S22 Ep20: NoSleep Podcast S22E20

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They're calling.

Like me to call you back.

The phone is ringing.

A message from an unknown caller.

A voice unrecognizable.

Audio messages from the shadows.

But one message is clear.

And it says:

Brace yourself for the No Sleep podcast.

It's been over a month since I lost my job at the coffee shop.

Too shy, too withdrawn.

Customers don't feel at ease with you.

I'm an introvert.

I can't help it.

I tried my best.

The bleach smell is giving me a head.

Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast.

I'm the boss, David Cummings.

Yes, as the company president, big cheese, and head honcho around here, it's my job to keep our team in line, crack the whip, as it were, really squeeze every drop of effort out of everyone who contributes to this show.

And while everyone on the team speaks glowingly of me as the boss,

well, some of them do.

Oh, all right, maybe one or two of them feel that way.

But nonetheless, the people on the team are like anyone else, working hard to pay the bills.

And in this day and age, earning a living isn't easy.

If you happen to be listening to this episode many, many years in the future, you should know that in 2025, things are a little topsy-turvy.

It's hard to say what's happening in terms of jobs and the economy and all that business mumbo-jumbo dominating the headlines.

Suffice it to say, it's not easy to earn enough for the really important things like housing, food, and horror podcast subscriptions.

And the truth is this, some people will do almost anything to make some money.

Whether it's trying to scam some bucks out of the unsuspecting or simply doing your best at a very difficult job, everyone is hunting for some of that sweet, sweet dore-ray me.

And who can blame us?

On this episode, we have tales which highlight one very important fact.

The pursuit of money can be alluring, but in the end, your decisions can lead to some horrifying circumstances, and it may cost you far more than money.

So I hope we can bank on your interest in our occupational horror, as long as it doesn't cost you your life, savings.

Now, do you dare pick up your phone and listen to the voices calling to you?

In our first tale, we meet a couple who have discovered a new app where people can monitor security cameras and report crimes they see.

It can net people a tidy reward.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Amanda Liefeld, when the ladies hatch a plan to cheat the app for the reward, they reap more than they sow.

Performing this tale are Lindsay Russo, Mary Murphy, and Mike Delgadio.

So sure, support new technology, but be careful if the project you like ends up being crowdsourced.

Becca flopped back on her bed, her phone inches from her face, scrutinizing the image on her phone closely before swiping it away.

Another image popped up and she examined it carefully, her feet tapping along to the catchy pop song blaring through her dorm room.

I leaned in close, eager to be distracted from my calculus homework.

What is that, Tinder?

Searching for your next girlfriend?

Obviously.

How else am I going to amass an army of girlfriends by the end of the year?

She smirked playfully, passing me her phone to examine.

On the screen was the grainy, low-resolution feed of a security camera nestled into the vibrant graphics of an online game.

At the top of the screen, a graphic showing $3.20 stood out in bold, vibrant green text.

There was nothing noteworthy in the security feed, just a brick wall and some parking spaces.

I looked at Becca, raising an eyebrow skeptically.

What is this?

She snatched her phone back in mock anger.

Hey, don't be rude.

You have no idea what you're missing out on.

She swiped in her phone again and a new security feed popped into view.

It's called BuddyGuard.

Companies partner with the app and then they get to have their security cameras monitored by anyone who is using the app.

I stared at her blankly.

And you enjoy that?

She whacked my arm.

Let me finish.

You like, get money if you see something and report it.

Yesterday, I got a dollar for reporting a broken light.

She looked at me eagerly.

That's nothing, though.

If you catch someone committing an actual crime, you get $1,000.

And that's not even the best part.

She paused for dramatic effect.

This is...

She shoved her phone in my face, revealing a screenshot of a dingy alleyway where two huge possums were sharing a donut.

I grinned.

Damn, babe, you definitely should have led with the possums.

I leaned in and kissed her on the cheek before gathering my stuff to leave for my afternoon class.

Sitting in the massive lecture hall, tuning out the drone of the professor, I downloaded the app and set up an account.

After a few swipes, I was completely hooked.

Something about peering into little slices of the world with the tantalizing possibility of capturing something crazy kept me swiping all the way through the lecture until I was the last one sitting in an empty classroom.

I made my way back across campus, narrowly avoiding several collisions before I was finally back in Becca's room.

We lay back on our bed, completely absorbed, occasionally stopping to show each other cool things we saw.

I reported some loose trash in what looked like a hospital parking lot, earning myself 12 cents.

She held up her phone and we both watched a fat raccoon scramble out of a dumpster, a slice of pizza dangling from its jaws.

Once in a while, we would gasp in excitement, mistaking some vaguely human shadow for an intruder.

More often, we exchanged groans of exasperation when our swiping was interrupted by unskippable ads.

Eventually, Becca got bored and put her phone down, snuggling in close and trying to get my attention.

Just a couple more, I promise.

I moved on the bed so she could lay her head on my arm.

I kept scrolling long after Becca had given up and drifted off to sleep.

Too many slices of the world to peek into.

Alleyways, parking lots, dark hallways that were uncannily still and empty.

Signs on the wall made it clear that I was seeing glimpses of countries I could only dream of traveling to.

I was driven on by the possibility that I might see something cool.

Next thing I knew, I was jolting awake from a deep sleep filled with grainy, low-resolution dreams.

I groped around for my phone, panicked.

What if I had missed something?

Finally, I found it and heaved a sigh of relief.

A message had popped up at some point after I had passed out.

Still there?

Hit confirm to continue.

Relieved, I took a moment to reacquaint myself with the world outside of my phone.

I was alone in the dorm room.

Becca must have already left for her early morning classes.

Cute little overachiever.

I groggily stumbled to the bathroom, did my best to make myself presentable, and threw on some clothes.

I returned from my phone, ready to head off to class, but I found myself standing there, phone in hand, torn between responsibility and impulsiveness.

Okay, let's be honest here.

I wasn't that torn.

I flopped down on Becca's bed, plugged in my phone to prevent any unwanted interruptions, and got right back to scrolling.

I vaguely registered the changes in the lights streaming in through the window as a sign of the day slipping by, but it wasn't enough to stop me.

When Becca strolled back into the room, she found me exactly where she had left me.

Oh my God.

Have you been here all day?

I should have known better than to show you a cool app.

She tossed her books down on the bed and flopped down next to me, grinning teasingly.

I looked at her blearily.

Oh man, you're back.

That makes it 4.30?

As if on cue, my stomach growled, confirming the late hour.

She shook her head scoldingly at me and grabbed my elbow, dragging me off the bed.

You're lucky you're cute, you silly goose.

I let her lead me by the arm and we made our way towards the dining hall for some much-needed food.

By the time we got back, a splitting headache was brewing behind my eyes and I was about ready to collapse.

My phone chimed and I picked it up to put it away.

Becca peered over my shoulder and we read the message that had popped up on my screen.

Congratulations, location selection unlocked.

Oh, cool.

What does that mean?

I shrugged, letting Becca take the phone out of my hand to investigate further while I prepared to surrender to sleep.

Whoa, this is so cool.

She slapped my leg, trying to get my attention, and I groaned grumpily.

Aw, you're no fun.

Can I at least take a look?

You can pick specific places.

I gave her a vague thumbs up before letting sleep take me.

When I finally woke up, the rising sun was filtering through the blinds, and I could tell Becca was excited about something, although she refused to give me the slightest hint.

Let's get some breakfast and leave our phones here.

She put heavy emphasis on the second half of that sentence, as though there was some hidden meaning she was expecting me to understand.

Huh?

I still wasn't quite awake.

She gave me a pointed look, put her fingers to her lips, and practically dragged me out of the room.

Once we were seated in the dining hall, breakfast in hand, she finally let me speak.

What the hell is going on?

Why no talking?

You know, just in case our phones are recording.

You never know.

She leaned in closer, her eyes wide and bright with excitement.

I have a plan.

She paused, gauging my reaction.

I stared at her, bemused but vaguely curious.

She leaned in even closer, lowering her voice.

I was going through the list of places, and I recognized one.

It's a company in my hometown.

High school kids used to dare each other to sneak in all the time.

I stared at her blankly.

Okay,

and?

Frustrated, she raised her voice before forcing herself to lower it again.

Oh my God.

And

I know how to sneak in.

Then you report me.

Boom.

A thousand dollars.

Finally understanding what she was proposing, I shook my head vigorously.

Are you kidding me?

No, you'd get in so much trouble.

Way too risky.

No, it'll be fine.

I'll just run in, get spotted on camera, and run out.

Trust me, if you met the cops in my hometown, you'd understand.

This will be at the very bottom of a long list of crimes they don't care enough to do shit about.

They've let worse crimes in a brief, harmless trespassing incident slide.

I shook my head again slightly less emphatically.

Then she hit me with an extremely compelling compelling argument that I had no power to resist.

Please.

I tried to look away from the powerful puppy dog eyes, but it was too late.

I was in.

Over the next few weeks, I wasn't sure if I should have been impressed or terrified with the efficiency of Becca's criminal planning.

Each morning, she would update me on the plan over a phoneless breakfast in the dining hall, until we had accounted for every detail.

Over winter break, she would travel home like usual, and I would stay at school.

She assured me that if my parents asked, I I could use the excuse of conditioning for the upcoming basketball season.

I didn't have the heart to tell Becca I wouldn't need an excuse.

They definitely wouldn't ask.

We went over every detail until the plan was perfect.

Foolproof, she had called it.

Finally, the big day arrived.

We had chosen Christmas Eve when the building would most likely be completely empty.

She waited until her parents were sound asleep before heading out, leaving her phone at home and calling me from the supposedly untraceable cell phone she had picked up from a shady little shop in the mall.

Once she confirmed that she was parked nearby, I stopped my mindless, anxious scrolling and flicked to the location she had shown me.

Summersville Robotics Corporation.

For weeks, I had spent every evening scrolling through the cameras of various locations so that my activity tonight wouldn't seem out of the ordinary.

I flipped through the different camera views pretending to inspect them until I landed on the one she had shown me.

From what she had told me, it was a back hallway with a door that employees frequently popped open for convenient smoke breaks.

There was a a hole in a nearby fence left over from previous harmless intrusions.

I stared at the narrow, empty hallway, drumming my fingers on my desk and trying to calm my racing heart.

I didn't have the stomach for this, unlike my criminal mastermind girlfriend who seemed to be relishing her much riskier role.

I waited anxiously for her to appear on screen.

Finally, she arrived from around the corner, her identity well concealed by a dark hoodie and baseball cap pulled low over her face.

She looked around cautiously before continuing down the hallway until she was in full view of the camera.

She turned her back to the camera, the signal for me to hit the report button.

She would stand there for another couple seconds to be sure the camera got a good recording and then she would sprint for the door.

I tapped the report button and took a deep, shaky breath before selecting Intruder from the drop-down menu.

A message popped up on the screen.

Press confirm to report intruder.

I tapped confirm.

Another message popped up, blocking my view of Becca.

Activate intruder mode?

Warning, intruder mode is still in beta and may encounter unexpected issues.

I tapped confirm again, hesitantly.

The image from the camera enlarged, filling up my screen.

At the top, a message flashed, tap intruder to tap image.

I tapped Becca's image on the screen, just as she began to book it back down the hall.

Bright lights flashed on, illuminating the narrow hallway.

From beneath the point of view of the camera, a narrow beam of light projected outwards, tracing Becca's movements down the hall.

She stumbled to a halt, and a second later, I saw why.

At the end of the hall, a small hatch the size of a dog door was sliding open, revealing a dark nook within the wall.

A metallic form scuttled out of the darkness, its sharp edges glinting in the now bright hallway.

It looked like a metal crab scurrying on pointed metallic limbs towards Becca.

Becca turned and sprinted the other way back towards the camera.

I grabbed the burner phone, forgetting that she wouldn't hear me with her phone in her pocket.

Becca!

With the phone to my ear, I could hear a recorded message blaring in the hallway, drowning out any other sound.

Intruder containment system activated.

Stop.

Authorities are on the way.

Containment units will now detain you and collect a record of your identity.

You will not be harmed.

A siren blared three times and then the recorded message repeated, deafeningly.

Becca passed out of view and I clicked through the cameras frantically, scrambling to find her again.

On each screen I passed, I could see more metallic shapes pouring out of dark corners, glinting wickedly under the emergency lights.

When I finally found Becca again, she had come to a halt, every escape route blocked by a shimmering sea of metal.

I screamed her name into the phone uselessly.

Under the blare of the alarms, I could hear the clicking of countless sharp limbs clattering across the floor towards her, growing louder.

On the screen, Becca had her hands up in surrender.

Through the phone, I heard a sickening squelch, followed by a desperate scream that drowned out any other sounds.

A split second later, the video feed caught up, and I watched the closest robotic creature leap through the air, landing heavily on Becca's chest and punching its limbs into the meat of her shoulders to bring itself level with her face and scrutinize her features.

Another followed suit, using its limbs to grab purchase on her upper arm with the brutal sound of tearing flesh.

Becca let out another desperate wail as the weight of the two metal objects dragged her down to her knees with a heavy thud.

On the screen, I watched her struggle to remove them, but with each metallic limb that she pulled from her body, another one pierced her flesh with a wet thud.

Her screams eventually subsided, giving way to ragged, gurgling gasps.

The remaining creatures seemed to move as a wave, overtaking Becca and dragging her downwards until all I could see was metal glittering under the bright lights.

Through the phone, I could hear the sounds of flesh tearing as she thrashed.

Eventually, I heard one last low, agonized moan, and the thrashing stopped.

All I could hear were the sick, sucking sounds of sharp pieces of metal prodding diligently through yielding flesh.

I snapped the burner phone shut, frozen in dull, uncomprehending horror.

The app dinged, and I watched as my cash rewards flashed, increasing by $1,000.

Another ding and a new message popped up.

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If you're old enough, you might remember Cabbage Patch dolls.

Of course, we all know about Barbie and Funko Pops.

Popular and trendy dolls have been around a long time.

But in this tale, shared with us by author and this episode's illustrator, Hassani Walker, we meet Evan, whose job it is to come up with the next big toy series.

And his inspiration leads to a doll best left in the box.

Performing this tale are Dan Zapula, Jesse Cornett, Marie Westbrook, Aaron Lillis, Atticus Jackson, and Kyle Akers.

So brace yourself for Sammy the doll because it's time to play hide and seek with Sammy.

The boxes were stacked high against the wall of the basement.

As my manager, Derek, moved them, I could see they were empty, but he still placed each one aside carefully.

It was like he was afraid to make a noise.

This is going to be exactly what this company needs, Evan.

Something to breathe life into our toy line.

I worked as a sculptor at what was once a large toy company, Imagifun Toys.

Home of ClayPlay friends, Slack Slap Putty, and the star stellar Kelly dolls.

Not that anyone remembers those now.

All Imagine Fun products fell to bargain bins as Funko Pops and detailed figurines took over.

When I started, this place was already a ghost town.

No one believed this company had a future.

and I figured this would be a short gig.

But my boss still had faith in this place.

Or at least, faith in what he wanted to show me.

He moved the last box, leaving only a blank wooden wall.

Here it is.

What do you think?

What am I supposed to...

I didn't notice it at first, but once I saw, it was impossible not to see.

It was a face.

In the wall.

At least, it looked like one.

The wood grain formed what appeared to be a screaming...

thing.

eyes bulging and mouth stretched open.

It was hard to look at.

My boss stood next to it, grinning proudly.

What am I looking at?

The face of our new toy series.

The thought of this thing on a shelf turned my stomach.

It was just too bizarre.

I would have said something, but Derek was clearly lost in this idea.

He hadn't stopped looking at the face since revealing it.

Whatever he saw in it, I just...

couldn't.

It was just a weird image ingrained in the wall.

In the end, I knew my thoughts didn't matter.

It was Derek's company.

He could produce whatever he wanted.

If he wanted to scare kids with the last toy he made, that was his business.

I also had to admit, I had some weird toys as a kid.

I'm sure my parents bought me things with no idea why I liked them.

Maybe I just became old and was now seeing these things the way they did.

I took some pictures of the wall and started sculpting the head at my desk.

Oh,

that thing?

That was the first response from my co-worker, Samantha, when she saw what I was working on.

She worked on the digital side of the company, drawing concepts on tablets.

Once in a while, she would wander over to my area to see the last clay sculptor working at the company.

It was nice, she once said said to me, to see something made by hand.

This time, however, she only looked disgusted while going through the photos I took in the basement.

You know about the face?

If you're here long enough, you'll eventually find out about the face.

Why do you have pictures of it?

You're not.

Derek wants this to be the head of Imagifund's newest toy.

I'll bet he does.

I think the only reason he bought the building was to be around that thing.

What do you mean?

He disappears a lot.

And when he does, he's usually in the basement, moving boxes to look at the wall.

Says it speaks to him, inspires him, like a muse.

If it inspires him, why does he keep it covered up?

He could just have an office in there or move the wall to his office.

Maybe he likes having a little hideaway downstairs?

Or maybe he's just crazy.

I mean, you have to be to think that's the face of a toy.

Definitely crazy.

Maybe it won't be that bad once people get used to it.

If anyone can get used to it.

Well, for the sake of our jobs, let's hope kids adjust to looking at it.

As for me, it's kind of giving me a headache.

Seriously, I'm sorry you need to look at that thing.

Samantha wasn't the only one having trouble looking at the image.

Funny, I rarely had visitors, but that day almost everyone came to look at the hateful little imp I was making.

And each person left with a headache or feeling like their head was buzzing.

I felt fine, if not a little disturbed by the face as it became more of a real figure and not just a flat image on the wall.

It was after seeing an intern peeking around the corner, staring at the thing, that I decided to take my work home.

Too many distractions.

I worked on the little guy over the next few days.

Each day, I spent hours forming his bulging eyes, the broken teeth, and his entire decaying head on an unnatural childlike doll body.

The little hell demon was coming along.

I could honestly say I was getting used to the way he looked, but it's hard not to get attached to something after spend so much time crafting it.

My wife, on the other hand, made her thoughts very clear when she saw my latest assignment.

Ugh, do you really need to have that thing here?

You never had a problem with me working from home before.

In fact, I remember you saying you liked seeing my skills in progress.

I did, but the work never looked so.

What?

Well, look at it.

That thing is...

is just off.

Yeah, I know.

It's not really my thing either, but it's what the boss wants, and it's not so bad after a while of looking at it.

You know, these reference pictures?

What is this?

A wood stain.

From the basement at work.

Okay, after this, that company is really going under.

No kid is gonna want wood stain, dead face, glaring eye thing.

Oh, come on.

We had some messed up toys when we were kids, right?

Those garbage pail kids, the creepy crawlers, the cartoon made from that toxic movie, um...

Toxic.

Toxic Avenger?

They made toys?

They sure did.

You might be looking at the next toxie.

This'll be Derek.

Who knows?

This thing could be everywhere in a few months.

Everywhere?

I hope not.

Such an ugly looking thing.

At least Crabbish Field kids were funny and gross.

You're just.

gross.

The gross little.

The gross.

Who would

want.

You are so.

So.

I mean, I.

I guess you're not so bad to look at.

Weird, but...

After a while...

What?

That's not...

Okay, okay.

Looks like I need to have it done tomorrow, so you won't need to look at it after tonight.

Carol?

I...

I'm...

I'm.

Sorry, I called you...

ugly.

Carol, Carol!

Your nose!

What?

It's bleeding!

God!

It's pouring!

Tilt your head up!

Up!

Here, take a towel.

I think I caught some on your sculpt.

It's fine.

I'll clean it up.

Are you alright?

You were saying something.

I'm fine.

I'll just go lie down for a while.

Evan, about the doll?

Yeah, don't worry.

I'll take it into work tomorrow.

You won't have to see it again.

Actually, when it's done, could you get one for the house?

You honestly want one now?

I just...

I think we should have one in the house.

What's imagination without fun?

Imagine fun.

Seek and scream.

Sammy is your new hide-and-seek friend.

Time to hide.

Try as you might, you'll never find him.

But when it's his turn, he always knows where you are.

I will always find you.

Get your hide-and-seek friend today and start the game.

They called him Seek and Scream Sammy.

When the commercial came out, it was grotesque.

They animated the doll, and seeing him move and run around was something out of a nightmare.

They were kids walking through a house with no decorations.

No furniture, no pictures, just doors and corners.

They open a closet to find nothing, only to turn around and see the doll.

They would pick up the thing, place it in the closet, and leave.

The ad would stay on the closet door.

Eventually it opened, and small chubby hands would curl around the corner.

The doll would fall out of the closet, stand up, and then it would walk around the empty house.

It was looking for the kids.

The entire thing had a poppy track with it that absolutely didn't fit.

Without the music, I'd say this thing was hunting.

To me, this was unsettling, but no one else thought so.

Because the thing was a hit.

It was like people couldn't resist buying him.

Sammy flew off shelves, went straight to people's homes, and just like in the ad, they would hide the doll.

I didn't understand it even after the hundredth time Samantha played that that twisted commercial for me.

But why buy it if you're just going to keep it hidden?

It doesn't stay hidden, it finds you.

The thing is just hollow plastic.

How is it supposed to find you?

Do parents move it around so kids think it's looking for them?

No, it searches on its own.

That's what mine does.

You're you're kidding.

You bought one?

First day from the company store.

What happened to it giving you headaches?

That stopped after I got used to it.

How about you?

Did you get one?

Yeah, I...

I got one.

I knew it.

Hey, come on.

Everyone did.

And my wife wanted one in the house, for some reason.

So?

What does yours tell you?

Tell?

They...

They really made it talk?

Like in the ad?

I...

I had no idea.

What do you have to squeeze it or pull the hand?

No, nothing like that.

You just have to listen.

It talks when it wants you to hear it.

Okay,

that's...

that's weird.

I really thought there was nothing in it.

Is it like a motion-activated thing?

I'd hate to have that thing saying it'll find me.

It's less creepy if it just screamed or something.

That's the only thing I can see it doing.

Some might scream, but not the one I have.

It told me a story.

That would have been like my 10th guess, after maybe something in Latin.

Wanna hear it?

Uh,

sure.

It was a story about a creature.

A thing made from terror.

A thing that screamed for sacrifices.

It walked in a pool of bodies, mutilated to its satisfaction.

It continued its carnage until it was sealed away in a tree.

Bleeding a thick, dark sap.

A sap that would stain the wood with its face.

Screaming, demanding, and hating.

Jesus, we're selling that to kids?

You sure you heard it right?

Positive.

I listen to it tell that story every night.

Okay.

Okay.

You almost have me there.

No way they'd make a doll that tells gore-filled stories and no way you listen to it every night.

See for yourself, Evan.

Let the doll talk to you.

Seriously, you need to let it talk to you.

I didn't know why I had to buy it until I listened.

I was certain she was kidding.

There was no way they'd make a doll that tells kids' stories about lakes of messed up limbs, no matter how disturbing the ads were.

Still, I wanted to take a look at the one I bought my wife, just to be sure.

We hadn't talked about the doll since I brought it home.

Carol took it out of its box, and without a word, she placed it somewhere in the house.

While sitting next to her that evening, watching a program I was barely paying attention to, The ad for Sammy came on.

That's when I finally asked her.

Where did you hide that thing?

You're not supposed to know.

You know the ad.

He finds you.

Carol, seriously, I just want to look at it.

Sam says it has a voice box, told me it says some really fucked up things.

It's probably a joke, but I just want to be sure.

It does say some interesting things when it wants to.

What does it say?

I can't tell you.

You need to let it find you and listen.

Okay, come on.

I really don't want to play this game.

Just tell me where the doll is.

I can't.

Carol, just tell me.

I really can't.

Why?

Why the hell can you not tell me?

How long are you gonna play this childish game?

I can't, Evan.

I don't know where it is.

It has to find you.

Fuck it.

Fine.

Fine.

I'll look for it myself.

This whole thing is becoming more stress than I...

Carol's nose was starting to bleed again.

It wasn't pouring like before, but it was enough to pull me out of my anger and noticed that the room was quiet.

Carol had paused the TV on the ad.

Paused it on the doll, walking through the halls, hunting.

She stared at the screen, unblinking.

Carol, are you alright?

I'm great.

Just great.

I couldn't sleep that night.

All I could see was the doll, walking through the halls, looking for people, looking to tell them something.

My head was throbbing with the idea of this angry freak roaming my home with its little secrets.

My thoughts were interrupted when Carol got out of bed.

I listened to her walk slowly to the door and leave the room.

From there, I heard her open door after door.

I waited until her steps went down the staircase before I followed.

I listened at the top of the stairs as she walked from room to room, doing the same thing she did upstairs, opening doors and cupboards.

She did this for maybe 10 or 15 minutes, sometimes circling back and rechecking rooms.

After all this mindless searching, everything

just

stopped.

The house had become completely silent.

I stepped down the stairs.

I wondered if Carol had walked outside.

The house was too quiet for her still to be here.

It was as I reached the last step that I started to hear something.

Carol was talking.

Whispering.

I followed the whispers to my studio space.

I found her there, in the dark.

talking to the doll.

She held it close, hugging it.

Its face was near her ear.

The bulging eyes peeked out from her hair, almost glaring at me.

What are you doing?

Carol brought the doll down, still hugging it tightly.

I'm listening.

Can't you hear?

I don't hear anything.

It's really beautiful, Evan.

You have no idea.

It's like a gospel.

Carol turned around.

As she did, her flesh moved slowly, settling on her skull.

Something was pulling her face, pressing her eyes further in.

She smiled as something popped underneath.

A gospel of death and destruction, of red skies,

oceans swimming with limbs, a chorus of screams, and he wants us to be a part of it.

She started laughing.

Her eyes had fully sunk into her head.

Her face was covered in blood, and she was laughing like a giddy child.

My teeth clenched at the sight of this.

I was so distracted by what I was seeing, I almost didn't hear the snap of her spine.

Carol's body was twisting, breaking.

Bone tearing through skin.

I knew what it was doing.

Sammy was sculpting her, forming a mass of meat into a new body.

I had to stop it.

No, no, no, no, Carol, I got you, I got you.

I dove my hands into the loose mass, trying to form it, pull it, reshape it into Carol.

Every time I snapped a bone where I wanted it, Two more would break and reshape somewhere else.

I was sculpting a squid, slithering and sliding through my hands.

I tried to focus on her face.

If I could just

bring back her face.

Okay, just let me get one part right.

Just one part.

I'll find you in there.

Hang on.

I pulled her eyes back up, shaped her nose.

The face was close.

So close.

Pulsating flesh, but I could see her.

Carol's left eye rolled rolled to look at me.

I froze from its gaze.

Carol?

The eye winked and fell into the mass.

The rest of what was my wife slithered from my hands and scampered out of the room on too many legs that it was still learning to use.

I could hear its feet clicking and slapping the floor as it tore through the house and broke through a window into the night.

As it left, I could still hear her laughing.

I heard more things running outside.

Things with too many limbs laughing joyfully, all breaking out of homes.

That doll sold everywhere.

I could only guess it was taking people from every house.

My hands were still covered with Carol's blood.

I looked at them for a long time before I got up and started searching.

Sammy had left some time after it changed her, hiding somewhere in the house.

After an hour of searching, I stopped, sat in the living room, and waited.

Just as the sun rose, he found me.

He was standing by my feet, eyes large, mouth open in a scream.

Just how I made him.

I picked him up, held him to my ear,

and listened.

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You may have heard about technological efforts being made these days to implant computer chips in the human brain.

Will they help or hinder humanity?

Ah, who knows.

But if they work, imagine what it might mean for human productivity.

Well, in this tale, shared with us by author Dennison Sleeper, we look into the future to learn of workers who can work even while sleeping thanks to an implanted brain chip.

You know what they say: no rest for the wicked.

Performing this tale are Peter Lewis, Jeff Clement, and Tanya Milosevic.

So, if you end up working morning, noon, and night, I'd say you're owed some overtime.

You're late.

The nurse stomps out a cigarette as punctuation, huddled under an awning outside the fire exit.

A brick props open the emergency door.

Pods all look the same at night.

I light my own.

Well, not like the guy's going anywhere.

He leans against the wall, coolly, attempting an air of calm.

What did they tell you about this one?

They never tell me anything.

Anyone see you come in?

A bum in the parking lot when we got here.

About as fried as our patient upstairs.

HQ made a switch to plain clothes and unmarked vans now.

If he's got enough synapses left to process, he would have seen just a couple of drones heading home for the night.

Where are they now?

What?

I don't know, man.

Not here.

The rule is: nobody sees us.

Nobody.

Last nurse got doxed.

Protesters outside of her condo in a day had to get relocated.

Yeah.

Relocated.

He lights up another cigarette.

Don't bother.

We're going up.

He knows I wasn't late by accident.

That would be impossible.

Automata Worldwide's fleet of self-drivers have less than a 0.01% chance of arrival time inaccuracy, especially when coming from HQ directly to one of the company's own employee pods.

But what I said earlier wasn't a lie either.

All of the pods do look the same at night and during the day.

City block-sized cubes of brutalist architecture housing 400 to 600 loyal workers each.

He also knows it's not his place to ask questions.

We creep up the fire exit stairs like stoned teenagers returning home after curfew.

We text the second nurse inside of the apartment who cracks open the door as we arrive.

I lock the door, check their ID tags, and shake off the adrenaline.

Each of us has a different technical manual for dealing with dreamers.

Each tailored to our exact roles and responsibilities, sparse and specific as to ensure we don't fuck up, don't know more than we need to.

It's a good thing, too, given the manuals are written on acid paper that dissolves within a few hours of opening, quickening the more you handle it.

I don't bother bringing one anymore.

By the time I'm called in, there's only so much that can be done.

The second nurse is a young woman, sporting a tight, white and black spotted dress, dangling teardrop earrings, a jet-black bob haircut, and heels hastily covered in plastic wrap.

She nervously flips through her manual with one hand, covering her face with a tissue in the other.

That's not good.

They called her during an off day, and she's new.

Are we shorthanded already?

Put the manual away, miss.

You're going to burn the thing out early.

I'll walk you through it.

She eyes me warily and checks with her partner, who nods in confirmation.

The nurse returns the manual to a leather clutch hanging off her shoulder.

The smell.

Jesus.

My head is killing me.

Can I step out for a minute?

Rule number three.

Don't, under any circumstances, circumstances, leave until the dreamer is awake.

Or terminated.

And that's rule two for us.

Here.

The male nurse hands her a small pump of liquid menthol.

Sprayed on the tissue.

I stopped bringing that, too.

What she smells, what we all smell, is the unmistakable miasma of human rot.

A sickly sweet mixture of pus, sugar, and gangrene.

Stew gone bad, left to fester on the stove in a humid city apartment.

Each appointment begins with an inspection.

In an 800-square-foot apartment, it takes me less than 10 minutes.

I check for hidden cameras, wiretaps, cell phones, smart devices, unsent and unopened letters, anything related to the outside world.

In the pods, this is made even easier as everything is provided by their and my employer, Automata.

His webcam knows what he's been eating and his microwave knows when he cooked it.

The AI assistant playing his favorite songs, setting his alarm, calling mom, knows when he's fallen asleep based on the cadence of his breathing and for how long.

This is how Automata was alerted.

First, the employee stops showing up for day shifts at the office.

Burnout is real, so no shows are initially forgiven.

Especially if they live in the pod.

For them, no job equals no home.

They reappear eventually.

If they don't, then the analysts pull their bio records from their home.

Their breathing indicates an abnormality of REM sleep, too deep for just drug use or alcoholism, and the erratic nature of the dreaming indicates increased brain activity.

The same centers of the brain are involved when working.

Normally, this would be done in real time, the employee caught within a few days.

My inspection reveals that, unlike the others, this one is offline.

That means they were working on something sensitive.

The apartment consists of three rooms, a front living area with a couch, TV, desk, kitchenette, and a door to the bathroom.

The third and final room is separated simply by a large curtain behind the couch, failing to confine the smell of death behind it.

The room has been restricted in emergency protocol by automata.

That means only the dim red emergency lights are working.

Internet access is cut.

The air conditioning is too strong and too cold for preservation.

The apartment stays this way until an inspector like like myself clears the Dreamer for reintegration.

I walk towards the bedroom, the nurse is in tow.

I was hired during the launch of the DreamWorks program three years ago.

I worked in employee monitoring long before that.

If we were allowed to use names, mine would be in the byline of the tech manuals.

I get to act jaded because I've seen it all.

The hard-nosed corporate gumshoe, the inscrutable company goon.

Cool, calm, collected.

At this moment,

thoroughly shocked and disgusted.

An attempted exclamation under my breath is caught in my throat alongside coffee-flavored bile.

Yeah, it's bad.

Suspended above the bed before me is a human marionette.

A mass of tangled cables hovers above him like a chaotic thought bubble.

Streams of different colors connected to body parts and machinery.

Thin white wires attached to electrodes on the temple and forehead.

Thick black cables connected to the headset that lays tilted over his eyes.

A dark blue glow emanating from underneath.

Straps hung haphazardly through rings in the ceiling that hold up the twig-like forearms, fingers still frantically typing at an invisible keyboard.

The legs are propped up with pillows to keep the blood from clotting.

A catheter runs out below the sheets, a yellowing stain forming along its course.

An IV runs from the worm-like artery of his left arm.

Another sits in the shriveled muscle of his quadriceps.

These last two were added by the nurse upon arrival.

The fingers are broken and askew, the tips bloody stumps, fingernails disappeared or hanging on by a strand of flesh.

The keyboard, set aside by the nurse, a violation of protocol, is dotted in flecks of blood and bone.

His lips are dried and cracked, glistening from a recent sheen of balm the nurse applied before shoving a feeding tube down his throat.

The male nurse gently pushes the body side to side, wiping at open bed sores with antiseptic.

Even in such a deep sleep, the body twitches involuntarily with pain.

I know the nurses aren't allowed to administer any sort of anesthetic, as it could interfere with the dreamer's work.

We are not permitted to know exactly what that work is.

The electrode wires end in a thick white plastic monitor hanging above the headboard.

I insert my ID card, punch in the code, and watch as an antique strip of receipt paper prints out below.

Six inches, twelve, eighteen, the receipt comes to a halt three feet later.

What's it say?

He knows I can't answer that.

Not that it would make any sense to him.

The report is in binary.

I scan the receipt and send it back to HQ, awaiting instructions.

I slump into the couch in the living room and rub my eyes.

The coffee table in front of me is littered with opened bills and a series of pink and green envelopes, long ignored, surely containing the same.

A much healthier version of the bed-ridden drone sits in a frame, holding a girl I imagine is his daughter.

Your medical records are here, too.

The nurse points at the picture frame.

Leukemia.

No wonder we picked up overtime.

I'm guessing the bastard's overclocked him.

Overtime.

Overclocked.

Derogatory slang for the DreamWorks program.

Words any smart employee would avoid saying behind even closed doors for fear of firing, or worse.

As much as I hate to admit to the brash, rage against the machine attitude of Gen Alpha, each inspection makes it harder to argue.

DreamWorks is overtime while you sleep.

A computer chip the size of a dime inserted deep into the temporal lobe, stimulated by electrical signals at night, returning simple feedback to a localized hard drive in the form of binary.

That code is sent back to Atomata HQ, translated, and used for all sorts of things.

Customer purchasing preferences, search engine optimization, GPS coordinates, or, if you listen to the anti-AI protesters, the total mapping of the human subconscious to fully automate artificial intelligence programs and create a system of living, breathing computers.

Phase us out completely.

The program has been a huge success.

Employees relished the opportunity to literally make money while they slept.

Users reported the occasional nightmare or vision disturbance during the day, but nothing more.

Until a few started disappearing from the office.

Then a few more.

Like any new technology, DreamWorks was launched in beta.

It needed tweaking, patches, defenses against hackers.

Began with a solid 99% efficacy.

The 1% lies a few feet behind me, desiccated, riddled with open source, fingers typing until they break down into cases cases of loose sausage, unable to wake up, trapped in their digital cubicle.

The first few cases were easy enough.

Disconnect the units, perform a hard reset, inject some adrenaline, and you're good to go.

In rare cases, electrostimulation via a needle inserted into the chip, bonus pay for their troubles.

The majority of them didn't even leave the program.

Rumor is that the ones who did back out, the ones tapped into the cloud, they kept on working anyways, without ever knowing, were being compensated.

How are his vitals?

BPM at 50 with a slight arrhythmia.

BP80 over 60.

Blood sugar basically non-existent.

Eye movement suggesting stage 3 REM.

Say he's been like this for seven,

maybe eight days.

How is that possible?

The nurse shrugs.

Given the emergency code on this one and the size of the incision on the back of the head, I'd say he's got something a bit more advanced in there than the rest.

He taps his head with a gloved finger.

You're taking notes on this?

Rule five, nothing on paper.

I mimic him with a tap to my own head.

My portable scanner pings.

Code words drift across the two-inch L C D display, too long to be read at once, just in case anyone looks over my shoulder.

Omega 127 Atom Juice.

Extend, extend, extend.

I squint at the screen and wait for the words to pass by again to confirm.

Extend, extend, extend.

A word I've only seen once before, and never in triplicate.

For the first time since my rookie months, I wish I had my manual.

What are our orders, Captain?

I sigh as I push off my knees to stand.

You talk too much.

The nurses follow me back to the bed.

I point to the girl.

You set up a cascade of three more IV bags.

Double-check the stability of the feeding tube and the volume of the nutrition formula.

Replace the catheter.

I'll need you back here twice a week for maintenance.

You'll get your orders the day of.

Understood.

She speaks confidently, relieved to finally be involved.

I point to the man.

You raise the patient, thoroughly clean the sores, and pack them with gauze.

Replace the sheets, shake out the legs and arms.

Your priority is the fingers.

Check the damage and add splints.

I need you to make sure those fingers are fixed up properly.

I cannot stress this enough.

And the electrodes?

Don't touch them or the headset.

I'll handle those.

We set to our tasks.

The girl is eager and efficient, works in silence.

She's getting a solid report from me.

The man.

The man is keeping an eye on me, and me on him.

A rookie would say he's methodical.

I say he's stalling.

I remove the headset, clean the padding, and tighten it up with a snug fit.

Finally, I plug in a flash drive containing a much-needed update.

I type in a code to the monitor for a hard reset.

Then I slip into the living room to perform some old-school maintenance.

Grabbing a pair of scissors from the dreamer's desk, I cut the cords of every electronic device in the house, lamps included.

By now, automata would have reset the lock code for the door.

Progress report?

All good on my end.

Indeed, she is.

Each of her tasks in fine order.

Almost.

The male nurse is gently massaging the feet of the dreamer.

I inspect his work, primarily the fingers.

The splints are well done, stiff and secure.

Automata uses very specific splints for the dreamers, rubber tips on the end and elastic shock absorbers surround the joints.

I recheck the monitor and headset and remove the flash drive.

We're all set in here.

Wait for me in the living room.

The girl marches off.

The male nurse lingers, staring at the face of the dreamer, casting a mournful glance over his shoulder as he leaves.

I begin my last task.

In spite of his aggressive typing, the keyboard remains in working order.

I reattach the wrist straps and place it a half inch underneath his fingers, which continue in their lonely wriggle, searching for their keys like worms to soil.

With the keyboard back in position, I give the dreamer a shot of adrenaline, and the fingers come to life in an excited march across their field of dreams.

What are you doing?

Miss, please head down to the parking lot.

A car is waiting for you.

Be sure to take the fire exit stairs.

You will hear from us soon.

She glances at the male nurse and back to me before heading out.

The male nurse is shivering.

I step close to him and pull out a slim digital camera.

This you?

I show him the screen, an image of him, picket sign in hand, mouth stretched wide mid-shout, eyes wrinkled in anger.

The sign reads, Dreamworks equals slavery.

I have no doubt that if he could, he would tackle me right now and beat my face in.

He might have the size to do it, too.

But my left hand, below the belt, holds a syringe of tranquilizer stuck deep into his thigh, the needle imperceptibly thin.

He crumples onto the floor, eyes wide in fear and shock.

Mute,

helpless, and fully cognizant, I check my watch.

You'll be collected in seven minutes.

I can't tell you what happens after that.

My advice?

If you get the chance, if they let you alone,

kill yourself.

It will be a mercy.

Tears well up in his eyes.

And I continue, startled to find myself choking up.

I'm sorry about your brother.

Our phone lines have been cut.

The cell signals are lost.

But we will return to delve into your darkest hang-ups when the calls will be coming from inside your house.

The No Sleep podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media.

The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone.

Our production team is Phil Maikolski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornette, and Claudius Moore.

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

White, and Kristen Semito.

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

Add-free extended episodes each week, and lots of bonus content for the dark hours, all for one low monthly price.

On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for taking our nightmarish calls.

This audio program is Copyright 2024 and 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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And his pecs glistened in the moonlight.

And Kevin, feeling weird because of all the talk about pecs, and Rachel handing him peanut MMs to keep him quiet.

Uh, Kevin, I can't hear.

Yellow, we're keeping it PG-13.

MMs, it's more fun together.

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