S22: NoSleep Podcast Holiday Hiatus 2024 #2

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They're calling.

Like me to call you back quickly if you're new.

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

Happy New Year and welcome to the No Sleep Podcast.

I'm your host, David Cummings.

With the holiday season coming to a close and the new year of 2025 now underway, the team at the No Sleep Podcast is prepping many new and spine-tingling tales for you.

We'll be returning to our regular Season 22 schedule next weekend with episode 5.

This week we're sharing two tales that seem fitting for how most people feel coming out of the busy holiday season.

I mean, basically, like we're losing our minds.

Yes, the crazy hectic nature of the holidays can make most people feel out of kilter.

What day of the week is it?

Why is the scale showing me 20 pounds heavier?

Who were all those strange people I spent time with the past few weeks?

It's enough to make you feel like your sanity is hanging by a thread.

But unless your life is a living, breathing no-sleep story, you'll count yourself luckier than the people you'll encounter in this episode.

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And so, dear friends, let's hope 2025 is a wonderful, prosperous, and sane year for all of us.

And if nothing else, you can start the year knowing that you can always brace yourself.

In our first tale, we meet a typical government bureaucrat, making sure that funds are all rightly accounted for.

Financial accountability accountability is enough to drive anyone mad, right?

Well, as author Larry Alan Tyler shares with us, Roger Hoag is off to visit a clinic which has received state funding, and he has to ensure what they're doing is financially and morally sound.

Performing this tale are Kristen DiMakurio, Peter Lewis, Graham Rowett, and Atticus Jackson.

And so, let's learn about an incident which inspired the report titled, Regarding the Diagnosis and Treatment of Changeling Disorder, parentheses, Marquartz Disease.

A few years ago, the State Department of Human Services created a new position within their Bureau of Licensing Services and called it Practice Assurance Specialist.

It was a good title, and they chose the perfect person to fill the position.

Roger Hoag.

It was a good title because no one could tell what it meant just by looking at it.

Roger Hoag liked the title because the vagueness of it guaranteed a higher salary.

People who have titles like quality systems analyst, plant dynamics coordinator, or linear management supervisor, titles that make you scratch your head and say, what the hell does that mean, make a lot more money than people who have titles like janitor or or dishwasher.

What it actually meant, though, was that Roger Hoag was hired to visit all the programs in the state that provided psychiatric services, look at their records, and make sure they weren't swindling the state out of the money they'd been given.

It was the perfect job for Roger Hoag.

He was an accountant by trade with the heart of a bulldog.

In the two years he held this position, Roger managed to throw every CEO in the state into a panic.

He showed up at hospitals, clinics, agencies, and private practices, clipboard in hand, and never left without retrieving some of the money they'd been given by the state.

A clawback, it's called.

Sometimes it was a couple thousand dollars he retrieved because the program kept sloppy records on their patients, including inaccurate appointment dates or missing signatures, and so on.

And sometimes it was a quarter of a million dollars because the program had tried to shuffle, reclassify, or conceal expenses in the budget they submitted to the state.

Embezzlement, in simple terms.

Roger Hoag was cold, methodical, and effective.

And for this, the department loved him.

In late August, he was assigned to visit the Hubert Clinic.

It was not a clinic at all, technically.

The Hubert Clinic was a privately funded asylum.

For more than a century, it housed psychiatric patients whose expenses were largely paid by wealthy family members, who were grateful a place like this existed.

One that would discreetly tuck away embarrassing family members and feed and clothe them without snuffing them out.

It was no longer called the Hubert Insane Asylum or the Hubert Mental Hospital.

Those names disappeared several decades ago.

The Hubert Clinic had a much nicer ring to it.

It also disguised the fact that the place was still, essentially, despite what they'd named it, an insane asylum.

Roger Hoag chose his wardrobe carefully for the visit, but it didn't depart much from what he always wore, which you might call mid-20th century bureaucrat.

He always sported a bow tie and usually a white short-sleeved shirt.

Khakis, of course, and sometimes a wool vest.

Brown.

Always brown.

His glasses were round and thickly rimmed.

His hair was obligingly receding.

His face also cooperated with the image he was striving for, looking not so much stern as simply incapable of breaking into a warm smile.

For this particular visit, he selected a wool jacket terribly out of season for August, but one that clearly communicated the notion that he would be around for as long as it took to uncover fraud and deception.

He wanted to let them know at the Hubert Clinic that he wasn't going away.

He didn't let the clinic know ahead of time he was going to show up.

He never did.

Dr.

Marquard, however, was not one to be easily spooked.

He invited Roger Hoague into his office and offered him a coffee that the investigator refused.

No bribe was too small as far as Roger Hoag was concerned.

How can I help you?

Roger Hoag told him he had come because the department uncovered a discrepancy in the clinic's census record.

You've reported 32 patients in residence, but you are budgeting for only 30.

Dr.

Marquardt smiled.

That's quite right.

Does the state object to the clinic requiring funds for fewer patients than we actually serve?

We don't object, but we are puzzled, and we prefer to receive accurate accounting from the programs we fund.

Puzzled?

How can I help you solve your puzzle?

You can let me look at your records.

Certainly.

But I can do better than that.

I can also show you these two mystery patients.

Would you like that?

Roger Hoag didn't answer.

How familiar are you with the diagnoses of mental disorders?

Roger Hoag shrugged.

Not especially familiar, but that is not my area of expertise.

Budgets are.

Yes, indeed.

Let me fill you in quickly, though.

Dr.

Marquart reached behind him and pulled out a thick book from the bookcase labeled DSM.

He plopped it down on the desk in front of him.

Mental disorders have changed over the years, Mr.

Hoag.

Back at the end of the 19th century, people showed up with an entirely different form of craziness, if you will, than we see today.

They were making barnyard noises back then.

They stopped talking in a human tongue and began barking like a dog, bleeding like a goat, or mooing like a cow.

You see, Mr.

Hoag, they'd checked out of life because it had become intolerable to them, but they did so in a way that was symbolic of their times.

It was an agrarian society back then, so they only knew what they knew.

To retreat from society meant to retreat to the animal kingdom, and so they did.

But then as time went on, you saw a different type of mental disorder, and that was after the turn of the century.

People began to hear sounds from electrical wires in their homes.

Light bulbs were talking to them.

The radio was sending them coded messages.

Time and civilization moved on, and so did mental illness.

Later, it was messages from outer space they heard.

When they couldn't run from the pressures of of society, they floated into fantasies within their own heads.

Hallucinations, delusions.

Still, they had to retreat further.

They completely dissolved their personalities and even created new personas.

A multitude of them in some cases, fabricated inside their own bodies.

You see, Mr.

Hoag, the history of civilization is the history of hide-and-go-seek.

Thank you for your history lesson, Dr.

Marquardt.

Sincerely, it was interesting.

But that is not the reason I am here.

I simply care to know why your reports to the state don't balance the way they should.

Of course.

Dr.

Marquardt smiled a mock, sheepish grin.

But I felt it necessary to fill you in on some background information before we visit the two patients who have come to your attention.

You need to know why I have chosen to exclude them from our records.

To seclude them completely from the entire world, in fact.

You see, they represent an evolution in mental illness.

An ugly evolution.

A terrifying evolution, quite frankly, that extends far beyond our abilities to treat or contain.

As you will soon see.

He slid the book on the table toward Roger Hoag and tapped it twice.

I defy you to find a diagnosis in this book that comes close to describing what you are about to witness for yourself.

Roger Hoag looked at the book, but didn't respond.

He stood up with his arms folded and studied the doctor.

The man had an unsettling calm about him and a detachment that Roger Hoague labeled arrogance.

The doctor's movements seemed to be in slow motion, as though each gesture had to be choreographed ahead of time.

The doctor's voice was a low-register monotone.

Dr.

Marquardt endured the scrutiny for several seconds and drew in a a long breath when he had had enough of it.

Come along with me, then.

Let's meet these two patients.

He led Roger Hoag out of the front door and walked him around to the back of the building, to a secluded area.

And from there, it wasn't a long walk, but a steep one, to a small, one-story structure that stood atop a neglected slope in the shadows behind the administration building.

Struggling through thick weeds and thorny bushes, Roger Hoag thought he heard faint noises coming from the structure ahead.

Sounds that rose above the rustle of twigs and dry grass that crackled under his feet.

It almost sounded like human sounds, like moans and whimpers.

Perhaps it was just a trick of the wind blowing through the trees, making strange whistling noises that could have sounded like most anything.

He was worn out from his long trip to the clinic, after all, and vulnerable to silly ideas, so he brushed aside the fantasy that entered his head.

It might just as well have sprung out of the worries that suddenly came to mind about following this odd and eerie Dr.

Marquardt into a secluded area of a remote clinic.

It was probably the wind, but the wind wasn't particularly strong that day.

Never mind that.

Keep trudging forward.

As they reached the building, Roger Hoag could see it was, to say the least, not well attended to.

Concealed in the woods and hugged tightly by years of clutching vines that crawled up the walls, it might have served as housing for a physician or administrator many decades ago, but it appeared to have been constructed for an entirely different purpose.

Something very utilitarian.

Storage, perhaps?

The building looked dark and empty now, but as he climbed the slope toward the front porch and struggled over rocks and debris, he realized it was hidden to such an extent that a person would not have seen it at all from the road, unless it was expressly pointed out to them.

It was a building that was in tremendous disrepair.

The four steps leading up to the front door were scraps of spongy, shredded lumber now.

The railing had peeled away from the porch probably decades ago and lay on the ground in a bed of yellowed grass.

Dr.

Marquardt carefully balanced himself on portions of the steps as he climbed up to the door and unlocked it.

He stepped inside and cautioned his companion not to trust his footing on the rotted planks.

There was only one story to the structure, and the total area would have easily fit into a three-car garage.

It was dark inside, but just barely light enough for Roger Hobe to see a narrow corridor that ran from the doorway to the back of the building.

The corridor was lined with six doors, three on the left and three on the right.

They were thick, heavy metal doors, supported on sturdy ancient hinges.

All but two doors, the two at the far end of the hall on the left, were open.

Every door was identical, with a strip of thinner metal constructed about nine inches wide and two inches high that could be slid back on tracks built into the door at eye level.

A peephole that allowed one to see what was in the room when the door was closed.

The tracks on which these strips of metal rode appeared rusted.

Roger Hoag was struck by two things, two overpowering observations when he first entered the building.

The first was the bleakness of the corridor, empty, stark, and confined.

And the second was the stench of human waste.

The hallway in front of him was not only dark, but frigid, at least 30 degrees colder than the air outside.

Almost immediately, Roger Hoag found a need to bury his hands in his coat pockets to keep them warm.

The moans he had heard earlier, the ones he thought might be tricks of the wind, were louder now, and they were coming from this building.

There was no doubt about that.

The doors in the corridor opened up to to rooms, but what kind of rooms?

Roger Hoag stepped forward and peered into the first room to his right.

It was an empty space, no more than eight feet long by eight feet wide, probably even smaller than that, containing nothing but a dirt floor, cement walls, and a cement ceiling.

At the top of the room, near the ceiling, which was at least 10 feet high, was a window.

A small rectangular opening carved through the cement that let in a small amount of light and even less fresh air.

Is this where you're keeping these people?

In a room like this, a cell?

Dr.

Marquardt shook his head no, but indeed that was exactly where they were kept.

The moans that could be heard outside the building were louder now.

They were certainly coming from one of the two cells at the end of the hall that had been sealed shut.

The mournful wails came from one of the rooms, and the other enclosed room remained silent.

I need to see the two patients you've been keeping here.

Dr.

Marquardt nodded.

You certainly shall, Mr.

Hoag.

He walked down the corridor to the next-to-last door on the left, a door that was locked shut, and waited for Roger Hoague to follow him.

Here is one of the two unfortunate gentlemen we have kept here, Mr.

Hoag.

I would like you to meet him.

He slid the strip of metal to the left.

and stepped aside for Roger Hoague to see.

What he saw was a meek, sad young man, sitting in the corner of his cell, rocking endlessly back and forth as he cradled his knees in his arms.

His hair and his complexion were dark.

He might have been 18, possibly younger.

The stench of excrement came through the narrow slit in the door, and Roger Hoag backed off, catching his breath.

He gathered his strength, tightened his shoulders, and gradually drew the strength to look back in.

The young man had heard the rusted metal squeal coming from the strip of metal sliding on its tracks and realized he was being observed.

He looked at the pair of eyes that peered at him through the peephole.

He held his hands out in a gesture of pleading and desperation.

Roger Hoag recoiled and glared at Dr.

Marquardt.

Who is this?

What are you doing to this boy?

Keep looking in the room.

The boy cast his head down.

His voice seemed to fade in resignation.

Enough.

This has to stop immediately.

I'm...

I'm appalled.

Appalled beyond words.

I've never seen anything so outrageous in my life.

There is no way in the world you can justify this kind of treatment to a human being.

He looked over to the next door down at the end of the corridor and considered checking out that room as well.

But what would be the point?

Let other investigators come find out for themselves what was behind that door.

The next room was silent, so Roger Hoag imagined that the other patient's despair was even worse than this boy's.

Hopelessness to the point of silence.

Roger Hoague cradled his clipboard up to his chest and made a decision not to draw another deep breath until he he was out in the fresh air.

His work was done here.

He needed to leave, write his report, and summon the authorities.

Please wait, Mr.

Hoag.

You're missing the most important part of the show.

Show?

The young man in that room has begun to realize you're not here to free him, but merely to look at him.

To gawk, to study, the way we gawk at a baboon in the zoo.

After all, you don't have a key to open his door and let him out.

He thinks he's here for your your amusement.

Where is that key?

Please look back inside that room and take note of the boy's growing fury.

That is the next generation of mental illness, Mr.

Hoag.

These are the first two individuals who've learned to defend themselves in this way, but certainly not the last.

They don't retreat to fantasies when they are under attack.

They transform themselves into aggressive beasts.

Dr.

Marquardt gave Roger Hoag a humorless smile.

Perhaps,

who's to say?

This is not really a new evolution of psychosis, but a restoration of something as ancient as mankind, as old as mythology.

He shrugged.

Regardless, you will see why this illness must remain isolated.

Why I've chosen to keep these two poor souls in isolation.

The poor boy has not just experienced trauma and pain in the past, or even a lifetime of trauma and pain.

His pain is

generational.

His family, for countless generations, has been abused, horribly abused, tortured, subjugated.

And this is how he's finally come to deal with it.

It is a solution that is new and unique.

Perhaps it is new, anyway.

But more likely, it is a solution, as I said, as ancient as mankind.

From inside his cell, the young man began to emit low, menacing growls.

Ah, this is the onset.

He's had quite enough of our taunting.

He wants us to let him out of his cage, and he's quite sick of you gawking at him.

Turn around, Mr.

Hoag, and pay attention now.

You won't want to miss what comes next.

Roger Hoag didn't turn around.

He didn't like Dr.

Marquardt's arrogant attitude, and he wouldn't be told what to do by him.

But the young man's growls and snarls began to capture his attention.

Within the space of only a few seconds, the noises, which at first sounded distinctly human, took a deeper, more primitive timper.

Nothing human-like at all.

They grew louder and more sinister, rising from the breast of a beast, not a man.

Roger Hoag couldn't resist turning around to look.

The young man's eyes had darkened considerably.

They not only darkened, but grew larger, transforming themselves into round black objects the size of silver dollars with a thin rim of white around them.

The eyes glistened like opals.

They weren't human anymore, but still served as windows to some thoughtful intellect that was fixed intently on Roger Hoag's startled gaze.

The young man's forehead abruptly sloped back.

His nose and mouth merged into a long snout under which yellow teeth dropped long, thick strands of drool on the ground.

His naked skin darkened and turned into a deep shade of green.

Tiny needles sprung all over his body, sticking out a quarter of an inch and bristling.

The young man crept forward, his shoulders broadened, and, to Roger Hoague, it looked as though his fingers were turning into talons, although he could not see them clearly through the small slit in the door.

The form of a monster, as conceived by a naive young mind.

The beast emitted another growl.

This one seemed to be a warning.

Roger Hoag inched back slightly from the door, instinctively protecting himself from attack, but intellectually analyzing the impossibility of what he was observing.

He had made his living, after all, as a skeptic, usually doubting what he was being shown and always doubting what he was being told.

He turned around and faced Dr.

Marcourt, wanting to see the expression on his face.

A very interesting show.

Very well done, very dramatic, but why?

Why would you go to so much trouble for this elaborate display?

Please, tell me, what are you expecting to gain from this?

He peered back into the cell, looking for a projector of some sort, perhaps, or some other clue as to how this grotesque scene was being created.

At that moment, the beast slammed against the door and the impact knocked Roger Hoague several steps back until he hit the wall, dazed and suddenly locked in the throes of terror.

What is happening here?

Dr.

Marquardt's face appeared to be altered by Roger Hoag's words.

For the first time, he didn't look poised and superior.

He looked vulnerable.

Believe what you are seeing.

For your own sake, please believe it.

This young man has learned how to take on a world which he perceives as evil.

He has chosen to no longer just protect himself from it, but to attack it.

If there are two people like this now, there can certainly be 20, or 50, or a thousand in no time at all.

Can there not?

This isn't right.

It isn't human, what you're doing.

Dr.

Marquardt laughed.

I would argue that it is all too human.

What can you know of families that have grown up in generations of subjugation and humiliation for further back than any of them can remember, Mr.

Hoag?

How can you know anything about how that rage builds and stays under the surface, passed down again and again until it becomes the core of a person's being?

How can you know that?

I'm afraid you don't realize how important my work is.

I intend to discover how the terror inside us can fuel a rage so intense it can unlock the imagination and give it absolute control over our bodies.

But what if we could harness that power once it's unleashed, Mr.

Hoag?

I need to find that out.

Thick clouds of concrete dust began to fill the corridor, swirling and rising every time the beast slammed against the door to its cell.

Roger Hoag heard a mournful metallic squeal after one particularly loud assault on the door, and saw the ancient top hinge loosen from the wall.

He's breaking through.

He's going to knock down that door.

He backed up until he hit the wall once again and knew he didn't have much time to make it outdoors.

There was a beast behind that door, and it was certainly coming after him.

The clipboard fell out of his arms and landed on the floor.

To hell with it, to hell with the notes he'd been taking, and to hell with the pen attached to the clipboard.

He had more of those damned pens at the office.

To hell with it, to hell with this job, and for that matter, to hell with the beast, and especially to hell with Dr.

Marcourt.

Let the patient in that other locked cell fend for himself.

Maybe his silence would save him.

The banging grew louder.

The hinges squealed more desperately, and the growls from the beast inside the cell rose in pitch and urgency.

Roger Hoag turned and stumbled toward the exit at the end of the corridor.

It was too dark to see the door clearly, but he knew the door was there, and he knew he had to get it open and get outdoors before the door to the beast's cell came crashing down.

Sounds around him grew distorted.

He heard the banging of the cell door behind him, echoing again and again in the narrow corridor, mingling with the enraged growls of a beast inside the young man's cell.

He felt the cement wall scrape against his arm as he caromed off it.

He lost his footing and fell to the floor.

But that wasn't going to stop him.

He struggled to his knees, crawled a few steps, and then got back on his feet and stumbled some more until he hit the door abruptly.

His hand groped for the doorknob.

He found it but couldn't get it to turn.

It seemed to be soaked, and his hands couldn't get a solid grip.

It was soaked from the sweat that was pouring out of him.

He called out to Dr.

Marquardt, We've got to get out of here.

Indeed.

Powdery concrete dust caught in Roger Hoague's throat, and he realized his choice was to choke to death or be eaten alive unless he was able to escape out the door.

Are you coming?

He stared into the thickening cloud of dust.

No answer from Dr.

Marquardt.

Well, I'm getting out of here anyway.

You make your mind up what you plan to do.

The old concrete was as weak and brittle as limestone, but the long bolts on the hinges to the cell stubbornly resisted the beast's relentless assaults.

Roger Hoag decided that once he got safely out of this pit of hell, and that meant not just away from this building, but hours away, he would place a call to the office.

Not before then.

They would laugh at him, of course, mock him, question his sanity most likely, but he could endure that, and he knew he would be vindicated ultimately.

But let them send someone else out here.

The sheriff, state troopers, someone else, and let them try to tackle this beast and save that poor, silent patient in the next cell.

If there was anything to save when they got here.

He took both hands and pulled the door open.

He took a first, cautious step onto the porch.

The fresh air felt better than anything he had ever felt in his life.

It was warm and clear, and it swept away the hideous stench of the corridor.

The pounding and growling from that poor young man-turned beast continued, but in the cheery glow of a summer afternoon, the terrible racket seemed to fade off into the distance.

Come on, Dr.

Marquardt, get out while you still can.

He heard a voice behind him.

I am not Dr.

Marquardt.

What the hell did he mean by that?

Roger Hoag turned around.

The beast continued to pound against the cell door.

The squeal of the hinges against the old concrete wall grew sharper, and the wall seemed to be surrendering to the blows.

Dr.

Marquardt's footsteps drew closer, but he walked slowly, almost leisurely.

Come on, come on!

Roger Hoague hollered, but to no avail.

Okay, fine.

Then let the bastard be killed if that was the way he wanted it.

What's the matter with you?

Come on.

What are you waiting for?

The footsteps continued on at a relaxed pace.

Arrogance.

Pure arrogance.

Through the chalky haze, Roger Hoag saw a figure approaching.

The corridor was thick with concrete dust now, filling the corridor like a dense fog.

It looked like Dr.

Marquardt was approaching.

Or something like him.

Moving faster now.

Coming toward him.

Dr.

Marquardt?

Dr.

Marquardt.

Is that you?

It was.

And it wasn't.

Through the clouds of dust, he saw a figure emerge.

He didn't like what he saw.

Ah,

greetings from my bath, festive friends.

The holidays are overwhelming, but I'm tackling this season with PayPal and making the most of my money, getting 5% cash back when I pay in four.

No fees, no interest.

I used it to get this portable spa with jets.

Now the bubbles can cling to my sculpted but pruny body.

Make the most of your money this holiday with PayPal.

Save the offer in the app.

And 1231, see paypal.com slash promo terms.

Points give you reading for cash and more paying for subject to terms and approval.

PayPal Inc.

at MLS 910-457.

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 demand 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.

In our final tale, we delve into the world of Greek life.

No, I'm not talking about olives and ouzo.

I mean the fraternities and sororities found on many college campuses.

They can be fun and beneficial groups to be a part of.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Jenna Dietzer, we meet Rachel, who is trying to adapt to her new university.

When she's asked to rush at the Kai House sorority, she thinks she's found a positive new social circle.

Except she has no idea what kind of hazing she'd endure.

Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas, Nicole Goodnight, Catabelle Ansari, Marie Westbrook, Danielle McRae, Lindsay Russo, Mary Murphy, and Erin Lillis.

So don't be fooled by that Greek letter.

It might look like an X, but you'll learn the hard way that it's pronounced Kai.

My first weeks as a Florida transplant and college freshman almost crushed me.

Surrounded by strangers and dizzying heat, all I wanted to do was hide.

And since a dorm room with paper-thin walls had replaced home, I hid myself in the library.

Inside, it was cool and barely lit, and quiet except for rustling.

It was also where Yara found me.

I was walking toward another afternoon of feeling sorry for myself when Yara stepped between me and the library steps.

She wore our school colors, crimson and brown, and a cascade of blonde hair poured over her shoulders.

She offered a smile and slipped a flyer into my hands.

You should come.

I looked down at the paper.

In the center was a large dark X, and in smaller font below it, an address on the outskirts of campus.

What is this?

She stepped around to my left and pressed her shoulder against mine.

In her hair, I could smell traces of coconut.

Her smile was a perfect bow of pink.

Where is sorority?

She pointed at the flyer.

The X is the Greek ladder Kai, and that's the address of our sorority house.

Rush starts next week, and you look like someone who'd fit in at Kai House.

I eyed the flyer, then Yara, skeptically.

She had a celebrity tan, pouty lips, and nothing short of perfect skin.

Classic Florida girl.

If every other member of Kai was as pretty as her, then I would clearly not fit in.

My northeastern skin burned too easily here.

What makes you think I'd fit in?

Well, you're headed toward the library, which means you're smart.

So are we.

You look like you could use some support.

that's what we're all about

the words sounded tempting but if i was reading between the lines she'd called out my strangeness as an obvious bullseye not a story i told myself in my head when i was feeling down

yara noted my silence

what's your name

rachel

it's nice to meet you rachel my name is yara

she wrapped an arm around me, half hugging as if she were consoling an old friend.

I felt lonely and out of place, just like you during my first weeks here.

Kai can help.

That's what they did for me.

That's the power of a sorority.

She sached off, taking her sweet aroma with her, and disappeared into the crowd of students.

No one else approached me about joining their sorority that week.

No one even seemed to notice me.

I beetled from the dorm to the library to the cafeteria as if I were a ghost.

So on Friday night, as I looked across an empty library and munched on my vending machine candy bar, I summoned the confidence to walk to Kai House.

Maybe this could turn my fate around, as it had for Yara.

The sorority house had a face of pale yellow bricks.

Black shutters framed rows of large windows poised above the sloping lawn.

Mint green tiles covered the roof.

In the center of the house were two white columns supporting an awning, where the letter X was painted.

Scattered across the Kailon were seven or eight other hopefuls, fewer than I'd expected.

At 10 p.m., several of the sisters emerged from the house.

Yara waved when she spotted me, but didn't move from her station in the lineup of girls.

Another passed out slips of paper and pens.

Then she told us to write our names at the tops of our papers and write down our answers to the question.

Mine read, What are your top three fears?

I glanced around at the other rushes, who were already pressing their squares of paper against purses, each other's backs, and the backs of their own hands to spill their confessions.

I thought for a moment, then wrote, Death, losing my mind, cockroaches.

When everyone on the lawn handed back their papers, the sisters told us to return the following Friday when a decision would be made.

Then they marched back into the house and shut the door.

Those of us left glanced around at each other and huddled along the sidewalk.

Uh, what the hell was that?

Yeah,

no parties, no events, nothing about getting matched.

It sounds like they're gonna judge us based on our fears alone, which is a dick move.

We nodded our heads in collective agreement.

Actually, I think I know what's gonna happen.

We all turned toward her, and she lowered her voice.

My older sister told me about Kai.

She's the school alum.

This sorority's mantra is fearless females.

So, isn't it obvious?

My face wasn't the only one that went blank.

She gave us all an exasperated sigh.

They're gonna make us confront our fears in order to get in.

I swallowed hard as I remembered what I wrote.

They couldn't kill me or make me crazy, but the cockroaches.

That was possible.

Florida was littered with them, especially in the September heat.

We even had an entomology department where a lot of dudes studied bugs.

It just took knowing the right person.

Are you sure?

She nodded.

I bet on it.

We stood in a silent circle, filled with anxiety, until the girl next to me started walking off.

There's no way I'm letting one of these bitches draw my blood or put me in a room with a clown.

There's plenty of other sororities.

Peace out, Kai.

You can take Rush Week and shove it.

One by one, the other pledges walked off, until three of us remained.

The girl whose sister knew about Kai's reputation turned to me.

What did you write down?

Roaches.

I hate roaches.

One fell in my mouth when I was a kid.

She cringed.

That sounds pretty awful, but it also sounds like there's nothing they can do to you that's worse than that.

I considered this and nodded in agreement.

One of mine was public speaking.

If I'm being honest, facing that fear would help me more than it would harm me.

And what were your other two?

Death and Heights.

Obviously, they can't do much about the first one, but I'm scared enough of Heights that I might not come back either.

They'd probably want me to bungee jump or something ridiculous like that.

Oof.

She shuddered.

Eventually, we disbanded, but my mind was plagued by the strange ceremony on the lawn for the rest of the next week.

I thought about roaches each time I sat in the musty, silent library, flinched at every creeping shadow on my dorm room floor, and had nightmares of roaches crawling into my open mouth as I slept.

My rational brain told me there was no way they'd haze us with our fears.

Greek hazing alone had gotten enough bad press for them to think twice.

Still, with the end of Rush Week looming and no other chance to speak to Kai before it ended, there seemed little else we could do to win their favor.

What I'd written on that piece of paper was more significant than I cared to admit.

I looked for Yara on the library lawn again and thought how brave she was to approach complete strangers with a flyer, to move in with women she didn't know, to overcome a fear.

Every sister who stood in front of the pledges that night was just as confident, effortlessly.

It was as if they held the secret to not only surviving, but thriving at college.

So I found myself beneath Kai House's large ex the following Friday.

I'd purchased a special dress for the event, floral and innocent looking.

In my nervousness, I kept tugging at the hem.

Part of me hoped the fear tests would be a mistake.

That we'd do sister speed dating and pop a bottle of champagne at the end.

I was the only one at the door.

I checked my watch.

10 p.m.

on the nose.

Yet all the lights were off inside, like a house without candy on Halloween.

I wondered if I'd misheard the start time or if none of the other pledges were coming back after all.

I pressed a finger against Kai's doorbell and waited as the sound echoed.

Then giggling bubbled up deep within the house.

Hello?

The door swung back to reveal candlelight flickering against the ceiling and corridor.

Perhaps one of the pledges had written that she was afraid of the dark?

I thought.

The sister in the foyer directed me to the left, toward what looked like a living room.

The rest of the sisters stood with their backs pressed against the walls.

Although faces were hard to discern in the shadows, I didn't see any of the other pledges among them.

Yara stood in the center with a wooden box in her hands and an empty chair in front of her, the only piece of furniture in the room.

Here, Rach,

may I call you Rach?

She beckoned me with her hand and that familiar, warm smile.

Have a seat.

I hesitated.

The girl behind me gently pushed me forward.

Now, now,

you came back because you wanted to be a part of Kai.

It's just a chair.

I gulped, and as I walked toward the chair, my breath caught in my lungs.

The other pledge was right, I told myself.

They couldn't do anything worse to me than that first experience of the cockroach wiggling inside my mouth.

If I could make it through the next half hour, I could make it through anything.

I sat down, and Yara sank to one knee beside me.

Our eyes met.

Rachel, last Friday you shared with us that your fears were death, losing your mind, and cockroaches.

I felt naked.

The answer to overcoming those fears is Kai.

Will you say it with us?

She paused.

Kai.

And then again?

Kai.

My voice felt hidden in my throat.

She repeated it back to me, raising her own voice until mine grew louder.

The word pricked on every sister's tongue, spreading across the room.

Kai.

Yara pulled back the wooden box's lid to reveal a dead cockroach inside.

Six spindly legs curled against its caramel belly.

Two antenna formed a V above its small head.

The sisters hushed.

I winced as she pinched the antenna between her manicured fingertips and dangled it in front of my face.

Eat it.

Own your fear.

Let it become a part of you.

I turned my cheek and recoiled at the memory of the cockroach that had accidentally passed my lips when I was a child.

My tongue desperately pushing it out.

The brush of its flimsy shell along my teeth.

The wiggling of its legs against my gums and lips as it crawled out.

This one's dead.

I thought.

Not like the other.

Just swallow it, Rachel, and it will all be over.

over.

I closed my eyes and leaned back my head.

My mouth held wide.

I could feel Yara's hand move to dangle the brooch above me.

When it landed, it was already deep inside my mouth.

But it was thin, like swallowing a giant pill.

The limbs and thorax scraped along my throat, so I swallowed and swallowed again.

Beads of sweat trickled from my temples, and I thought I might vomit.

But I didn't.

Eventually, the tightness in my throat released.

I opened my eyes as the candles extinguished and lamplight came on.

The sisters swarmed around me with their hands clasped and elbows touching.

Approving smiles swept across their faces.

Damn girl, you did it.

Now you're a member of Kai.

Balloons, filled with confetti, popped and showered over us.

A beer appeared in my hand.

The sisters introduced introduced themselves and congratulated me while music pulsed throughout the house.

This was the celebration I'd wanted.

I finally found my place.

We danced, we smoked, we chatted, and I drank and drank until I was sure I'd washed down every trace of that roach, until my head spun with each step and lights and faces doubled before me.

Yara watched as I sat alone on that chair in the middle of the room, staring at the floor and babbling to the fallen confetti pieces.

She grabbed my shoulders and shook me softly.

Why don't you just stay here tonight, Rach?

You'll be moving into Kaihal soon anyway.

We have an agreement with the dorms.

If you make it, you come live with us.

She patted my back.

It's like you're already home.

Home.

The thank yous slipped from my tongue again and again as she guided me up the stairs.

stairs.

Good night, Roach.

Shh.

Yara turned back to me.

Don't mind Becky.

She's just better because this is her last year at Kai House.

Next year, she has to be a fucking adult.

Adult?

I made a raspberry noise to that, and we laughed all the way up the stairs.

That night, in my hazy drunkenness, I dreamed the dead cockroach squirmed out of my throat and nested on my lips until morning.

After initiation night, my life didn't improve much.

Most of the time, even Saturday morning after our party, I woke up to an empty kai house.

No one roomed with me because, according to Yara, they were still trying to find a good fit after the cockroach cockroach thing.

Whenever I returned from class, the rooms were abandoned and strangely quiet, as if I'd stumbled into a haunted house.

The only signs of life were little notes taped to the refrigerator or the door to my room.

Out to lunch.

Wish you could have come, Rachel.

X.

Or just, we'll be back soon, Rach.

X.

The exclamation points only made it worse.

Those fake, stabbing cuts.

Their messages, addressed only to me, were a reminder that I was the only one being left out.

They also left me food.

A ham or peanut butter sandwich, pizza slices, lukewarm soup, a bowl of cereal.

Like a child coming home after school to an empty house and absent parents, I devoured each plate.

Sometimes I was, in fact, hungry.

Sometimes I just wanted to comfort myself.

I didn't blame them.

Each time they saw me, they probably saw that dangling, lifeless cockroach and my jaw ready for it.

I felt disgusting.

In mid-October, I found a probationary letter on my door instead of a note.

The letter listed out the days and times of meetings I'd missed and warned if I missed two more, my CHI membership would be suspended.

Apparently, our house meetings were held every other week at midnight while I was asleep.

Yara slipped past my room while I read the note.

I called after her.

Hey, when is our next house meeting?

I seem to have missed a few.

I didn't even know we had them.

I handed Yara the letter.

She seemed frazzled and irritated at first, but as she read, her face softened.

Someone must have sent this to you by mistake.

New members aren't obligated to attend their first semester.

She handed the letter back to me and offered a reassuring smile.

Anyway, we decided to pause the meetings for now.

I'll let someone know they made a mistake.

Don't worry.

Before I could thank her, she scurried back down the stairs.

I didn't even hear the front door shut.

I assumed she was telling me the truth until, one week later, I woke in the middle of the night to rustling noises downstairs.

When I followed the sounds, I found them, all of them, huddled in the kitchen.

They swarmed around a few candles and an island filled with party snacks.

Cubes of cheese, sliced meats, chips, and crackers.

When they spotted me in the doorway, they hushed.

Yara gulped when our eyes met, and I realized this must have been one of the infamous house meetings, which had clearly not been paused.

My cheeks grew hot.

Yara recovered quickly.

Rach, so glad you couldn't make it to one of our meetings.

Of course, you weren't obligated.

She rose from her chair.

Here, sit.

We were just about to discuss our plans for Halloween.

A hole formed in the center of the sisters, just as it had on initiation night.

My skin clammed up at the memory.

In the middle of the table sat a shallow bowl with folded pieces of paper lining the bottom.

Pick one.

Yara pushed the bowl toward me.

She held up her own piece of paper between her fingertips.

Why?

So we've all decided to dress up as butterflies for Halloween.

Tutus, wings, tights, leotards.

The sisters nodded their heads.

And we are picking our colors by seniority.

Everyone's gone but you.

Perfect timing.

We're picking butterfly colors?

She nodded.

Yeah, one color per sister.

This Friday, we'll take the trolley to Eber for a Halloween pub crawl, fluttering and wasted.

It'll be fun.

I stared at the bowl, hesitating.

Across from me, Becky let out a sigh.

Jesus, Rachel, it's not a bowl of bugs.

Just pick a color.

Yara Yara swatted at her.

My fingers swam around the paper pieces until I caught the edge of one.

I lifted it, unfolded it, and read it aloud with disappointment tinging my voice.

Brown.

Gross, just like you, Roach.

Becky was pummeled with moans and protests from the rest of the sisters.

I glared at her, but in in a way, she was right.

How was I supposed to find brown butterfly wings?

Was that even a thing?

And how was I supposed to make it into an attractive costume by Friday?

I was destined to feel disgusting in front of them again.

You could always do copper age, like really sparkly.

It'll be pretty.

I frowned at her.

What color are you?

White, of course.

She beamed perfect teeth at me.

Of course.

We all munched and made small talk, took chugs from a shared bottle of tequila Becky snuck in, and chased it with several rounds of beers.

Just as I was feeling warm and fuzzy, Becky shouted,

Meeting adjourned!

Time for bed!

And the sisters scattered from sight.

In the morning, my head ached from the hangover, my jaw clinched and tight.

There was a puffy, numb feeling about my face when I touched it.

I wondered if I'd dreamed the whole thing or if I had a drinking problem, when a crumbled slip of paper with the word brown fell from my hand.

Friday was just around the corner.

The trolley ride into Ybor on Halloween was too chilly for our costumes.

High-top sneakers, bikini tops, tutus, necklaces, and wings.

Every other sister looked dazzling and buzzing with life, while I, in my matte brown wings, resembled a moth.

Yara leaned towards me as the car rattled along the track.

You look great, Rach.

I knew she was lying, but I appreciated her trying to make me feel better.

White sparkles clung to her high cheekbones and shimmered underneath each streetlight we passed.

The tips of her wings swayed with the streetcar in a way that made me giggle.

Becky turned around in her seat.

Roach cleans up pretty good when she's not busy eating bugs.

Yara frowned.

Shut up, Becky.

It's not like you should be proud of what got you in either.

Becky's face reddened for a moment, then she glared at us through foggy, cheap liquor eyes.

My stomach twisted.

But not just because I expected Becky to slug me at some point tonight.

I'd also downed a ton of alcohol at the house, just like her.

Just like all the sisters.

Our plan was, arrive wasted, then nurse just one or two of the expensive club drinks until it was time to go home.

Gradually, the sharp edges of the evening dulled.

The booming basses softened, the glowing lights became hazy, and the clanging glasses at the bar sounded a million miles away.

The last thing I remember was worming into a narrow alleyway to vomit.

The concrete bit into my kneecaps and palms as I bent on all fours to wretch.

Then,

wet wisps of hair beside my mouth were pulled back and away gently.

A hand rested on my shoulder.

It reminded me of Yara's hand from that first day outside of the library.

A cloth pressed against my nose and lips.

Then the hand smothered my face.

I woke up in darkness.

No windows.

No light filling the edges of the room.

Had it been my own room at the sorority house, I could have seen outlines in the moonlight.

Door handles, picture frame edges, my own bedspread.

But this place was a void.

A black sink with black water.

Everywhere my limbs swam.

I grasped onto nothing.

I stayed where I woke for a long time, afraid to move anymore.

Hours or days passed.

I couldn't tell.

Sticky hot sweat dripped from my face and never seemed to evaporate.

Was I in a coma at the hospital?

Had I been swallowed by some creature?

Was this death?

Then, the tiniest sliver of light escaped through the base of the wall against my back.

It illuminated enough for me to see I wasn't inside of a creature, but a room with a wooden floor and no escape.

A low vaulted ceiling with exposed wooden beams hung above me like a rip cage.

Everything smelled of must and sweat and piss.

Was it my piss?

My hands slid along the floor through dust piles and gravel until a small square materialized in the middle of the room.

The smell of peanut butter hit my nostrils and I leapt toward it until my hands felt the softness of sandwich bread.

My stomach grumbled as I shoved it into my mouth.

The peanut butter crunched and squished between my teeth.

My brain begged me to slow down to make sure I wouldn't vomit.

But I resisted.

Chunks fell like rocks into the cavern of my stomach until the sandwich was gone.

Some time passed while I glanced around the room, wondering how the sandwich had gotten here and why I'd been brought here myself.

I couldn't tell if I'd been beaten or tortured because the crack in the wall barely offered enough light to illuminate the floorboards and ceiling, let alone my own body.

Every part of me ached.

I knew that much.

I rolled over to my side to peel off my clothes, but lost the energy as soon as my hands reached my feet.

I stayed there on the floorboards, resting my head and staring into the wall fissure as it grew hazy.

My will to stay awake faded as fast as the light.

Just before I lost consciousness, I spotted a small creature creeping along the floor.

The second time I woke, the cleft of light was gone.

I stretched out my arms and legs to see if I could find the wall again, but there was nothing.

No food smells, no distinguishable sounds except my own languished breathing.

I asked myself again if I had died, or was somehow between death and whatever happened next.

This caused my heart to kick in my chest, a solemn confirmation that, no, I was still captive and very much alive.

Suddenly, I heard a soft creak to my left and pale yellow light spilled onto the ceiling.

My head turned, and by the time my eyes adjusted, all I could see was a hatch door and another plate in the center of the room.

No.

I whispered.

No!

As I clambered toward the opening, it shut before I could reach it, so I banged at the patch of wooden planks with my fist.

My voice was a phantom, scratchy and barely audible.

I sank into pity until my finger rediscovered the plate beside me.

I lifted the sandwich to my nose.

Ham and cheese with either mustard or mayo, or both.

My mouth salivated.

How many hours had I been asleep this time?

How long had I gone without food?

Then, something stirred.

I thought the floor was about to unlatch again, but when I focused harder, I realized the sound came from above.

That was familiar.

I remembered that noise.

The hard, full echo of raindrops beating against the roof.

My mind connected the pieces in rapid succession.

The darkness, the overwhelming heat, the floorboards and beams above me.

A door in the the floor instead of a wall.

I was in an attic.

My mind drifted, and I put down the sandwich plate.

If the crack in the wall was the only place where light appeared, then disappeared, then it must be daylight.

But how many hours away from reappearing?

Would I be able to stay awake this time?

If the rain stopped and morning came, I could have hours of daylight to examine the dim room and plot my escape.

Why hadn't I put this together before?

The sandwich was the only thing I could cling to, so I held on, refusing to eat it.

I sat there for hours, meditating on every edge of the plate and sandwich, trying to hear the house below me breathe.

The silence was deafening, and I wondered if the attic was in an abandoned house.

Then the rain stopped.

Sunshine trickled in slowly through the slot.

Pink at first, then yellow.

My eyes adjusted.

I hadn't fallen asleep.

In its small beam, dust kicked up and muddied the view, but it was still enough for me to make out the shape of the attic again.

I slid toward the cracked wall.

The way the fabric peeled back gave me an idea.

I let go of the plate and sunk my fingernails into the edges of the gap and pulled.

Hard.

Some of the delicate layers fell away, revealing more light.

I clawed and tugged until it refused to budge.

A squirrel-sized hole now framed a world below me, although the view wasn't much.

Just green at first, like a lawn.

That wasn't surprising.

My eye darted side to side and down further, trying to make out more than color.

But it was no use.

Something just below this wall blocked my view.

Fuck.

Then I heard laughter bubble up from inside the house.

I pressed my ear against the floorboards as it grew closer.

Where had I heard those voices before?

Where had I.

The sandwich sat in front of me, covered in dust.

I felt my hands shaking as I reached for the top layer of bread and pulled it back.

Squished between the bread and ham slice was a thick, reddish-brown sludge.

A wet, dead roach with six spindly legs curled against its body.

No.

No.

I heard my hoarse voice whisper.

Then I remembered the crunch of the peanut butter sandwich earlier.

I dropped the plate and its pieces scattered across the floor.

I vomited until there was nothing left but dry heaves.

Then the giggles below me turned to chance.

My mind flashed to my first night at Kaihouse.

The dizzy buzz of what I'd assumed was just fear and liquor.

The roach.

I ate a roach that night.

All those times I arrived at an abandoned home with a sandwich waiting for me.

I never looked inside, never assumed, never suspected.

Even the night I woke to find them at their house meeting, sandwiches waiting for me.

A bug scampering across the kitchen table.

Had it been...

A bug scurrying across the floor here.

In my soberness, I'd spent an entire night awake in this attic.

No exhaustion or blurred vision had overcome me.

When I glanced down in the light, I noticed the soaked pattern of my dress.

Floral.

The same dress I'd worn on initiation night.

Not brown tights and a pair of wings.

The same floral dress.

Had I ever left Kai House?

Had I ever returned to the dorm to collect my things?

I felt like I was losing my mind.

The laughter echoed below again, taunting me, creeping closer.

I leapt for the wall and clawed at the fissure until my fingernails pulled back and bled.

Then the floor squeaked open, and a voice bellowed from inside.

Don't you remember your list?

Let's remind her.

Yara's long blonde hair materialized in the shadows, but her face was indistinguishable.

Cockroaches.

Chuck.

Losing your mind?

Chuck.

Death?

That's the power of Kai.

As the trio of sisters slunk toward me, toward the light, I could see why their faces were were blurred.

They wore headdresses of copper, fuzzy black eyes, and protruding antennae.

Down their backs were cape-like, transparent wings with veins running through them.

Each of their bodies were encased by striped abdomens and jutting, bent legs.

More sisters crept up behind them.

They inched closer, tens of them.

I shrieked, but they kept pressing, smothering, rushing me.

I turned toward the hole I'd excavated in the the wall and crammed my head inside.

Its teeth bit and pulled at my scalp until I burst through.

I tumbled onto the awning and, without thinking, scampered for the ledge and slipped down one of the columns.

Above me, the X of Kaihouse loomed, paler than I remembered.

I waited for the sisters to descend after me, but all was silent.

In the shattered front door window, my own reflection caught my eye.

I was more thin and gray than I remembered.

It was as if a stranger stared back.

Then the reflection smiled, even though my own expression had not changed.

I drew a hand to my mouth and shuddered.

She pointed toward an orange notice in the corner of the window, then threw back her head in inaudible laughter.

Condemned.

This structure is unsafe, and its use or occupancy is prohibited.

It listed Kai House's address.

The date stamped was from ten years ago.

I backed away slowly, down the front steps and into the unforgiving sunshine.

The weeds of the overgrown lawn grabbed at my ankles.

Decay pockmarked the pale yellow bricks of the exterior.

Its black shutters were unhinged and twisted.

Fractured mint green tiles barely clung to the roof.

Then they reappeared.

The sisters, now a congregation of roaches, each over five feet tall, peered at me from the hole in the attic above.

No more fabric and painted costumes, but the shine of exoskeletons.

No more masks, but the bent neck, elongated faces of bugs.

I blinked hard, but no amount of squinting changed their form.

So I turned my back and quickened my pace.

Another student materialized in the distance, walking down the sidewalk.

I recognized the sweep of blonde hair, the nearby scent of coconut, the confidence in her stride.

Yara!

I sprinted towards her.

Please help me.

When I placed a hand on her shoulder, she spun around.

The face I expected to be Yara's was another face, scrunched in disgust.

As I tried to explain,

a piercing scream crawled from her bow-shaped lips.

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 Michulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett.

Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy McAvoy and Ashley McInelly.

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 Raisin 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 Raisin Media Inc.

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