S22 Ep1: NoSleep Podcast S22E01

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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

Hello,

it's David David Cummings.

I need help.

I'm stuck somewhere.

I'm in a dark room.

I've got tubes sticking out of my arms.

I'm in so much pain.

Please, please, I need your help.

Can you call me?

Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast.

I'm your host, David Cummings.

And this marks the premiere of our 22nd season.

We're glad you're remaining sleepless with us.

Our theme this season is based around the idea that phone calls, voice messages, audio memos, that they can can be horrifying things to receive.

And it's not just the unwanted call from your boss or your partner messaging you to say pick up something from the store, just as you've already checked out.

No, these audio messages are from the darkness, the unknown, and from voices that you don't know and that make your blood run cold.

So I guess you could say this audio horror show is about audio horror.

Sounds awfully good.

And as we're now into December and the holiday season, I want to mention something that many of you are asking about.

Can you give the gift of a sleepless sanctuary membership?

Yes, indeed you can.

Just go to sleepless.thenosleeppodcast.com and in the top right menu you'll see a link to gift a subscription.

Click there, follow the instructions, and unto us a gift is born.

You can choose a 3, 6 or 12 month subscription to either of our tiers.

So consider giving the gift of sleepless horror this frightful festive season.

And as you know, we have a wonderful team of people who make this show possible.

In the show notes, we always have a link to a page on our website where you can learn much more about the contributors to this show.

We've recently done a big update to that page and added lots of new faces to it.

So either follow the link or go to contributors.thenosleeppodcast.com to learn more about our voice actors, production and music team, our editorial team, our illustrators, and more.

And since most of us have links to our social media accounts, consider following us to let us know you like what we do.

Now, we've waited long enough for the horror.

It's time we launch into the episode and the new season.

And listen, when you need some help, there's nothing wrong with reaching out for some.

Just keep in mind the lesson this episode teaches us.

Sometimes those who are willing to help you out don't always have your best interests at heart.

Hmm, don't say you weren't warned.

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

In our first tale, we find ourselves dealing with an absence of something that fuels many horror stories.

Yes, that's right, the blood reserves at the blood bank are running low.

Who better to ask than previous owners of their precious life fluid?

But in this tale, shared with us by author Keith Lozer, there's a concern that something else might be driving the drive.

Performing this tale are Nicole Doolin, Graham Rowett, Jeff Clement, Mike Delgadio, Mary Murphy, Dan Zapoula, Kyle Akers, Lindsey Russo, Jesse Cornett, Wafia White, Peter Lewis, and Sarah Thomas.

So sit back, roll up your sleeve, and wait for the little prick as we discover what lies underneath.

In a small home office sits a man at a desk.

The house is empty and motionless, save for the occasional clacking of a keyboard.

The man at the desk dials a phone number.

Each digit entered breaks the silence with small robotic chirps.

The phone begins to ring in the headphones he is wearing.

An unfamiliar voice answers a question that hasn't been asked.

Yes?

Hi, this is Keith, calling on behalf of the Pennsylvania Blood Bank.

I'm trying to.

Alrighty?

The line goes dead with a prolonged tone, the flat line of the cellular world.

In the space that follows, a few keyboard strokes punctuate the silence.

A number is dialed, and the short, robotic tones are heard again.

The phone begins ringing and is answered without a word.

Hi, this is Keith, calling on behalf of the Pennsylvania Blood Bank.

I'm trying to reach Vince.

Yeah, that's me.

Hi, Vince.

The PA Blood Bank is experiencing an unprecedented shortage of blood due to a decrease in donations.

Our records from your last visit in 1981, it looks like, indicate that you are O-negative, which is a universal donor, meaning your blood can be used in substitution of any other blood type.

We're calling to see if you'd be interested in scheduling a donation appointment.

Uh, no,

no, thanks.

Alrighty, well, you have a good day, Vince.

Mm-hmm.

Thanks.

Bye.

The man at the desk sighs softly, like a slowly deflating balloon.

Soon the keyboard clacks away at the silence.

The soft clicking sounds seem loud amid the quiet.

like hail on a window.

The typing stops, replaced by the chirps of a number being dialed.

The phone rings in the man's earbuds.

Hi, this is Keith calling on behalf of the Pennsylvania Blood Bank.

I'm trying to reach Brian.

Are you serious?

Why in the hell are you calling me right now?

Uh, I'm calling to see.

I don't give an actual rat's ass.

The only reason I'm still on the line is to tell you to take me the hell off of whatever call list you got.

Okay,

well.

Sheesh.

Asshole.

Another louder exhalation follows the abrupt end to the call, like the compression of bellows.

The man at the desk rubs the back of his neck, then clicks away at the keys on his computer.

As he is typing, he feels a sticky substance on his fingers.

When he looks down, there is a dark red liquid congealed on the keys.

It seems to be blood, yet he checks his fingers and finds no injury.

He leaves the room and returns with a damp paper towel.

He begins methodically wiping down the keyboard, following the trail of sticky substance with a protracted swipe.

He sighs once more before dialing the next phone number.

It sings its robotic song, and while it does, the man notices something.

The place where his blinking cursor was is filled with the jumbled letters that were pressed when he cleaned the keys.

What's strange is the fully formed phrase in the middle of the nonsense?

P-L-L-O-K-J-G-G-H.

It lies in wait.

B-B-M-B-C-C-F-G.

He stares at it while the phone rings in his ear.

He must have somehow hit Ctrl V and pasted whatever was on his clipboard.

Yes, that's the only explanation.

It's strange, though.

He doesn't remember copying that text.

Despite himself, he feels a shiver crawl up his spine as he deletes the text.

The phone stops ringing in his ear, and he is met with a robotic voice saying, Mailbox full.

He moves down to the next caller on his list and enters the phone number.

As it rings, he hits Ctrl V just to see what's on his clipboard

and a link gets pasted.

Very strange.

He deletes the link before the ringing in his ears is interrupted by a single word.

Hello.

Hi, this is Keith, calling on behalf of the Pennsylvania Blood Bank.

I'm trying to reach Susan.

This is she.

Hi, Susan.

I'm calling because there's an extreme shortage in blood donations, and our records indicate from your last visit to us that you are O-negative, which is a universal donor type.

That means your blood-Yes, I know what that means.

I'm a registered nurse.

Don't your records indicate that?

No, ma'am.

We don't keep that kind of personal information in our could you please take me off your call list?

Of course, ma'am.

I'm sorry to have disturbed you.

Sure, you are.

Here you are.

God, what a...

The man sighs a long, exasperated breath and then opens the desk drawer.

He removes a bottle of medicine and shakes out several pills, swallowing them dry.

He sets the bottle on the desk and again rubs his eyes and temples.

Finally, he enters a new phone number.

The grainy ringing in his headphones conjures up a low-quality voice on the other end.

You've reached Derek.

I can't come to the phone right now, so just leave a message and lie in wait.

Thanks.

Uh, hello, this is Keith.

I'm calling on behalf of the Pennsylvania Blood Bank.

We're currently experiencing an all-time low in donations, so we're calling all Universal Donors in our records.

According to our chart, you last donated a few months ago, so if you are able to donate again, it would be a huge help.

Just call us back at 800-771-0059 to make an appointment.

Thank you.

Have a nice day.

The computer screen displays a list of names, each one with a small entry written beside it.

The keys clack away, and the resulting phrase appears on screen, one letter at a time.

Left message.

Something tickles at his subconscious mind, vying for his full attention.

He isn't sure what it is, but he feels slightly uneasy and he's not sure why.

The man rubs the back of his head and his hand comes away red with blood.

Confused, he glides his fingers carefully over the back of his head and neck and finds a sensitive spot.

There is a fine vertical cut just at the bottom of his skull.

It hurts now that he is aware of it, yet he has no idea where or when or even what it is from.

He leaves the room room for more paper towels and washes his hands.

Once cleaned up and convinced he is okay, the man again presses down 10 digits and then listens to the phone ringing in his ear.

It splits the air like an alarm, and somehow the silence between rings seems quieter than before.

With each ring, the man's anxiety heightens until it is finally interrupted by a voice.

Hello?

Hi, this is Keith.

I'm calling on behalf of the Pennsylvania Blood Bank, and I'm trying to reach Michael.

Yeah, that's me.

Hi, Michael.

I'm not sure if you're aware, but blood donations are at an all-time low right now.

Yeah, I think I saw something about that.

Well, we're calling because you donated with us previously, and you are a universal donor, so we actually just got a tattoo.

That's why I didn't donate this month.

Oh, well, that's understandable.

I'm sorry sorry to have taken your time.

Yeah, that's all right.

I'll just lie and wait until I'm able to donate again.

Then I'm sure you'll see me.

Okay,

yeah.

Yeah,

thank you very much for your time.

Everything all right?

Huh?

What?

Oh, yes, fine.

Thanks.

Mm-hmm.

Bye.

The man stares at his computer screen with a confused expression on his face.

A minute passes in total silence until he slowly begins typing again.

When he finishes his entry, he stares blankly at the screen for another few minutes, not really seeing anything.

The computer shows a list of names with phone numbers beside them, followed by short entries such as remove or left message or made appointment.

Before he has time to think better of it, he is dialing the next number and listening to the same old purgatorial ring

Hi, this is Keith.

I'm calling on behalf of the Pennsylvania Blood Bank.

I'm trying to reach Sharon.

Hey, you reached me.

What can I do for you?

Hi.

We're calling all of our previous donors who have a universal blood type and asking them if they could make an appointment to donate.

Due to the

unprecedented shortage we are experiencing, we're calling you to see if you might be able to donate.

Yeah, I think I could be enticed into donating.

I may have time next week.

Oh, great.

That's great news.

We'll actually have a donation bus in the Ephrida Walmart parking lot, I believe.

Let me double-check.

Yes, the Walmart parking lot.

If that's near you, you could go there anytime next week from 8 a.m.

to 5 p.m.

If not, we can schedule an appointment for you.

No, that should work.

The Walmart parking lot, though, seems kind of sketchy to me.

You fellas aren't going to jump me, are you?

Lie in wait and then kidnap me?

Wait, what did you just say?

Nothing.

I'm just messing with you.

No, no, I mean, what did you say after the jump me bit?

I said, you're not going to lie in wait for me, are you?

Yeah,

that's so weird.

The last two people I called used that phrase.

Why is everyone saying that?

I'm sorry.

That was a strange thing to say.

At the sudden sound of dial tone, the man rubs his eyes until he sees fireworks.

He drags his hands down over his face and lets out a muffled groan from beneath his palms.

He pushes away from his desk, and the chair scrapes back across the old wooden floor.

His footsteps recede from the room and into the kitchen.

Returning moments later with a glass of water, he slumps back into his chair.

The weight of each vapid rejection, an irate caller, is almost visible on his shoulders.

He sits for a few minutes before dialing the next number on his endless list.

Hi, this is.

Uh, yes, my My name is Keith, and I'm calling on behalf of the Pennsylvania Blood Bank.

I'm trying to reach John.

Hello?

Are you still there?

Always.

Well, we have records indicating that you are a universal donor.

With our current shortage, we are wondering if we could get you to schedule an appointment to donate.

Hello?

Okay, well, I'm gonna hang up now.

Just call us back if you want to make an appointment.

He lies in wait, Keith.

The man's heart is pounding so loud, he can hear it in his ears, and he can feel his anxiety climbing higher.

A look of wide-eyed fear spreads across his face before he closes his eyes and rubs fiercely at his temples.

Slowly, the rapid thumping of his heart recedes and slows.

He opens his eyes and stares straight ahead blankly, trying to convince himself he accidentally dialed a previous number.

One of the angry customers probably just wanted to mess with him as payback.

Yes, that's all it was.

A re-dialed number and a cruel prank.

His slow and measured breathing is the only sound in the room until he hears a creaking in the hall.

He goes still and listens.

There it is again.

The wooden floorboards groaning under the weight of feet.

Hello?

Is there someone out there?

Very slowly, he moves towards his office door.

When one of his steps causes the floor to squeak, he suddenly hears heavy footsteps running away from the door.

The running sound trails off further into the house, and then there's the sound of a door slamming.

He is in a full-blown panic now and grabs his phone to dial 911.

His heart is pounding relentlessly as the phone rings.

Someone picks up, and almost immediately, he begins sobbing.

911, what's your emergency?

Please help.

Please, there's someone in my house.

There's...

What is your location, sir?

I'm in my house, and there's someone inside.

I'm at 42 East Richland Drive.

Please send someone.

Please, stay on the line and remain calm.

I will stay on the call with you until help arrives.

Okay, thank you.

Thank you.

Are you in a safe place?

Yes.

Well, I think so.

I'm in my office, and the person is outside in the hall somewhere.

Can you lock the office door and hide anywhere in the room?

Yes, I think so.

Yes.

Okay.

I'm hiding under the desk now.

Please hurry.

Okay, Keith.

Just lie and wait there.

We are on our way.

He stares at his phone screen as the length of the call ticks higher.

The number at the top shows 911.

He hangs up and feels a new kind of fear.

A sort of disbelieving horror.

He stares at his phone in shock until more thumping footsteps can be heard through the ceiling, rousing him from his stupor.

He listens to the sounds and trembles underneath the desk when suddenly his phone, still clutched tightly in his hand, begins to ring.

His pulse immediately spikes at the unexpected ringing in his earbuds.

He looks at his phone's screen and the ID simply says unknown.

The sound of his heart is like a sloshing pressure in his ears.

He doesn't answer the call, but stares helplessly at the screen as it rings.

The screen finally shows missed call,

but almost as soon as the buzzing stops, it begins again.

He can scarcely breathe now as he answers the call with shaking hands.

He doesn't say anything, just simply accepts the call.

The voice that greets him is a deep, droning whisper, and it seems to struggle at forming words.

He frantically hangs up the phone and he hears the tell-tale beep.

And his screen shows the call has ended.

Yet the voice still whispers in his ear.

He can taste bile in his throat as his heart pounds on the back of his ribs.

He holds his ears closed with his fingers and screens with closed eyes.

But he can't stop the whispers.

He tears the headphones out of his ears and throws them across the room.

Yet the croaking whisper continues inside of his skull unceasing.

He holds his ears closed with his fingers and screams with closed eyes.

But he can't stop the whispers.

It

lies

in wait.

It lies

in

wait.

It

lies in a wait.

He screams and pounds at the side of his head, hoping to stop the recitation.

Suddenly, it ceases as inexplicably as it began.

In place of the voice and ceaseless noise, there is left a total silence.

When he opens his eyes, however, he is greeted with an almost entirely different scene.

His office is darker somehow, and the shadows are so dark as to seem tangible.

He stares out into the room from below the desk, and the darkness in the corners appears to crawl and reach toward him.

Somewhere outside his office door, he can faintly hear the whispers getting closer.

There are creaking footsteps and the sounds of heavy chains dragging on the hardwood floor.

He can feel an an encroaching presence, drawing near yet unseen.

He is so far beyond panic now, into the realm of unadulterated terror and horror, that he doesn't know what to do.

He simply sits, curled up under the desk, staring out toward the office door.

The creaking steps halt outside the door, and the sound of heavy chains drags to a still.

The man's breathing is heavy and labored until the doorknob begins to turn.

Then he holds his breath completely.

The door slowly swings open into the room, revealing nothing but a rectangular abyss of black where the hole should be.

The darkness is impermeable,

like a physical wall.

From out of the void, there appear two disembodied arms extending into the room

They are wrapped in pale white skin With sores and wounds spreading up and down them Each arm bears a shackle around its wrist with a chain receding into the dark

They reach into the room opening wider as if seeking an embrace

A deep groaning noise reverberates through the room, like the swaying limbs of an ancient tree.

Their whispers drift in from that black absence, repeating the same four words as before.

He stares in abject horror as the gaunt limbs reach impossibly far into the room.

Suddenly, they begin swinging together and clanging the chains against each other.

The chains ring out hollowly, then the arms open and swing back together again.

The chains continue to ring out, louder and louder, until the man wakes up and the whole world shifts.

The ringing of the chains becomes the irritating ring of his phone in his earbuds.

He realizes he fell asleep at some point and is still sitting at his desk.

His phone sits on the top of the desk and displays the caller as Central PA BL.

He rubs at his eyes and forehead with one hand, and then he accepts the call with his other hand.

He answers with his typical greeting for the boss while opening his eyes.

It's then that he sees the repeating text beside every name on his call list.

Just like his crazed fever dream, every entry has been replaced by that horrid phrase.

He stares in shock, then looks around with unease settling into his gut.

Everything is as it should be,

yet he swears that he faintly hears deep whispers, and his boss hasn't said anything yet.

Has she?

There is only a faint static hiss in his earbud,

and maybe

far off,

the sound of chains dragging.

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Being a huge fan of a band is a big deal, especially if that band is no longer around.

You want to track down all the old music and merch, right?

So what better place to do that than an internet forum tailored to fans of classic rock?

But in this tale, composed for us by author Bran Gray, our online music aficionados discover a note or two that suggests a sinister undertone to one band's history.

Joining me in performing this tale are Lindsay Russo, Jesse Cornette, Danielle McRae, Matthew Bradford, Alante Baraket, and Ellie Hirschman.

So sign up, log in, read the rules, and get posting as we do a deep dive into the rock and roll history of planetary malice.

Rock Classics Forum.

Merch Booth.

Buy, sell, trade.

Fade to blank.

Subject Planetary Malice Tour Merch Hunt 1987 to 1994.

Sending out a call to all you hoarders and scavengers, I'm looking to buy any Planetary Malice Tour merch from their final five tours.

So, anything from the Screaming Void Tour 1987, Break the Dead Tour, 1989, Dark New Day Tour, 1990, Fill the Chalice Tour, 1993, Farewell Harvest Tour, 1994.

Any shirts, posters, stubs, backstage passes, anything you got, throw it at me.

Also, no mall bought shirt.

Needs to be from the live shows.

Death Dealer Dan Subject: Re Planetary Malice Tour Merch Hunt, 1987-1994.

Hey, F2B, this is Danny from Rock Lock Collectibles.

I'll check the storeroom and let you know what I find.

Going to take me a while.

The back room looks like the end scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

I know I spotted some of their older glam-era stickers a couple of weeks ago, but it sounds like you're looking for the darker stuff.

Rock on

3D.

Cindy on the Drums.

Subject: Subject, Re, Planetary Malice Tour Merch Hunt, 1987-1994.

Dude, that's my dad's favorite band.

I'll ramit his closet because I'm positive I'll have them.

Pretty sure he went to at least one of these shows.

Any other bands you're also looking for?

I'm trying to scrape up some cash for a new ride symbol, so everything must go.

Blister Fingers 419.

Subject, Re, Planetary Malice Tour Merch Hunt, 1987-1994.

Yeah, buddy, Cold Lifeless is one of the best albums ever.

You looking for any of the rare LPs or singles?

I can make some rips, but it's going to be pricey if you want the originals.

They're my babies.

Fade to Blank.

Subject, Re, Planetary Malice Tour Merch Hunt, 1987-1994.

Hey everyone, thanks for the quick responses.

Anything you can find between those concert dates, I'm hungry for.

Cindy, thanks, but no thanks.

Just Planetary Malice this time.

So if you can find it, let me know.

Blister, if you have live recordings from any of those tours, I need them.

Name a price for the originals.

I want to make sure they are raw, so no rips.

Leather Carrot.

Subject, Planetary Malice Tour Merch Hunt, 1987-1994.

I forgot all about that band.

What happened to them?

Like, i know they broke up or whatever but the radio just stopped playing the singles and nobody talked about them after that they were pretty big right like all the girls had a hard on for the lead singer danny czar

cindy on the drums subject treasure i found it i found it shirt from the 90s tour boom god pics right here

Included on the post are two pictures of a faded black t-shirt.

The first photo is the front of the t-shirt, a worn but still visible image of a dark sun rising over the horizon.

Tiny, shadowy humanoid figures on the landscape have their arms raised, reaching up for the oncoming dark sun.

Sharp red letters above the image read, Planetary Malice, and below the image, in smaller white font, Welcome home.

The second photo is an image of the back of the same t-shirt, with Dark New Day Tour 1990 and a list of the tour cities in the same red font.

West Court, Wisconsin, Greenwater, Texas, Brooks, Wyoming, Black Hitch, Arizona, Tewkes, Vermont, Sandelo, Nevada, Wolf Island, South Carolina, North Caint, Texas, Nunns Mouth, New Hampshire, Contell, California, Farway, Michigan, Snakehead, Wisconsin, St.

Lucia, New Mexico, Ronstan, New York.

Underneath the list is a headless snake bordering the city names.

Also, yeah,

Danny Czar was hot.

I mean, gotta be an old man by now, but

still.

Blister fingers 419.

Subject, re-treasure.

What drunken tour bus driver took that route?

They bounced back and forth all over the country.

Genius navigation there, buddy.

Fade to blank.

Subject, re-treasure.

Perfect fine, Cindy.

One request.

Ask your dad which city he saw them in and if he stayed till the end of the show.

Leather Carrot.

Subject, re-treasure.

No kidding, blister.

Also, look at all those lame places.

Why aren't there any big cities on that tour?

They were a huge band and they couldn't find a venue in Dallas or San Diego.

Why go to these butt-fuck butt-fuck nowhere towns?

Four-string werewolf.

Subject, re-treasure.

Dude, those are like legit butt-fuck nowhere towns.

Like I can't find them on a map.

Is that sure to cheap knockoff or something?

Fade to blank.

Subject, re-treasure.

Not a knockoff, no typos.

This is exactly what I was looking for.

I think something weird happened during these tours.

Leather Carrot.

Subject.

Something weird.

Weird, like they had a fake tour or like they put fake city names on the t-shirts.

Fade to blank.

Subject, re-something weird.

Weird, like, I think these places existed before the band visited them.

Not getting into this.

Don't need judgments, just need merch.

Blisterfingers 419.

Subject, re something weird.

Oh, we are definitely getting into this, buddy.

We talking about ghost towns or alien abductions.

I mean, what's the score?

You hunt and graze there, Mulder?

Four-string werewolf.

Subject, re something weird.

Did I wander into a conspiracy theory?

I'm stoked.

Can I join in and hunt anything down?

I'll be your scully.

Cindy on the drums.

Subject, re

something weird.

I leave for an hour and it turns into this.

So my dad says he doesn't remember where the concert was, but he knows he left early.

He claims he was feeling sick and left before the end of the show.

But bought the shirt from the merch booth on his way out.

I'm betting he got too stoned and freaked out.

Too many inflatable devils in Pyrotechnics.

Fade to blank.

Subject, re

something weird?

Fuck it.

Cards on the table.

I think the the towns that the band toured through have all disappeared.

All the concertgoers, the buildings, the locals, everything just vanishes.

I've talked to a handful of people that have vague memories of attending the shows, but none remember where and all had reasons for leaving early.

This has been driving me crazy since I stumbled onto it.

I'm positive there is something in the tour merch that will have answers.

Nothing else seems to.

There has to be something in the route.

It's impossible to pinpoint where they went because those places no longer exist.

But if I can follow the states, maybe I can at least try to figure out a pattern.

Death Dealer Dan.

Subject.

Farewell Harvest Tour Poster.

What the hell did I walk back into?

I'm alone in the shop after hours and not ready to deal with this.

I found a poster from their 94 farewell.

Got a bunch of cities I've never heard of on this tour, too.

I'll send a picture, but fuck me.

I'm too old to be thinking like this.

Included is a photograph of the aforementioned poster.

The large, vibrant blue font reads, The Farewell Harvest Tour, over an image of a massive clawed hand linked to hundreds of iron chains.

The chains appear to be shackled to tiny humans, pulling them towards the pit where the hand erupted from.

Below the art, in bright green, reads, Planetary Malice.

So long, and thanks for all the flesh, followed by a similar list of of cities and states at the bottom of the poster.

Blister Fingers 419.

Subject, it doesn't get better.

I was going to call you all a bunch of bitches, but I found something.

Japanese bootleg of the 90s tour, the show in Arizona.

Track 17 gets fucking weird.

Get ready to wet them panties, bro.

Included is the file B-H-A-Z underscore 90 underscore scatter B final.

The audio audio is raw and unclean.

The band plays their song, Scatter Your Bones, as an encore.

The audience is loud and excited until the last chord of the song is played.

The audio begins to distort and a heavy concussive sound clips out the recording.

There is a brief high-pitched screeching noise.

Then it goes silent.

The only thing following is the voice of Planetary Malice's bass player, Chris Calden, yelling out, Thank you and good night.

The audio cuts out immediately after.

Leather Carrot, Subject, Re, It doesn't get better.

The fuck?

Cindy on the drums.

Subject, re, it doesn't get better.

I'm out.

DM me if you still want to buy the shirt, but I'm not fucking around with this.

Nope.

Death Dealer Dan.

Subject, Re.

It doesn't get better.

Don't have a good segue.

Got this notification.

We'll be taking an out-of-state vacation.

Thanks for the heads up.

I'm gone.

Included link to website Metal Maniacs colon.

After 30 years, Planetary Malice has reunited and is coming to your city.

The image shows the band, either an older photo or they have not aged a day since the farewell tour.

Fade to blank.

Subject: canceled dates.

My city is on that list.

I'll pay for the tickets.

Who's coming with me?

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Living with a cardiovascular disease is tough.

There are so many things you have to worry about and manage.

Sometimes you need a break to just kick back, relax, and take a trip to get away from it all.

And in this tale, shared with us by author Nat Ryer, When Maisie and her boyfriends stop at a gas station on their way to their campsite, they're faced with more than just heartache.

Performing this tale are Kristen DiMakurio, Dan Zapula, and Aaron Lillis.

So prepare to feel your heart skip a beat.

You're beginning to tremble.

Your pulse is racing.

You're experiencing tachycardia.

My heart's a machine gun.

Nerves on the trigger.

Sometimes I stress myself out over nothing, and next thing I know, the barrel's running hot and darkness is creeping in at the edges of my vision.

When I was younger and couldn't control the fainting, my dad made me wear a helmet.

I hate thinking about it, because I'm always thinking about it.

My anxious heart, tempting the 300 mark and sending me down, out, gone.

I ditched the helmet when I hit high school, and now I'm supposed to blow on my thumb when I'm nervous.

Imagine already being antsy about something and now you gotta blow on your goddamn thumb.

But sometimes, I feel the telltale flutter in my chest.

And that's ballgame.

I'd rather blow on my thumb than pass out in Chet's car, so I do what I gotta do, dutifully.

Blowing on your thumb tickles your vagus nerve, tricks your brain into thinking you're calm, and lowers your heart rate.

Beats wearing a helmet.

Chet sees me blowing, so he raises an eyebrow and turns down the heavy metal war crime that's been blaring for the last half hour.

You need me to pull over?

He sounds worried, but he's not.

He's more concerned about making it to the campgrounds on time than he is with me.

There's an exit right up ahead.

I can probably find a gas station and get you some ice water.

I shake my head, pull my thumb out of my mouth.

It's fine, I say,

and put my thumb back in my mouth.

You sure?

Chet squints at me, suspicious.

Then he mutters something under his breath and hits hits the off-ramp.

Screw it.

I need to take a leak anyway.

I can grab you something cold to calm your nerves, alright?

Can't have you passing out and shitting your pants all over my car.

Thumb back out.

I love you too.

Even Chet can tell when he's gone too far.

We've been dating since sophomore year.

Back when we popped each other's cherries behind the bleachers after marching band practice.

This was, in hindsight, the dreary peak of our romance.

I just want you to be comfortable, honest.

You pooping your pants on the leather seat would be the second worst part of the situation.

You being miserable?

That takes the top spot for me, babe, every time.

It takes him 20 minutes to find a gas station.

The exit spilled us out onto an even creepier shade of nowhere than the highway had to offer.

Just Spanish moss winding around barbed wire fences, flanking fields of brittle yellow grass.

I'm not even sure where we are at this point.

Just that this is clearly where the citizens of Ass Nowhere come when they need to get off the grid for a bit.

We pass a couple of whiteboard signs baking under the summer heat.

The words, gas station, up ahead, scribbled and sharpie.

I squirm in my seat, swallowing spit that isn't there.

I hate out-of-the-way places.

Back home, at least we're near civilization.

People to call an ambulance for me, EMTs to shock me back to life, surgeons to cut me open and set me right.

I was against the idea of going camping, but Chet insisted, said he wanted his first acid trip to be with me and the boys, of course.

The plan is to drop LSD in the woods and have a religious experience.

Minus Mr.

Christ and his signature party pooper energy.

Normally, I would take a beta blocker.

My doc prescribes me propronolol, 30 milligrams.

But I don't know what mixing that with acid would do, so I won't.

Still no sign of the gas station.

I'm about to insist we turn around, head back toward the highway and its promise of reunion with the rest of humanity.

But suddenly, there's a squat, yellow shack up ahead with a row of pumps stationed out front.

The pumps are dull red cylinders, and the creamy plywood front was clearly a few shades whiter when it first went up.

The whole operation rests on a bed of black gravel.

Chet whistles merrily and parks in front of one of the pumps.

My stomach's hot, and it's hard to breathe.

He hands me his debit card and asks me to pump.

You don't mind, do you?

I can grab whatever you want from inside.

I don't think this place takes card.

Everywhere it takes card, Maisie.

I hand the card back to him and he shakes his head, clearly annoyed.

I'll just pay for everything inside.

He slams the car door behind him.

The storefront glass is so foggy that I can't even see the shape of him once he enters.

I try to play on my phone and distract myself with the Twitter hashtag of the day, but my data is dry as a well, and I know better than to check for Wi-Fi.

The back road stretches infinitely in both directions.

The summer heat distorting and destroying everything more than 50 yards away.

I feel trapped.

And my heart starts to pick up, gaining steam.

I get out of the car and pace around on the gravel, taking deep breaths.

In for five, out for five.

I refuse to suck on my thumb again.

I do this for five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen, with no sign of Chet.

My nerves rattle, and my heart rattles with them.

The old thought emerges.

Old as me, and just as fearful.

Is this what it felt like?

Is this what my mom felt?

It's hereditary.

This clattering heart of mine passed from mother to daughter wrapped in a blood-colored basket.

Don't let that in, I remind myself.

But that's like telling someone, don't think about an elephant.

My brain takes that sliver and runs with it, past the end zone of conscious thought, spikes it into my brain.

Fuck it.

I need a beta blocker right now more than I need a tab of acid later tonight.

But dummy me shut the car door and now the auto lock has done its thing.

Very chill.

I put my hands on my hips and stare straight ahead at the foggy glass windows, daring Chet to make eye contact with me through the opaque dark.

But I can't see shit.

Fuck, fucking fuck.

I head inside.

The smell of bleach punches me in the face so hard that I physically wince.

The floors are checkered white and blue linoleum, shimmering after a recent scrub.

There are a couple rows of shelves, but most of the wares are jarred candies and beef jerky.

Chet's at the counter with his debit card in his hand, proffered at the clerk like he's about to swipe it between her teeth.

Who the hell keeps cash on them?

Look, you got a phone on you, right?

I'm sure you can download some app and run this card.

I am literally begging you.

The clerk doesn't react.

She's taller than Chet by a mile, and lanky as they come.

Her arms are long sticks with barely any flesh wrapped around them, and her body's about the same.

Just a paper-thin frame with a pair of oversized overalls hanging off of it, like it's been left out to dry.

Her neck is a pencil with a skull-shaped eraser fixed to top it, and her beady eyes peer out beneath a hairless brow.

A mess of shock-white hair scrapes against her shoulders, the same shape and consistency as straw.

Her eyes flick to me, and it feels like violence.

Cash only.

I'll accept labor so well, but y'all don't look like the types to get your shoes dirty.

Well, we ain't got that kind of darn tootin' time.

Chet's mocking her accent.

Fine.

Have it your way.

Are there any real gas stations around here?

Somewhere I don't have to sacrifice a chicken for the restroom key?

She points toward the back.

Restroom is free for paying customers, but I can get you some water for free if that's what your lady is thirsty for.

I realize I've been scratching at my throat this whole time.

I manage to eke out something small, raspy.

Water.

Great.

She nods once.

Twice.

Three times and steals off to the back.

Once she's disappeared behind a squeaky white door, Chet stuffs his card back in his pocket and browses the aisles.

And I don't recognize any of the brands.

Nickel Nacks, Pecan Pete's, Sugar Mamas, Whistle Pops, Raspberry Red Dollars.

Chat snatches a box of cherry humps off the shelf and pries it open, pops one in his mouth, and winces.

Ah,

these are rocks.

Literally, totally rocks.

He spits out a red pebble and puts the open box back on the shelf.

Should charge that bitch for my dentist bill.

Jesus, I felt my collarbone pop.

I want to tell him that it's not cool to steal, but my heart's still pounding and everything's blurry.

I try to ignore the drum in my chest, try to focus on my breathing.

Five in, five out.

You're not stuck.

I tell myself, you're not trapped.

You can leave.

You can leave anytime you want.

What trap, babe?

Chet's mouth is full.

He's chewing on some taffy that's probably older than God.

You say something?

Let's just go.

The words burst out of me like a curse.

We'll hit up another gas station back on the main road.

He chews thoughtfully on his taffy, scratching the back of his head and looking off to the side like a guilty dog next to a toppled trash can.

I used to love those puppy eyes, and those big ears of his, and the way he frowns when he's busted.

Don't freak out.

Why would I freak out, Chet?

He frowns.

Let's just say that as far as gas is concerned, our market is severely limited.

The world tilts, and I feel the old ticker flutter.

How much gas do we have?

Enough to get us.

He pauses, considers.

About halfway back to the highway.

I want to shove Chet into a cannon and launch him at the sun.

The feeling must write itself across my face because he clears his throat and says,

I told you not to freak out.

I can read your mind, Maisie.

What if we're trapped here?

What if my harper's out of my chest and shut shut up?

He's right, though.

The old girl's really taking off in my chest, and I'm starting to feel dizzy.

My heart is fine.

It's not your heart that's the problem.

It's your brain.

It's your fucking anxiety.

Always worrying about what might happen.

He spreads his arms wide.

Look around.

Doesn't get much worse than this, right?

Worst has already happened.

Things can always get worse, Chet.

That's easy for you to say.

You didn't try the taffy.

This isn't funny.

I press my hand against my chest.

I swear to God, Chet, if I don't get out of here soon.

Oh, for fuck's sake, Maisie, you're not going to end up like your mom.

Come on, I'm so goddamn sick of talking about it.

Her heart only stopped because she was pregnant, right?

Her heart was beating for two.

And I always rap my dick, so, you know, you're good.

No problems.

I take every ounce of control not to slap his face into the sixth dimension.

I mutter a fuck you under my breath and turn away.

Chet mutters something back as he yanks out his phone.

I leave him there, chewing on his stolen taffy as I sink between the aisles and back to the front where the attendant is waiting with a small pail of water.

Gwen Shithirst.

I take the pail from her, trying to be gentle and gracious, but my nerves are shot and I end up snatching it from her instead.

Thanks.

I take a sip.

The water is surprisingly cool.

You said we can pay you in labor, right?

Put me to work.

She blinks, right eye first and left eye a microsecond later.

The left side of her mouth curves upward in an attempt at a smile.

Sunlight spills onto her face through the windows.

I realize now it's the only light in here.

The overheads are dead, and somehow she looks almost infantile.

She's a foot taller than me, and there's not an ounce of fat on her body, and yet I can't help but see a baby when I look at her.

There's two stacks of brick out back.

One big,

one small.

I've been moving them from the big pile to the small pile for a few hours now.

Get that finished up, and I'll give y'all one of whatever you want.

Including a gallon of gas?

She blinks again.

Left eye first, right eye second.

Whatever you want.

Good enough.

I find her stack of bricks out back, roughly 10 yards apart in a small dirt lot adjacent to the woods.

A creekbed runs along the border of the forest, lulling gently downriver.

Rusty tools litter the ground around me.

I have to work slowly, moving one brick at a time to the other stack, taking breaks in the shade when the bomb starts to tick in my chest.

I could take a beta blocker, but that would mean asking Chet for the car keys, and that shit just seems beneath me right now.

now.

So I'm gonna move these goddamn bricks and get some goddamn gas and threaten to uncircumcise Chet with a stapler and some old gum until he drives me right back goddamn home.

Because Chet can talk about me, about my heart, about my anxiety.

But my mom?

No.

And after that, he can't even lend me a hand?

What the fuck is he even doing in there?

My answer arrives, draped in the harsh sound of shattering glass echoing from inside.

I rush back in, dreading whatever fresh bullshit awaits me inside.

Chet's back at the counter, a mess of shattered glass and still bouncing chunks of hard candy.

The girl in overalls has her hands around his, trying to yank something out of his grip.

But Chet is stronger and meaner, and he shoves her away.

He pushes the phone back against his ear.

You hear that, Dad?

You can add assault to the list of charges.

He pauses, pretending to listen.

Uh-huh, I agree.

That's a a tort.

She torted me, 10 years behind bars.

Then to the girl.

My dad says you're in big trouble and that you're probably going to jail.

The girl shakes her head violently, so quickly and with such force that I'm afraid her neck might snap.

My dad's a big-time lawyer.

He pretends to listen again, and it takes physical effort to stop myself telling him to shut the fuck up, put the phone down.

Your dad is a goddamn math teacher.

He says we can let this go with the warning if you just give us some gas.

Either give us some of those sweet liquefied dinosaur spirits or you can be Big Bertha's girlfriend in lockup.

Your choice.

She's stopped shaking her head, and now she's just

sobbing.

She yanks at her hair and twists the blonde strings into hairied, bleeding knots.

Tears run down her face, and in the darkness, they almost look black.

There's something up with her eyes, too.

Maybe a trick of the light, but I could swear that they're further apart than they should be.

Chunks of gooey, bloodied hair stick to her palms like hideous gloves.

She reaches out to Chet, like she's begging him for mercy, but he brushes her away.

When she doesn't relent, he shoves her away.

Too hard, Chet, and her back smacks against the counter.

It's a sickening crack, and she howls in pain.

Those pleading eyes turn feral and angry.

She opens her mouth and keeps opening it, and keeps opening it and keeps opening it.

The flesh on her cheeks splits apart, tearing off her face in bloody ribbons, and her lips peel, crack, divide, revealing bleeding gums and crooked yellow teeth.

She lurches forward and bites down on Chet's head.

His phone clatters to the floor as his hands flail and his feet scramble nowhere.

He looks comical, like a cartoon character gearing up to run and kicking up animated dust underneath him.

A curtain of shimmering red drapes down the bottom half of his face, his neck, his shoulders.

She tilts him up above her, lets gravity do the work.

Inch by inch,

she swallows him whole.

She's at his throat by the time he stops screaming.

And after that, she just keeps going, chewing as she goes.

Periodic spurts of blood spraying from her mouth and dotting the ceiling.

By the time she's at his knees, the soles of my shoes have unstuck themselves from the floor, and I've bolted out the back, past the two brick monoliths, over the creek running along the woods, and into the sea of trees.

I run so fast and so hard, and with such stupid abandon that I start to get dizzy, and the world tilts.

There's a drummer in my chest, and he's on coke and crack and meth all at once, and his heart might explode right along with mine.

The world tilts and spins above me, and for a moment, I think I'm actually gonna pass out.

Then I'll be eaten.

Swallowed.

Shat out next to a chet-shaped pile of crap.

So I steady myself against a tree and let my legs buckle beneath me.

I land in the dirt, make sure to bring my knees up to my chest as soon as I can, but my heart's still going buck wild, and it feels like I'm breathing through a straw.

Darkness closes in at the edges of my vision.

She'll be up on my ass soon, so I force myself to stand, bracing my back against the tree as I rise.

Then I shift my weight forward, put my hands on my knees.

Standing, bent over, breathing heavy.

Best heart rate recovery position.

It forces more air into your lungs that way, gets that precious oxygen flowing.

It's all about breath.

I try not to think about it.

About her, about Chet.

Stupid, goofy Chet, who died being a dick, but hadn't always been a dick.

Might have moved beyond his dickishness and become a good person again.

I didn't love him, but I loved his smile.

I loved the way he flipped that little curly cue in his hair.

I loved the way he always brought me popcorn at the movie theaters, even though it was overpriced and he was broke.

Beautiful, innocent Chet, who had gone and gotten himself eaten with the keys to his car still in his goddamn pockets.

No car, no beta blockers.

I have to move.

And I have to move now before

a rustle behind me.

Twigs snapping.

Leaves crunching underfoot.

It's small at first, then it gets louder and louder, and now I've got my palm over my mouth to stop me breathing so loud.

I plug my nose too, just in case.

My heart's no calm monk.

I'm probably still in the 120-130 range, but I can let my breathing go irregular for a bit and avoid passing out.

But if it's her, and she sees me, We're in for a sprint, and it won't matter who runs faster.

One will fall over, and the other will feast on her sleeping body.

She's breathing heavy,

deep and strained like you'd imagine a fish would gasp out of water.

The high-pitched southern drawl is gone, replaced by a deep, mammalian growl.

The exhale is wind through a cave, the inhale like air escaping from a tire.

I listen closely, inching around the tree to avoid her line of sight, keeping the bark between me and her.

Rounding the tree slowly while my heart goes bullet train inside me.

Like aiming a sniper rifle while perched on a washing machine.

But somehow, I make it.

Can hear the sound of her footsteps receding.

Then there's a snap, far off in front of me.

Some squirrel losing his nut or a twig finally coming loose and hitting the ground.

Behind the tree, behind me, she snarls.

Wild simian grunts follow, along with the hoofbeats from hell as she sprints back my way.

A blur lumbers by me, pale blue arms swinging in both directions, directions, her spindly legs bounding awkwardly in front of her like she hasn't quite figured out how to run yet.

The drape of tangled, bristly blonde hair looks almost comical, like a wig on a skeleton.

She sprints a few yards ahead of me.

10, 20, 30 yards.

And then she stops dead, lifts her head upward, turning.

Her eyes are black as coal, jutting from either side of her head.

Her python mouth moves up and down, flapping softly like she's murmuring to herself.

She's even thinner than before.

Aside from her gut, her belly is massive and distended like a trash bag with too much crap in it.

Chet, I tell myself.

Too much chet in it.

If she looks directly to her right, she'll see me and I'll be dead.

I slip away slowly.

keeping my eyes on her as I go.

We wander away from one another, her searching in the wrong direction as I back up, slowly, eyes on the shimmering white blur in the distance.

If she spots me, she'll clear the distance in under 30 seconds.

But she doesn't spot me.

And before I know it, she's gone, swallowed by the forest.

I stick my thumb in my mouth and blow.

The sound of running water reaches my ears and I follow it back to the creek bed.

I trace the current until I'm back at the gas station, at the two piles of bricks out back, at the car whose keys are dissolving in stomach acid.

I could break the windows and fish out my beta blockers, but that would trigger the alarm.

I'd have a brief and bloody fight on my hands.

I drink from the creek, splashing the water over my face.

It's surprisingly cool, but my heart won't behave.

It's still galloping inside me, missing beats and sending flutters up my chest and into my throat.

My left arm hurts, but I tell myself I just pulled a muscle.

Because this isn't how it happens.

This can't be how it happens.

It's a long walk to anywhere.

One direction stretches toward the highway, the other going even deeper into this pocket of nowhere.

I'll shoot for the highway, follow the road as close as I can, and if she spots me,

you'll die.

The voice in my head sounds a lot like Chet.

She'll dig her teeth into your skull and swallow you.

Inch by miserable inch.

I can't outrun her.

If I try, my heart will fail, and at best, I'll pass out.

I can't sneak past her because the only road back home is a straight line back to the main road.

All I can do.

Old rusty tools litter the tiny back lot behind the gas station.

I comb through them until I find a pair of hedge clippers jutting out of the ground.

I yank them out of the dirt.

Unscrew the center bolt holding them together.

Two little swords.

Reasonably sharp.

Can't run.

run.

Can't hide.

Can't stay here and wait for rescue.

I gotta kill the bitch.

The thought calms me, somehow.

Rocks me into a gentle, dreamlike rhythm.

I'll kill her.

It's as cruel and as simple as that.

The plan arrives in my head, fully formed and screaming.

Bash the window in and let that alarm go hard as a mother.

I won't have time to snatch my bag, and besides, beta blockers don't even kick in for a half an hour.

But I want her coming my way.

I want her close, and I want it on my terms.

I'll hide somewhere, and when she comes for the noise, I'll be ready.

I'll jam it in her throat, in her skull, in her goddamn heart if I have to.

I'm still scared shitless, but at least I have something to hold on to.

Something to carry me to the end of this thing.

I return to the creek, splash some water on my face.

Let the cold water drip down my cheeks and my neck.

It's simple, Maisie.

Kill her or be killed.

Stand and fight the way mom fought.

She fought for 19 hours of labor, pushing me into the world while her heart collapsed inside her.

She fought, so I'll fight too.

I'll fight, and if I die, I die, and that'll be

a shimmer beneath the water, right at the corner of my eye.

At first, I think it's a fish, but then I realize it's far too large.

Two black eyes stare up at me, flanking a massive mouth and rows of crooked, dagger-like teeth.

A trail of white hair flows beneath it, ebbing with the water.

A halo of dirty blonde.

Its spindly arms lash out from beneath the water, wrapping around my hips.

Wet claws tear through my jeans and dig into my skin, and I'm being pulled under, hips first, into the water.

My legs slip out from under me, and I kick at her, the heels of my shoes slamming into her face.

I reach for one of my makeshift knives, discard it along the bank.

Her face emerges from the water, glistening pale, and those god-awful jaws unhinge.

Those teeth clamp down on my thigh.

Flesh tears away as she jerks back, red strings of meat flapping between us.

I've got one of the blades in my hand now, and I bring it down hard, stabbing in every direction, just trying to hit her, any part of her.

She screams.

It sounds like breaks that don't work right.

And then she's back in the water, a mouthful of me dangling from her lips.

I watch the pale, fish-like body slither away beneath the surface of the creek, fleeing downriver.

And I crawl away, fighting for every miserable inch.

My leg doesn't even hurt.

It's just cold.

I leave a dark red trail behind me.

She tore out my femoral artery.

And now it's painting the dirt red like a rogue fire hose.

I'm going to die.

I don't even know how.

But I managed to make it to the front of the gas station.

The sun's getting low.

I lean against the side, gasping gasping for air like I'm breathing through barbed wire.

I'm going to die.

I stay conscious longer than I expect to.

I've lost so much blood that I can practically feel the color leaving my face.

My brain floods with tourniquet how-to videos, but none of them account for the fact that my leg is fucking gone.

That I'm all alone.

That I can barely hold my head up and that everything's going dark at the edges.

I'm going to die.

And there she is.

Right on queue, walking through the stark sunlight.

She looks almost phony, like some shit from a movie set, rubber suit squeaking with the effort of movement.

Her feet are webbed, just like her hands, and pulsating slivers of red glisten on her neck.

Her stomach is still huge and distended, still filled with chet.

She looks down on me.

Those black eyes filled now with more curiosity than rage.

A bloody scar cuts across her face, a river of blood running down her left jowl.

She's breathing heavy, and chunks of meat, chunks of me, dangle out of her open mouth, fibers of bloody muscle tissue caught in her teeth.

I'm going to die.

Maybe my heart will go out before she can eat me.

Maybe I'll go into cardiac arrest and die clean, here on the ground with my skin still stuck to my bones.

But my heart is quiet.

Steady.

What are the odds of that?

It's almost comical.

Maybe it's because I've lost so much blood and my whole system is going into shutdown mode.

But maybe it's because I'm calm.

And my heart is calm with me.

Nothing bad can happen to me anymore.

Tomorrow can't hurt me because today already has.

In a way, I'm safer than I've ever been.

I might as well be an old woman on her deathbed, watching the sunlight dim behind the window.

I might as well be dead already.

I'm going to die.

I'm dead.

I'm already gone.

And because you can either laugh or cry, I go for the giggles.

They burst out of me like vomit.

Involuntary at first, but God, doesn't it feel good to laugh?

It's a relief.

I'm dead.

I'm dead.

I'm dead.

Nothing can hurt me anymore because I'm dead.

I bow over, laughing.

A real work-the-abs laugh, hand over my chest and the quiet heart it houses.

She starts to laugh with me.

At first, I think she's choking on something, but then I see that shark-like smile curl up toward her ears, and she throws back her head and it sounds like a car that won't quite turn over.

Her chest and her belly bob with the effort, and the bits of bloody meat fly from her mouth as she laughs.

Everything's dark now, but I can't stop cackling, and neither can she.

I've never laughed so hard in my life.

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 Brendan Boone.

Our production team is Phil Michalski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett.

Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy and Ashley McAnelly.

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This is Jonas Knox from Two Pros and a Cup of Joe.

And on Fox One, now you can stream your favorite live sports so you can be there live for the biggest moments.

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Welcome to what's next for your career and for your future in healthcare.

Carrington College is hosting our biggest open house yet, Thursday, August 14th from 10 a.m.

to 7 p.m.

Come explore hands-on healthcare training programs, meet instructors, watch live demonstrations, tour the campus.

You could graduate in as few as nine months, prepared to step into a new career.

Ready for what's next?

We're ready for you.

Reserve your spot today at Carrington.edu slash events.

Programs vary by location.

Visit Carrington.edu slash SEI for important information on program outcomes.

I was sipping my latte when my friend gasped.

Her phone had just alerted her to a data breach.

Again, that's when I told her about CAPE.

It's not just another app, it's a mobile carrier built to protect your privacy.

No name, no address, no data collected.

Cape offers premium nationwide service for $99 a month.

First month, just $30.

Use code CAPE33 and get 33% off your first six months.

She signed up that afternoon.

And now, no more gasps.

Go to CAPE.co.

Privacy starts at the source.