing.

I could feel my body and my control.

I felt lighter, less burdened.

I wasn't even tired considering last night's visit felt like ours.

I could probably get by with just coffee instead of my usual Adderall and espresso cocktail.

A good thing,

since I had a funeral to plan.

I rolled over to check the time and yelped,

a sharp pain slicing into the back of my arm.

I pulled the steak knife from the sheets and wrapped my fingers around the handle.

It was still sticky and red, doused in Dave's two-day-old strawberry syrup.

A breeze whipped through the room.

It was so soft, I thought I imagined it.

My heart fluttered a little, breaking and mending at the same time.

I swung my legs out of bed and put my feet flat on the floor, pushing my full weight onto the soles and pressing my toes into the plushy carpet.

Safe,

I said out loud to no one but myself.

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We all know our siblings can be a pain sometimes, but there's something about having a little brother that makes things worse.

And Hunter is struggling with the burden of his younger brother, Johnny.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Madeline Rubick, having Johnny around means dealing with all his issues, his addictions, his needs, and the fact that Johnny died years earlier.

Performing this tale are Mike Delgadio, Kyle Akers, Matthew Bradford, and Nicole Goodnight.

So it's understandable if you need to find a way to put an end to things, especially if you can find an easy way out.

Hunter flicked the cap of the lighter, his swollen fingers struggling to guide the flame toward the cigarette.

He knew he should rest, maybe take a quick nap after his shift.

But addiction was a nasty thing.

All day, he could do nothing but imagine the relaxation of nicotine spreading through his veins.

His mother worried he was too dependent on smoking, but she worried about everything.

After Johnny's death, she worried Hunter had fallen into a depression.

Given that he rarely slept and went through a pack of cigarettes a day, it wasn't a far-fetched idea.

He worked until his fingers grew swollen and the bags under his eyes enveloped his face.

He never answered her calls.

But Hunter just thought it was better to keep his distance.

After all, Johnny's death had put a lot of strain on the family, and his mother wasn't faring any better than him.

Years had passed, but Johnny's room remained untouched, like a memorial to his supposedly angelic life.

The house stayed more depressing than any long hours or empty cigarette packets ever could be.

Finally lighting the cigarette, Hunter pinched the end between his teeth and inhaled deeply.

He leaned against the table, closing his eyes and letting the smoke drift around him.

The scent permeated his little rental home, swirling around the dust-coated furniture and stained carpet.

His landlord would be mad about the scent, but Hunter didn't care.

If his landlord wanted something to complain about, all he had to do was check the basement.

Hunter went to inhale again, but before he could, the cigarette was plucked from his hand.

He grudgingly opened his eyes.

Before him, a scrawny teenager stared back with pursed lips.

With skin the color of smoke and patchy, wilted hair, He looked like something out of a Halloween pop-up shop.

The sharpness of his bones threatened to cut through his leathery skin, while his bloodshot eyes popped out of his skull.

No smoking in the house.

The teen held Hunter's lit cigarette just out of reach.

Hunter sighed, sinking deeper into his slump.

Give it back, Johnny.

I just spent 12 hours at the hospital and I need a break.

If you don't like it, you can...

you can get out of my house.

Johnny narrowed his brow, the hollowness of his cheeks showing.

I can't be around smoke.

You know that.

My lungs are bad.

And anyway.

He paused, snuffing out the cigarettes in an ashtray.

We don't need any fire hazards around here.

Now, what'd you bring me?

Everything's in my bag.

Hunter, too tired to fight for his cigarettes, rested his chin on his hands, watching as his brother rifled through his things.

Johnny grinned, his gray skin stretching like paper towel over his cheekbones.

Finding Hunter's bag, he started digging, pulling out a plastic bag of mismatched pills.

Oh, is this the good stuff?

Hunter shrugged.

If you're asking for opioids, I can't get a hold of those again.

I started locking them up.

But the opioids work so well.

They're still stronger than the ibuprofen you've been chugging.

Do you want them or not?

Johnny grumbled, but shoved them into his pocket anyway.

Continuing his search, he pulled out another clear bag, filled with ice and something pinkish.

His eyes narrowed.

What is this?

An old man's liver?

Hunter rolled his eyes.

That's what you asked for.

No, I asked for a healthy liver.

This looks like you pulled it out of a dumpster.

Do you know how hard it is to steal organs?

The entire hospital went into lockdown when I got you that kidney.

They'll notice when good organs disappear from the transplant cooler.

All I could get was what the surgical team threw away.

Johnny rolled his eyes with an exasperated groan.

Tossing the liver on the table, he pouted.

I don't get why you can't just do what I ask.

You're a doctor.

Just say you need it for a patient or something.

Nurse?

You keep thinking I know stuff, but I spend most of my shifts changing bed sheets and giving old people sponge baths.

Not everyone who works in a hospital is some medical genius.

But you know how to do organ transplants and stuff.

And anyway, men can't be nurses.

Hunter gaped his mouth, then shook his head and stood up.

I can't deal with this today.

He shoved back his hair and pulled on his jacket.

If you want the liver, go downstairs and prep the basement.

If not.

He sighed, pulling a cigarette from his pocket.

I don't know.

Just get out of my house or something.

Johnny narrowed his gaze, and for a moment Hunter thought he would snap.

His brother had a habit of doing that, diving off the deep end at the smallest of things.

But before Hunter could retaliate, Johnny shrugged and picked up the wilted liver.

All right, but don't take too long burning your brain with those cancer sticks.

I've got a surprise to show you.

Hunter raised a brow, knowing that Johnny had never given anyone a pleasant surprise.

It's not a bad one.

Johnny smiled.

It's actually good.

I spent all day on it, and it's going to save you a lot of trouble.

A dozen questions filled Hunter's head, but before he could question further, the cigarettes crossed his mind.

Fine.

Waving his hand in dismissal, Hunter opened the front door and stepped outside.

I'll take a look in a few minutes.

Just give me a bit to rest after work.

Stepping onto the patio, Hunter pulled the cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket.

He leaned against the cracked siding of the house, shutting his eyes and savoring the relief that the nicotine brought.

His mother was probably right that he was an addict, but it was hardly the biggest problem in Hunter's life.

That title would fall to Johnny.

He took another puff, his mind drifting to where the chaos all started.

It wasn't like there was a clear beginning.

Johnny had always been a little off.

But it was the first time Hunter saw the entirety of the problem.

Right before he left for college, Hunter noticed his watch had gone missing.

So, like any sibling would do, Hunter began digging through Johnny's closet.

As brothers, they stole from each other all the time.

Hidden snacks, basketball shoes, and class projects passed through their hands like an endless game of hot potato.

Hunter was sure his watch had become part of that game, but he never found it.

Instead, he found a handful of jewelry, a ski mask, and a switchblade, with something red crusted on the surface.

His heart practically stopped, a million scenarios running through his mind.

He'd caught Johnny shoplifting a few times, but nothing close to armed robbery.

And sure, Johnny had some strange habits.

His jokes were always immature, and he had trouble picking up on others' emotions.

But the most psychotic thing he ever did was put milk into a cereal bowl first.

Hunter rested the switchblade in his hand, weighing it against the jewelry.

But before he could decide what to do with them, a voice shot through the door.

I'd put those back.

Hunter jumped, his hand tightening around the switchblade, spinning around to face his little brother.

Johnny's blonde hair was full back then, their sweetish roots showing strongly in his blue eyes and narrow features.

Although thin and lanky, he was nowhere near the sickly skeleton that plagued Hunter now.

Hunter remembered the clamminess of his palms as he held up the items.

Please tell me you didn't kill anyone?

Johnny walked into the room.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he rested his elbows on his knees and stared at Hunter.

No.

A knot in Hunter's chest eased.

At least not yet.

What?

Johnny only shrugged.

Murder seems like a pretty messy thing.

There'd be blood I'd have to clean up.

The police would get involved, and I'd have to worry about alibis and stuff, and it's just not worth the effort.

Hunter could barely believe his ears.

He wanted to hear a hint of sarcasm, wanted to see the snicker that would reveal it was all a prank.

Maybe Johnny would admit he was messing around and accidentally cut his finger with the switchblade.

Then he'd admit that he'd stole one of mom's necklaces.

The entire thing was just a prank, and Hunter was paranoid.

But the punchline never came.

Sitting on the bed, Johnny stared at Hunter with his blue eyes, watching everything with sparkling immaturity.

A smile had slipped onto his lips.

Don't worry, I don't have plans to kill anyone.

Johnny laughed, but the humor was lost on Hunter.

I just kind of, I don't know, I like seeing what I can get away with.

Everyone has all these rules.

You can't lie.

You can't steal.

You can't put an ice cream cone in your back pocket on Sundays.

That's all stupid.

Why are we so desperate to limit ourselves?

Because people will get hurt.

Hunter's hand tightened around the switchblade.

Society has rules so that no one gets hurt.

Yeah, but all the best historical figures were rule breakers.

And we treat them like heroes.

So if I want to rob a couple of rich old hags, why can't I?

Because it's wrong.

Johnny rolled his eyes.

Society's definition of right and wrong changes so frequently that I'll be called a savior in a week.

And look, no one got hurt.

I mean, I grazed that old woman's arm with a switchblade, but she's fine.

And she can live without that trashy jewelry.

I just don't know why we keep all the fun things off limits.

Hunter's mouth gaped open, but the chances for Johnny to be pulling a prank had long since passed.

He shook his head, his heart pounding and his palms growing sweaty.

I...

I need to give this to someone, like the police or something.

Johnny, this is messed up.

This is really, really messed up.

No.

Johnny's calmness shocked Hunter more than panic would have.

But you robbed some old lady.

Yeah, but I was smart enough to wear gloves while handling that knife.

Johnny's blue eyes grew wide as he leaned forward.

You weren't.

Hunter glanced down, his sweaty palm wrapped tightly around the blade's handle.

Look, if you say anything, I have all the evidence to pin the crime on you.

So just keep your mouth shut, okay?

Hunter never told anyone about Johnny's twisted mind.

After all, Hunter had to leave for college and all Johnny wanted was silence.

It was an easy enough thing to give, as long as Hunter could keep his anxiety under control.

Sometimes the fear of being framed would cripple him, but he numbed that with nicotine.

Sometimes he worried Johnny would get in over his head and end up hurt.

That happened a week after Hunter's college graduation.

He had just pulled into the parking lot of the hospital, preparing for his first shift when his mother called.

Hunter didn't remember everything she said, but by the end of the phone call, he knew three things.

One, Johnny pulled a switchblade on a small college girl and attempted to rob her.

Two, the girl had a concealed carry permit.

Three,

Johnny had bullet holes in his chest, and his funeral was on Friday.

His mother spent the entire grieving period in denial, believing Johnny had been framed.

and the whole thing was just a misunderstanding.

Hunter never bothered to correct her.

He just distanced himself, working longer hours and letting cigarettes burn a hole through his wallet.

He didn't even stay at the house for the funeral, just booked a room in a dingy hotel on the other side of town.

Seeing his mother sob over the closed casket was more than enough pain for the weekend.

So after venturing out for a few miserable hours of funerary rites, he went back to the hotel to burn through a couple of packs of cigarettes and watch old movies on the flickering TV.

But Hunter barely made it a step inside before the cry cut through the room.

Hunter.

Hunter paused, standing over the threshold as he scanned the hotel.

Everything was exactly how he'd left it.

A toothbrush rested by the sink, while a suitcase was thrown open on the bed.

All he'd packed was the dress shirt he wore to the funeral, a pair of scrubs, and his nursing bag.

It was heavy to lug around, but given he'd drove several hours to the funeral, he'd have to go straight to work in the morning.

Finding nothing out of place, he carefully stepped inside and shut the door.

Hunter.

Hunter froze.

His heart jumped into his throat and he studied the room again.

An empty pack of cigarettes was in the trash can, along with the grounds from that morning's coffee.

He'd left the sheets turned down after checking for bed bugs, and a half a glass of water sat on the nightstand.

His nursing bag was open on the bed.

Hunter's breath caught.

He hadn't opened his nursing bag.

All right.

Who's there?

Hunter reached into his pocket for a weapon.

All he found was a lighter, which he grabbed and hoped it looked threatening enough.

You gotta.

The voice trailed off, radiating from the bed.

You gotta help me, Hunter.

He took a step closer, noticing a bare foot peeking from behind his suitcase.

Whoever was there had crashed on the bed.

Hunter flicked the lighter open.

I don't know what happened, but...

Hunter took a step closer.

It hurts.

It all hurts.

Hunter took another step forward and dropped the lighter.

Lying on the bed, Johnny rested with one hand over his bloody stomach and the other around Hunter's nursing bag.

His lanky body drowned in scrubs that were three sizes too big.

His blonde hair matted slick against his forehead.

Tinged with gray, his youthful skin pulled tight, his eyes red and bloodshot.

Well, screw this.

Hunter stared over his supposedly dead brother.

A red stain covered his center, bleeding through the scrubs and onto his open palm.

You gonna stand there or help me?

Johnny's eyes danced around the ceiling, unable to focus on anything.

Did

you?

Hunter paused, trying to piece together the situation before him.

He'd just been to Johnny's funeral, hadn't he?

They'd placed him in a casket, buried him in the ground, and slathered enough dirt on top to suffocate a poltergeist.

But Johnny was there, in Hunter's hotel room, and Johnny was breathing.

Did you fake your own

death?

Hunter wondered if his brain had given up in grief.

Huh?

No.

Johnny winced, tensing the muscles around his injured stomach.

Faking death is for wimps and drug lords who didn't have a good escape plan.

Now,

can you help me?

Hunter rushed forward, suddenly remembering that Johnny was injured.

Whether he was supposed to be dead or not, the injuries looked bad enough to kill.

Lifting Johnny's bloody hand, Hunter pulled back the scrubs to see two rounded holes in Johnny's stomach.

They were sunk in, purpled, and mangled.

Crap, you really did get shot.

Hunter grabbed a sheet off the bed and pressed it against Johnny's stomach.

Johnny cried sharply.

Of course I got shot, you idiot.

Johnny's arms flailed in an attempt to shoo Hunter off.

I thought you were just at my funeral.

Funerals are usually for dead people.

Based on the location of the wounds, Hunter guessed the bullets had been lodged in Johnny's kidney.

He pressed the blanket harder when something smacked against his head.

Hunter stumbled back, watching as his nursing bag tumbled to the ground.

Did you just throw that at me?

Johnny scrambled into a sitting position.

His little brother gasped for air, hugging his wounded stomach.

The collar of his scrubs sunk just enough for Hunter to see another round hole just above his collarbone.

If a bullet had hit Johnny there, blood would have filled his trachea and choked him to death.

I told you I'm in pain.

Sweat ran down Johnny's brow.

That hurt.

Don't you have any drugs in that doctor's bed, yours?

I...

I'm a nurse.

Hunter didn't know why he bothered correcting Johnny.

With a dead brother screaming at him, it hardly seemed like a priority.

Whatever.

Can you fix me?

Hunter glanced at Johnny, noting the red stain on his scrubs and the bullet hole above his collarbone.

Under no circumstances should Johnny be breathing, much less sitting up and screaming.

What

exactly happened?

Hunter watched as Johnny breathed over and over again.

He shouldn't be able to do that.

Johnny glared back.

Yeah, how am I supposed to know?

I've met the doctor here.

No, I mean...

Hunter hesitated, realizing the situation was something out of a nightmare.

How do you get in my hotel room?

And who's in the casket we buried?

The coroner.

Look, I was just messing around, looking to break a few rules, maybe scare a few sorority girls, you know.

But then this off-brand Barbie pulled out a gun, shot me.

Johnny shrugged.

After that, I kind of blacked out.

Had some weird dreams, saw some freaky stuff, and woke up in the mort.

Some old dude had a scalpel above me.

He was going to rip out my insides, man.

So, you know,

I fought back.

I got him with a scalpel a few times and then stole his scrubs.

Then, after poking around a bit, I

found my death certificate and a casket with my name on it.

It looks like he was supposed to embalm me or something.

You killed a coroner?

Hunter thought back to the casket his mother had cried over.

Her son wasn't even inside of it.

Don't worry, I cleaned everything up.

Johnny rolled his eyes.

Yeah, I scrubbed the place clean, made sure the casket was ready for pickup.

I doubt anyone even knows the coroner's missing yet.

Can I get some pain meds?

I feel like I'm dying.

You should feel like you're dying.

Stepping forward, Hunter delicately placed two fingers against Johnny's wrist.

Johnny eyed him suspiciously.

Ugh, what you doing?

Checking your pulse.

Finding no movement in Johnny's wrist, Hunter narrowed his brow and placed his fingers against Johnny's neck.

Johnny leaned away, his eyes wild with uncertainty.

You're being weird.

Can you just give me some pills or something?

I don't.

Hunter paused, unable to believe what he was about to say.

I don't think you have a heartbeat.

Of course I have a heartbeat.

Johnny rolled his eyes again.

Now back to the pain meds.

Hunter leaned forward, peering at the bullet hole on Johnny's neck.

You need a whole lot more than ibuprofen.

You probably need a blood transfusion, a kidney transplant, some stitches.

And then your heart's not beating.

That's...

That's a problem.

Hunter ran through the list of medical treatments in his head, pulling back the textbooks he studied in college.

But no matter how many heart-related procedures he could remember, all of them assumed the patient was near death.

Johnny seemed to be doing just fine.

I don't think hospitals are a good idea.

Johnny leaned his head against the bedframe and breathed deeply.

I just killed the guy, remember?

And it doesn't seem like the heart's really an issue.

I'm just in so much fucking pain.

Probably because you have no blood.

Your kidney's in failure, and your heart's not beating.

Yeah, I got a doctor right here.

Johnny winced as pain surged through his damaged body.

You can fix me up, right?

Everything I know says you should be dead.

Like, dead as soon as you got shot.

I think we should call an ambulance.

Nah.

Johnny took a deep, calculated breath.

Just bring me some pain meds and some of that blood you said should be in my body.

It should fix things.

What?

You know what's wrong, so you should be able to just fix me, right?

Just grab some pills at work and maybe some blood, too.

Hunter hesitated.

How do you think hospitals work?

Because I can't just walk in and ask for a bottle of opioids and a bag of blood.

You're such a Boy Scout.

Just steal, okay?

I just want you to fix me.

If you have to steal a little bit, then so be it.

And if I need surgery, you'll find a way to make it work.

I'm not going to the hospital, and you're not going to let me suffer like this.

Why would I do that?

Hunter saw a familiar, violent immaturity on Johnny's face.

Guess I'm your brother.

And if you don't do what I say, I'll stab you in the neck or something.

I've killed before, and I really don't know what everyone's complaining about.

I mean, taking a life is fucking easy.

A pained smile crossed Johnny's face.

So, what do you say?

End up dead or petty theft to save your little brother?

Hunter drew his cigarette, realizing he'd burned through four of them in the time his mind had been wandering.

It all seemed kind of silly when he reflected on it.

He could have stopped Johnny when he found the switchblade.

The police would have believed him if he told the truth.

He probably wasn't the first person to accidentally touch evidence.

But his mother would have been really upset if Johnny got arrested.

Johnny would have been furious too.

And anyway, Hunter was supposed to leave for college and he didn't want to waste time getting involved in a court case.

It was just easier to keep his mouth shut.

He might have been able to stop Johnny when he showed up in the hotel room too.

Johnny was too injured to do anything violent, and all Hunter had to do was call an ambulance.

The entire problem could have been driven away in a truck of flashing lights.

But Johnny had just killed a man, and Hunter didn't want to become his next victim.

At that moment, it was easier to steal some pills and a bag of blood.

Then Johnny asked for a kidney transplant.

He offered to turn the basement into a surgical room and steal all the necessary tools as long as Hunter got the kidney.

So many problems were covered that Hunter thought it was easier just to play alone.

After all, Johnny had been growing stronger all year, and dealing with the repercussions of backing out wasn't worth it.

So, a nurse by day and a surgeon taught by Wikipedia at night, Hunter repaired his brother's failing body.

He stole pills for Johnny's pain, then stole organs to repair his insides.

It wasn't much of an existence, but he didn't see an easy way out.

Johnny just couldn't die.

Hunter learned that during the kidney transplant.

He'd made enough mistakes to kill anyone.

But even without a heartbeat, Johnny got back up.

He kept talking and moving, operating as any healthy person would.

It made no logical sense.

But Hunter had given up on Johnny being logical.

Some people might have thought it was supernatural.

After all, Johnny had defied all laws of nature by surviving in a decaying body.

Some might have called him a demon or an evil creature that possessed a corpse.

Some might have called him a zombie.

But Hunter didn't think there was anything supernatural about it.

Johnny was just a spoiled brat who couldn't accept when his time was up.

Finishing his fifth cigarette, Hunter sighed and debated grabbing another one.

But knowing Johnny's impatience, he stamped out the butt and wandered inside.

Okay, you're back.

Hunter's eyes squinted in the harsh lighting of the basement, vibrantly shining on the sterilized counters and dusty floors.

It reflected off the metal table Hunter used for Johnny's surgeries, although dried blood muted its shine.

Several folding tables struggled to stand under the weight of stolen tools.

Against the wall, Johnny had three mini-fridges plugged in, all with permanent markers scrawled across the front.

Blood, organs, medication.

It was a hodgepodge of hospital cleanliness cleanliness and grade school engineering, but it got the job done.

Johnny couldn't die from infection or poor medication, so whatever they could scramble together was good enough.

So, are you ready to see the surprise?

Johnny's skin stretched so thin that Hunter thought it might break.

Do I get the option to wait?

Hunter fiddled with the lighter in his pocket.

He wondered if Johnny would get angry at the smoke on his breath.

So, you know how that liver you grabbed was shit, and so were the pills.

Standing by a folding table, Johnny straightened out bottles of sterilizing alcohol and surgical tools.

Well, I realized most of them suck because you have to worry about hospital security.

So, if the problem is bad organs, then why not just get healthy ones?

Because the hospital will notice?

Because the hospital will notice if they come from the hospital.

Hunter's stomach plummeted.

His mouth went dry.

Johnny,

did you steal organs or something?

His brother grinned, cracked lips stretching across a narrow face.

I just prepared for the very likely event of you failing.

He nodded towards a lumpy blanket piled in the corner.

So, why don't you take a look at what I found?

Oh, Johnny.

Hunter took a tentative step towards the lump.

Something beneath it moved, struggling to get out.

His heart pounding, Hunter grabbed the corner and yanked it back.

A muffled cry shot through the air.

Curled in the basement's corner, a girl stared up with wide, terrified eyes.

Black curls fell in front of her face, but Hunter could just see the duct tape across her mouth.

It wrapped around her wrist and ankles, too, while a dark, bloody gash cut into her cheek.

Hunter staggered, watching as she ripped her head back, thrashing against her restraints.

Gasping for air, she found Hunter's gaze with a pleading expression.

Something about her looked almost familiar.

You

kidnapped someone?

The severity of the situation numbed him more than nicotine ever had.

Well, not just anyone.

This is the same off-brand Barbie that shot me.

I figured if your organs are shit and she owes me a life, then she can can give up her organs to replace mine.

Seems fair enough, right?

Hunter glanced at Johnny, then back at the girl with wide, terrified eyes.

Purled on the ground, she whimpered a cry.

Hunter shook his head, still trying to wrap his mind around the situation.

Are you asking me to kill someone, steal the organs, and implant them into you?

I can take care of the killing if it bothers you that much, but you still have to extract the organs and implant them into me.

You're the one with all the medical knowledge.

Hunter took a step back, his breath growing shallow.

I.

I don't know.

I don't know how to remove organs from a body.

The girl whimpered, and his mind ran over all the times he could have stopped Johnny's insanity before.

So?

He learned how to do a kidney transplant from the internet.

Can't be that hard, can it?

I think this has gone too far.

Too far.

Too far.

This girl killed me, man.

My entire body is falling apart because of what she did.

If she hadn't pulled out that gun, I wouldn't need blood transfusions every other week or new organs when my liver starts to get moldy or a whole pharmacy of pills to numb the pain.

I can't fucking die, but she left me with this decaying body to take care of.

Killing her is literally the mildest punishment.

Hunter shook his head again, backing up until he knocked into the folding table.

Glancing behind him, he caught sight of various surgical tools.

His heart skipped a beat.

Now, I know you just had a long shift, but do you think you can get started tonight?

Johnny turned around and pulled the pills from his pocket.

Dropping them on another table, he began to sort through them as if it was just another daily task.

My insides feel like they're collapsing.

I don't think I can take it any longer.

Noticing Johnny's back was turned, Hunter let his hand close around the scalpel.

It felt cold in his palm, filling him with pulsing anxiety.

And I can get the killing out of the way real quick.

Hunter took a step closer.

You can go for a walk, get some dinner or something, and when you come back, I'll have her dead and you can start the organ transplant.

Before Hunter could talk himself down, he raised the scalpel and shoved it between Johnny's shoulder blades.

At first, Hunter only felt numb.

The blade poked from his brother's back, gray-tinged blood trickling around it and soaking Johnny's shirt.

His immortal brother staggered from the wound.

But then, Johnny spun around and snapped his hands around Hunter's neck.

I can't die, you idiot!

Hunter gasped for air.

Clawing at his brother's forearms, he fought and twisted until they knocked into the folding table.

Tools clattered to the ground.

Bottles of alcohol spilled onto the floor.

If I was gonna die, don't you think three bullets would have done it?

Hunter gasped, his knees growing weak and his vision spotty.

His nails digging into Johnny's papery skin.

He clawed until gashes of gray-tinged blood appeared.

Oh, you're a fucking idiot.

You just made more work for yourself.

You're gonna have to sew me up.

You're gonna have to kill that girl and then fix me.

I won't.

I

Can't.

Hunter's knees gave out, Johnny squeezing the life out of him.

His eyelids fluttered.

His muscles grew stiff.

His thoughts grew weaker, like Johnny was killing his very ability to think.

Hunter?

Hunter snapped his head up, finding his hand wrapped around the scalpel.

He'd barely lifted it off the table, but the weight of it felt unbearable.

Johnny stared back, a bottle of cleaning alcohol in his hands.

What?

Johnny's eyes fell to the blade.

Did you change your mind or something?

Because if you want to do the killing, I could care less.

Hunter drew a quick breath, realizing he'd forgotten to breathe.

His actions had been so vivid, the daydream playing out in violent clarity.

But as Johnny turned his back again, tending to the collection of stolen medical supplies, Hunter found his hand leaving the scalpel.

It wasn't worth it.

The police would have to be called.

He'd have to face consequences for everything he stole, explain Johnny's survival, and deal with his entire life being uprooted.

The paperwork alone would drown him.

You, uh.

You've got to give me a few hours.

Hunter tried not to look at the girl.

He could hear her whimpering, but it wasn't like Hunter could save her anymore.

She'd been attacked, kidnapped, and held hostage.

Johnny inflicted so much emotional damage that she'd never recover.

It was just easier for Hunter to put her out of her misery.

A few hours, but my liver hurts so bad.

I need a new one.

The girl's whimper cut through the basement, and Hunter squeezed his eyes shut.

I need to do some research.

This is all new to me, so if you want your liver to work, you're going to have to wait.

Johnny rolled his eyes, then gestured to the stairwell.

Fine, go.

but I'd better not catch you smoking in the house again.

I already told you this place is a tinderbox.

Hunter nodded, then dragged his feet up the steps to the sound of the girl's muffled cries.

He took his time shutting the basement door, gathering up his laptop, and making his way onto the porch.

The scent of fresh rain filled his nose, but given Johnny's rules, staying inside wasn't an option.

So, Hunter sank onto the moist patio, resting his back against the cracked siding and letting the dampness sink through his clothes.

It numbed him as he lit a cigarette and bit the end, then cracked open his laptop and began searching.

A thousand questions accumulated in the search bar.

Organ transplant.

Liver removal.

Define accomplice.

Liver removal video.

Hunter let smoke drift around his head, filling his lungs and settling over his clothes.

He'd get away from Johnny someday.

He'd find the courage to fight back, or run away, or call the police.

Hunter would reclaim his life and get away from his monstrous brother.

But today

was just too difficult.

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 Mikulski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornette, and Claudius Moore.

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

White, and Kristen Samito.

To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us, just visit sleepless.thenosleeppodcast.com to learn about the sleepless sanctuary.

Ad-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, we thank you for joining us and seeking safety from the things that stalk us in the night.

This audio program is Copyright 2025 by Creative Reason Media Inc.

All rights reserved.

The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc.

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