S24 Ep16: NoSleep Podcast S24E16

Water. It gives us life. We are drawn to it. Yet it holds immense power over us. It can bring unspeakable horror to the most familiar places. Your morning shower, a tranquil river bank, or the endless ocean. It's time to dive deep into the abyss. From the dark waters of the Cape Fear River, immerse yourself in horror as you brace yourself for the No Sleep podcast. I'm sorry about that. Your volume wasn't too high. Hello there. Oh, welcome to the No Sleep podcast. I'm Erin Lillis and I've just emerged from the Cape Fear River waters to take a stab at hosting an episode myself. Okay. So, count's on fingers. If I got my numbers correct this is season 24, episode 16. So, sorry. It was pondweed. Anyway, that was gross. Okay. So who am I anyway? I think I mentioned already. I'm Erin. I've been voice acting on the No Sleep podcast since way back in season nine. In episode nine, actually. So, if numerology is your thing, you can tell me if that has any significance. So, I'm not one of the OG vocal gangsters, but I've been here a while. My first story was The Secrets Inside Dune by Jared Roberts. Ooh, I'm a fan of Love of Mindfuck's story and Jared's one of the masters. And my very first story narration for the show was in the very next episode, Little White Lies in a Little Black Dress by Man in Lyset. And that actually brings me to something I wanted to mention. Okay. So, you'll see how this connects in a second. So, I have a degree in film and I have a second degree in interactive development. And now I work in theme parks. And so, what all those things have in common is that I really love a good behind the scenes reveal. How does the magic get made? So, I hope David doesn't mind me sharing a little of the secret that's in the sauce here during my turn at the wheel. But I actually get to meet Man in in person once. That was the connecting thread from back before. I want you to know that this is a rarity because many of you probably think that all of us involved in the show probably know each other. Let me give you that peek behind the dank moldy no sleep curtain here. We actually don't. We mostly all work separately and have never even interacted, even though the producers do an amazing job of making it sound like we're in the same place. And the actors do an excellent job of talking to no one and making it sound believably like a real conversation. Now, I have been lucky enough to meet a handful of the voice actors and contributors in real life via the past no sleep podcast tours and virtually via some of the online spaces. But for the most part, we are coworkers who have never been in the same place at the same time. The no sleep podcast team is huge. And that's not even including the illustrators who do the art for each episode. The producers behind the scenes, some of them who are also voice actors and the social media team and editorial folks, it's seriously impressive. Then you start including the authors of the stories without which we would really have no podcast. And it really is a whole sleepless universe, which by the way, we would really appreciate if you joined if you subscribe to that sleepless universe, you're going to get like 60 to 70% more content and you'll be helping fund the ongoing A plus quality of this show. Now that 60 to 70% was not an aggregate calculation. I did not actually do the math. I am not a math major. Please don't hold me to that. It's just a lot more. So back to what I was saying, if most of us have never met in real life and we don't record together, how do we do it? So I can't speak for everyone else. But for me, at this point, I've listened to the show for so long that I have everybody's voice and vocal mannerisms stored in the old noggin taps head. So what I do is once I get my story assignment and it says the names of the other voice actors, I imagine how they'll read their lines. Sometimes I'm right. Sometimes I'm not. And I can also imagine how the producer might be adding sound effects for the scene because each one of them has their own style too. So for fun, pay attention to those details and you're going to start to pick up on them too. Added bonus. Okay, so that was all a tangent. And that's my number one talent, by the way, tangents because I've got the old ADHD. And what was I supposed to tell you next? Okay, I did the hello part. I told you when I started here. Oh, right. What got me into horror? Okay, so, well, my gateway drug was the paranormal. So ever since my mom convinced me that she was the world's tallest leprechaun, by the way, she wasn't even Irish, just like really into the Irish, which is why I have these Irish names. So I just have fully accepted that there was magic and weirdness in the world since I was a child. And I had perused the old time life collections on mysteries of the world, UFOs, scare myself silly watching them solve mysteries. And then later the X files. And as I got older, I started seeking out the ghost tours of the world. And then later I even worked on some documentaries about ghost hunters that led to some really out there experiences. Still very fond of ghosts. Actually, after hearing this, if weird things start to happen to you, well, let's just say that's my little gift to you. Okay, not saying I'm a witch, but it sort of just happens. All right, how did I get into voice acting? That was a bullet point on this. Okay, that definitely also had to do with that old ADHD and just absorbing accents and being wacky and doing voices until finally I went home from my old job one day and I just bought a microphone on the way home. And I'd already studied filmmaking and sound design. So I knew a bit about audio stuff. And I thought why not make my own podcast? And I did. And that's still searchable out there. It's called subversity transmit and only a few episodes, but it taught me a lot. One of the things that taught me is that I prefer voice acting as a part of a team as opposed to producing my own show. Though I did make that little unofficial no sleep spin off for kids, the no nap podcast back during the pandemic. Also still searchable if you missed that cuteness. I produced the first season and I helped out on the second. Okay, so rewinded that one day when this girl I knew from work, shout out to Nancy, was like, Hey, you should try narrating horror. And she told me about the no sleep podcast. I decided to send David an email with some sort of cobbled together demo. And he to my surprise replied that there was actually space for a voice type like mine. And so that's my truncated story as to how I got suckered and meeting him by the docs. He administered some sort of serum and I ended up as a VA on this show. But now you can also hear me in a handful of horror video games, indie games, and your local HR videos telling you how to use your proper protective equipment. One of my favorite parts of working on this show has been all of the characters I've been able to play all the lives I've gotten to live and all of the horrors I've been able to immerse myself in. I started to make a list of all my favorite stories that I've been in my favorite no sleep authors and others that I've just loved. It just got too long. So all of you horror writers, you're all my favorites from the mind fox I mentioned before to the gore, which I love to the supernatural paranormal and cosmic, the monsters, myths and folklore, and especially the campy. I love it all. And I also like to take a moment to just say that I'm one of the proud no sleep LGBTQIA plus members. And I am so thankful for how this show has taken a stand to support us publicly. So just quick close to my number one voice acting supporters, my mom, my girlfriend, Morgan, our pet boys, Mulder and Roswell, and my weekly number one fans, Lauren and Anthony. And now it's time to get to the meat of this episode. On the show this week, we have a quintuple creature feature, five stories of people up against monstrous challenges. Some choose dangerous deals, and some have their destinies chosen for them against their will. Spoiler alert, every tale ends with a satiated beast. Okay, I was kind of hoping one of my stories would be about dentists, just so I could say braces yourself. But I got predators. Now I've got a variety of inner tubes here. So you can take your pick. I've got let's see, I got a unicorn, dragon, there's a turtle, purple, and a bunch more. So pick your tube, and let's hop back into this viscous lazy river that empties back out into the dark waters of Cape Fear. In our first tale, we meet father and son ranchers faced with an ongoing threat to their livelihoods. In this account by Benjamin Cardos, an unknown predator has been murdering their livestock and however dangerous it may be, they now need to keep a vigilant watch and prepare to take down this creature. Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson, David Cummings, and Mary Murphy, and it's produced by Phil Mykosky. So be prepared to hear how this duo works against the forces of nature. The front doors slam shut. My father stormed into the house, his face set for war. Get your boots on son. What's going on pop? I jumped from my chair in front of the TV and rushed to the closet to do as he ordered. Pop was never one to give frivolous commands. If he told you to do something, you could take it to the bank, he wouldn't tolerate any questions. I pulled my leather boots over my feet as Pop loaded his shotgun, violently snapping the barrel shut. A predator of some kind got into the barn, killed some of the livestock. Grab the rifle too. We're under attack tonight. I seized the rifle from the gun rack and followed Pop out into the warm summer night. The full moon casts long shadows behind the barn and grain silo in the field as we marched forward, like two soldiers setting out to protect our country. I was checking the water level in the well when I heard the livestock bellowing in the barn. I ran over and got in there just in time to see a creature disappear through an open and high in the wall. Whatever it was, it killed several. Good thing I was outside or we might have lost more. He strode towards the barn with solid confidence, shotgun tucked in his arm. Protecting the farm from predators was nothing new to him. Just another night for a full-time farmer. I struggled to keep up with him, my 10-year-old leg stumbling through the tall grass. Pop considered all predators his enemies. Wolves, bears, mountain lions, they were all opponents in what he called our war against the forces of nature. We got to fight for our place at the top of the food chain, he was fond of saying. It's the war we fight and we'll continue fighting for as long as we live. Nature is competition. Forget this simple truth and you won't last long in this world. He threw the barn door open and flipped the light switch on the wall. In the dim flickering glow of the swinging light bulb, we saw the stiff bodies of four of our best heifers splayed out on the hay-covered floor. The rest of the livestock was huddled against the far wall. Their eyes huge with fear as they gawked at their deceased companions. With just one look at the dead, it was obvious whatever did this was not a wolf, bear or mountain lion. The bodies were almost completely untouched except for a large ugly gash in their throats. Whatever attacked them had latched onto their necks and didn't let go until they were dead. Popped melt down by the nearest of the bodies. Look at this. I knelt down beside him as he held up the heifer's head, showing me the deep wound. I noticed immediately how little blood there was not only on the heifer's neck but on the floor surrounding her body. She had the blood sucked right from her throat. What kind of animal would do that? I felt his sickness sink into my guts as I gazed down at the nasty laceration. Popped shook his head. Whatever it is, we don't want it around here. Turning toward the back wall, he pointed at a hole near the ceiling through which a shaft of moonlight beamed in. It escaped through there. I didn't get a chance to get a good look at it before it got away, but it crawled right up the wall like a damned cat. The very image made me shiver. How did it make that hole? Come around back. Popped led me around to the back of the barn where a pile of boards were splayed about the grass. It pried the boards right out of the wall. Whatever it is, it has to be strong as hell to do that. I looked up at my father and saw the fire in his eyes. It was him against the forces of nature, farmer versus predator, and the competition needed to be eliminated at any cost. Over the following days, I helped Popp reinforce the barn walls with extra screws and metal paneling. We also set traps and hunted the property for any signs of the mysterious animal. We uncovered nothing. No tracks, no fur, no excrement. Whatever the creature was, it was adept at staying hidden. Popp was undeterred. In his battle against the forces of nature, there was no length he wouldn't go to protect his livestock, his property. The livestock was our food source, our income, our identity in this world. He wouldn't tolerate anything taken that away from him. A few nights later, two more heifers were killed in the same manner as the first four. The creature had managed to break past our reinforced walls, peeling back the metal paneling we'd spent days installing. The metal was covered in deep claw marks where the creature had pried at loose. Popp was our ray. I'm coming for you. He screamed toward the sky. The heifers' bodies at his feet. Nobody kills my livestock. It's you versus me. From that night on, he spent every waking moment hunting the forests around the farm. The knights were spent guarding the barn with a shotgun. Killing the predator became his sole obsession. His eyes were constantly dark with fatigue. He rarely ate. I found myself beginning to worry about his health. I was in the house reading when a shotgun blasted two AM echoed across the field. I rushed out to the barn to investigate, my heart pounding with wild anticipation. Our livestock was once again crowded against the far wall, as far away as possible from the body of the creature that had been picking them off one by one. Victoriously, Popp stood over the strange and ugly animal. It looked like an emaciated coyote with long curved claws. Its eyes were large and bug-like. Spikes like a porcupine's quills grew from its back, and its long snout was full of nasty fangs. For several seconds, a stared speechless at the odd animal. What is it? It's called a chupacabra, son. Oh, what? It's a creature of Latin American mythology. It's known for sucking the blood of farm animals. Countless animal killings have been blamed on the chupacabra. Sightings are damned rare. Basically, it's a big, stupid vampire dog. Good riddance. Popp spit on the chupacabra's shotgun blasted corpse. A big, stupid vampire dog. A grinned. Popp said some funny things sometimes. Never thought I'd see one of these bastards in my lifetime. Popp kicked the body with his foot. So what do we do with it? Popp thought for a moment. Well, we're gonna bury the body, boil the skull, and then put it up on one of the fence posts as a warning to any others that try to invade our farm. This is war, son. It's us against the forces of nature. Popp smiled and patted my shoulder. Very good. Well then, now that the enemy has been vanquished, what do you say we celebrate our victory? Yeah. How should we celebrate? Pop rubbed his stomach. Oh, I don't know about you, but I'm famished. What do you say you choose dinner tonight? Anything you want? Jumped up and down excitedly, my mouth watering. I looked over at our livestock, still huddled in the corner. I eyed one particular tasty looking heifer. As if knowing what I was thinking, she cowered down behind the others, trying desperately to hide. I pointed my finger. That one! The blonde and the blue t-shirt. Popp bobbed his head in agreement. Good choice. Nice and plump. Together, we slowly advanced on the heifer. The others part of the fear, leaving her exposed and trembling against the wall. Please, no. Pick someone else. I opened my mouth, allowing my fangs to slide out of my gums. Popped it the same. The heifer cried for mercy as we closed in. Please don't kill me. She repeated it over and over, as if she didn't understand the reason Popp had kidnapped her and brought her to our farm in the first place. As we drew closer, she tried to pull away. The heavy chains around her wrists only allowed her to move so far. Don't kill me. Her eyes closed as she slid to the floor, defeated. Relunged. I sunk my fangs into her neck. Popped chomped into her arm. She screamed as we feasted. Her body twitched as the hot blood spurred into my mouth, coating my tongue and throat in the rich, coppery goodness. Her struggles weakened as we drained her of every last drop. When dinner was over, we rose up, wiped our mouths, and stepped away from the heifer's body. Pop glanced at the others, watching us from various corners of the barn, as far away from us as their chains would allow. He pointed at the corpse. Go ahead. Immediately they fell upon her, their chains clanging and tangling together as they dug their fingers into her bloodless flesh, ripping the skin and lifting large chunks of meat and organs to their mouths. We watched for a moment as the livestock ate. They grunted and pushed against each other, like pigs at the trough. Pop and I rarely fed the livestock. More often than not, we simply allowed them to finish the scraps from our dinner. Half-starved and crazed, our herd had no problem eating their own dead. And that night, they were very hungry. We went back to the house, locking the barn door behind us. Pop carried the carcass of the Chupacabra over his powerful shoulder. Yep, son. We gotta stay vigilant against the competition. It's us against the forces of nature. And in this world, there's only room for one type of vampire. And that's us. I felt wonderful. The enemy was vanquished, and my belly was full of hot blood. Pop beamed. You got that right, my boy. Let's take a short break for our sponsors who help us keep our heads above water. For waves of ad-free horror content, join our sleepless universe by going to sleepless.thenosleeppodcast.com. Let's be honest, if you're looking for a meal involving human blood, I can't help you. But when you're starving, hangry, and panicking about what to eat, do what I do, and turn to Home Chef. Home Chef is literally the only reason I now have meals that are actually balanced and delicious. Plus, I'm saving money by not always grabbing takeout. It's perfect for busy schedules, whether you need a 30-minute meal, an oven-ready tray, or even a quick microwave lunch. Home Chef has you covered. Plus, it's affordable. Home Chef customers save an average of $86 per month on groceries. And people really love it. Home Chef is rated number one by users of other meal kits for quality, convenience, value, taste, and recipe ease. So come on, spend less time planning, shopping, and prepping meals by signing up with Home Chef. And for a limited time, Home Chef is offering sleepless listeners 50% off and free shipping for your first box, plus free dessert for life. Go to HomeChef.com slash no sleep. That's HomeChef.com slash no sleep for 50% off your first box and free dessert for life. HomeChef.com slash no sleep must be an active subscriber to receive free dessert. Now let's plunge back into the deep waters of horror. Oh man, I know some of you bemoaned some of the horror basics, but man, do I love a vampire twist. A cryptid bloodsucker versus a supernatural bloodsucker? Come on. Okay, I actually just went down a small rabbit hole to see if a vampire could also be considered a cryptid. Apparently not, though I'd argue in favor of it. But on to our next story. We're about to meet a guy that's been given a strange gift that he doesn't know what to do with. So he does what I do. He puts it on a shelf in case his friend comes over and says, hey, what'd you do with that gift I got you? Then in this tale by Alastair Ray, he starts getting what he thinks are misdelivered packages from a shady career. Are the strange gift and the weird packages related? You'll find out when James Cleveland and Andy Cresswell perform this story that Jeff Clement produces. I don't know, if I were the narrator, I might protest a little more to the bone career. Nimo was the one who gave me the thing. He had just returned from one of his hunting trips to Dorchester, a trip which I had by nature declined. I've never had what might be called a killer instinct. The idea of hunting alone killing an animal for sport has never appealed to me. Nimo removed the bundle wrapped in brown paper from his rock sack and quietly placed it on the table. I remained silent as he slowly peeled away the papal-like strips of dead skin to reveal the deer's skull. I stared at the object. The skull appeared dry and brittle, hardly a fresh kill, I remember thinking. But it was the horns that attracted my attention. They were long and slender, tapering into fine razor sharp points. It didn't resemble a forest deer, so much as an African gazelle. Nimo rubbed his knuckles on the dome of the skull. It was for me, he said, a gift. Looking back, I'm not certain whether Nimo was taunting me or whether he simply had no other use for the thing. But by the end of the night, one thing was clear. I was now the proud owner of this hideous trophy. Not that I thought much about it over the next week. I set the skull on a shelf in my study and there it remained, out of place among the books and little statuettes gathering dust. I might have forgotten about it altogether. Had it not been for... It was Thursday when I heard the knock at my front door. I answered it to find a man standing on my doorstep, cradling a small box in his arms. There was nothing remarkable about the man. He was dressed in plain clothes, a workman's cap drawn low over one side of his head. But I couldn't help thinking there was something distinct in the way his eyes fixed upon me. Like, he somehow knew me. He held out the package. Delivery! I took the small box wrapped in brown paper and looked at the label. My address was printed in the corner, but the name scribbled above it read Christopher Mule. I explained to the courier that I didn't know the recipient and to my knowledge, nobody by that name had ever lived at this address. The courier only shook his head and flashed a cold smile. No, that's the address. What was I to do? I received the package and placed it on the table in my study. There it remained, one opened as if waiting for one Christopher Mule to claim it. It was only two days later I heard the knock at my door again. I opened it to find the same man on my doorstep. As before, he held the package wrapped in brown paper between his thin hands. Delivery! This time I protested, assuring him he had the wrong house, although I could clearly see the address scribbled on the label just under the name Christopher Mule. The courier only shook his head and held out the box. I'm still not sure why I extended my hands to receive the gift, and that is exactly how I thought of it now as a gift. But I did. I took it willingly, almost without thinking. Not knowing what to do, I took it to my study and placed it beside the other box. I figured if there was a Christopher Mule, he would eventually find out that his belongings were being sent to the wrong address. I was keeping them safe, I told myself. I was being a good neighbour. It was odd, but I remember gazing at the deer skull on my shelf, its vacant eyes staring down at me, perhaps even judging me. What had Nemo given me, I wondered. I'd like to say it ended there, but it didn't. The boxes continued to come, not regularly, but they did come. Won the following week, the next few days later, and always the same man with the cold smile and watery eyes. They got to the point where we dispensed with the formalities. Delivery, he would say, and I would hold out my hands ready to receive Christopher Mule's parcel. By the end of the month, six boxes lay arranged on my table, all roughly the same size and all wrapped in the same brown paper. I was amassing a collection. But what was I collecting? It was a Thursday night and there had been some snow flurries earlier in the evening. It's funny what you remember, those little insignificant details, the things that add texture without context. I had fallen asleep in my bedroom. I thought it was the wind rattling the window frame that woke me, a slight grating noise like the sound of something rough and dry rubbing together. But as I ripped myself from sleep, I realised that the noise wasn't coming from the window. It was coming from downstairs. I got up and stepped into the hall, listening. Something was moving on the floor below. A dragging sound of rustling. As I descended the stairs, I realised something was different. There was a strange luminosity to the air, almost like an afterglow, a visible kind of darkness permeating the rooms. And that was when I noticed it, a slight noise rising out of the darkness growing louder with each step I took. A rhythmic sound drawing me forward. A sound so familiar I almost couldn't place it. It was the measured beating of a heart. I didn't know what to think, whether I was dreaming or about to have a heart attack. But no, the sound was coming from the study. I stepped through the doorway, the beating grew louder, enveloping the air. I almost didn't want to reach for the desk lamp because I knew. It instinctively, I knew that it was the darkness keeping me safe, concealing me. But I did it anyway. The boxes lay there on my desk, their brown paper stained with blood. Blood that seemed to be seeping through the cardboard, running out in rivulets and pooling on the floor. I had to be dreaming, but I saw it. The boxes, they were throbbing, palpitating, each rhythmic beat emitting a stream of fresh blood. I stretched out my hand, wondering what it would be like to touch one of them when I heard that rustling noise again. Something was there in the dark with me, dragging itself across the floor. I could smell the earthy scent of the forest, and looking up, I saw a shape stenciled against the night. The hunched back, the deformed body and the two slender horns rising into the air. I knew that behind that thin veil of darkness, those two cavernous eyes were staring at me, fixing on me with predatory intent. I wanted to scream, to run. Something kept me rooted, there as the thing moved closer, and I could hear it. That throbbing in my ears as the thing raised its hand and extended its fingers, coiling them around my upturned face until everything went dark and there was only the muffled sound of a beating heart in the stillness. I know what you're thinking. I thought it myself. But no. In the morning, the boxes were still there on my desk. The brown paper torn open and crusted in dried blood. And as to the contents, there was nothing. Only pools of cooling blood and traces of viscera. A rancid stench in the air. A stench like a meat. Like an abattoir. On the floor, in a puddle of drying gore lay the skull staring up at me vacantly. In the morning light, it looked almost at peace. I picked it up and stared into its hollow sockets. I like to think my story ends there, with me and my gift locked in an almost hamlet-like pose of doubt. Certainly life resumed its normal course. There were no further knocks at the door, no more unannounced visitors, no more packages. But unlike a story which does have an end, an experience never has that comforting sense of resolution. It is relived over and over, whether as a fond memory or as trauma. It persists, it changes, it assumes a life of its own, I would feel remiss if I didn't mention the dreams. I can't be certain when they began. They feel like they were always there. An unconscious part of me awaiting me in sleep. In my dreams I see branches and leaves smell the earthy scent of the forest. And I can see it, standing among the dark foliage. The hunched back and tapering horns webbed in shadow. It looks more human now. The skeletal frame dotted with blossoming organs. A familiar face with watery eyes and a smile. A workman's cap clutched in its claw-like hand. Who are you? I always want to ask. But there's no need, because I know what the reply will be. Christopher Mule, it will say. 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I've been taking Marsmen for months now, and I'm really noticing a difference. My body feels like it has a source of energy that's consistent and usable. It's not about a quick burst that fades fast. I just feel like my body is working better with Marsmen. Because Marsmen supports healthy T levels, energy and stamina with eight natural clinically-dosed ingredients made in the USA and third-party tested. And with a 90-day money-back guarantee, there's no risk. For a limited time, our listeners can get 50% off for life plus free shipping and three free gifts at mengotomars.com. That's mengotomars.com for 50% off and three free gifts when you check out. And it's also available on Amazon. After you purchase, they'll ask where you heard about them. Please support our show and tell them the No Sleep Podcast sent you. Now let's plunge back into the deep waters of horror. Weird. Just got a food delivery for a sea mule. It's tacos, so obviously I'm gonna eat it. I mean, they just go bad otherwise. If I end up disappearing and suddenly replaced, someone must have known sour cream is my favorite food. My money's on Sarah Thomas or Grand Rolor because they're in like every podcast. Actually, they may even be the same person. And anyway, how y'all doing bobbin' long in the slicks-ludgy water with me? Any fish or other things nipping at your toes? Okay, let's carry on. Now next up, and I'm gonna do this one in my attempted and Irish accent, we have some lore about a family that's maintaining an old druidic pact with a creature on our land in exchange for safety and security. In this story by C.W. Stevenson, the Donahors are sick, emphasis on sick, and tired of making sacrifices. But the creature they're in this deal with has become a little finicky as of late. This story is produced by Jesse Cornette and David Alt, Erica Sanderson, Mary Murphy, Connor Larkin, Jake Benson, and that bram roat, the whole lot of them are spinning this yarn. And I guess if I placed a takeaway order for this tales monster, it'd probably be more than a lamb for Sulabwe. Maeve O'Cleary walked through the tall grass heading toward the thicket. Behind her, the farmhouse her great-great-grandfather had built with his own two hands soon became little more than a speck. Under one arm, the package was becoming awkward to carry. After all, she was not a large woman, and her sons were of no use at the moment. One attended university in Dublin, John, he would be coming home soon. The eldest, Michael, she hadn't spoken to in over a decade. Supposedly he still worked at the local dairy outside of Balidau's. The lad hadn't the stomach for what must be done. He'd gotten away, although abandoned them would be the more appropriate term. Normally it would have been her husband, Sean, performing the task, but he was long past. And so the task had fallen to her, brother Charlie, or her daughter. But Mary Kate hadn't the courage, not yet. One day she must. The task must always fall to a Danahar, her father's surname, or that with the Danahar blood. Overhead, dark clouds drew near coming from the west. It had been raining all across Northern Ireland. Their 400 acres had been no exception. Directly in the path of the storm to come, she knew she would have to deliver the package early. Its recipient would not mind. She continued on her way, getting closer. Not far off, she heard the baying of the herd behind a series of green rolling hills marking the southern border of the property. She'd opened the doors to the sheep barn beside the house that morning. It had keep some of them dry, but the barn would not fit them all. Maeve nearly tripped over something loose and oblong beneath her feet. Regaining her posture, she peered down. Bones. So that's where you went to? Awful luck, lass. The sheep skull stared up at her, the rest of its decomposing body carrying a rotten stench that caused Maeve to move quickly over the killing ground, careful not to step on any more pieces of bone. Entering the thicket, the world darkened. More so than usual, as grey clouds drifted overhead, darker clouds biting their heels. She stopped, producing a flashlight from her jacket pocket. Maeve stepped softer now, heading toward where the thicket met a great wall of rock. Always best to step quietly. Best not to disturb. Best not to let it know you were there. She stopped before a boulder with a flat top. Red rock. The altar. Dark red stained the centre. Many generations of Danahas having made it so. Many generations of Danahas would continue to see it stained further. God willing. Setting the package on the rock, Maeve placed the flashlight between her teeth and aimed it at the butcher paper. Taking the bone-handled knife of her ancestors, she cut the string, placed the knife aside, and then she cut the string. Maeve was able to hold on to the knife She cut the string, placed the knife aside, and opened the package. The meat was fresh, taken from one of their healthiest lambs just the other day. The incoming storm's breeze caused the odour of the fresh meat to hit her square in the face, earthy, the presence of lanolin clearly evident as she could all but taste its fragrance. She tossed the ribs, a shoulder, and a half leg joint to the centre of the rock. A joke for her mind only. She'd no wish for it to come out. Not here. Not ever. But it was a necessity that it fed on what was offered. Their very lives depended on it, as did their livelihood, their home, their health. Such was the Danahar's way, such as it had been for centuries, if not longer. They'd always been here, safeguarding their darkest secret. No outsiders were welcome on the property. Only their kin, only those with the blood. Danahar blood. Only those who knew. Sean hadn't the blood, and look where that got him. They'd been only clothes to bury. The mouth of the cave beyond Red Rock gaped back at her. It's more black, inviting her in. She could see nothing beyond the entrance littered with bones. Bones. Bones everywhere. Lord, it was a filthy place. Wiping her hands on the soft grass at her feet, she stood back up and folded the butcher paper neatly before sticking it into her jacket pocket. Placing the knife back into its sheath of human skin, she held it and the flashlight in one hand. She was just about to turn and leave when curiosity got the better of her. Besides the missing sheep, it had been some time since anyone in the family had caught a glimpse. Anyhow, a fox could easily have stumbled upon a lost sheep if it had been sick and expired in the tall grass. Unlikely. Either way, Maeve had convinced herself of what she should not do. Taking a moment to build her courage, she swiftly held up her arm and aimed the flashlight toward the mouth of the cave. It went deep. There were twists here and there as one went further down into the darkness, but the light did not reach far. She stared, eyes wide, trying to catch any movement. Nothing. Only the breeze gaining strength. Smiling, she closed her eyes and shook her head. Silly woman. Her late husband's words any time she overthought a thing. Silly, silly woman. Sean had a way of making the bad thoughts go away with just that phrase. Or perhaps it was how he took her in his arms after where she could melt her worries and sorrows away in a loving instant. When she opened her eyes, the meat was still in front of her. And when she looked toward the cave, there was nothing but... She took a step back as its yellow eyes gazed back at her from the darkness. Quickly, she shone the light back down at her feet. It had seen her. Calmly, she turned and walked in the opposite direction, just as she'd been taught when it took notice of you. She said a prayer to God for wings to sprout from her back so that she may fly back home, but to no avail. She moved faster, feeling eyes at her back even once she'd left the thicket. The crunching of grass behind her, clumsy as if it were daring that she look its way. Or perhaps she was only imagining it followed her. Regardless of whether she envisioned it there or not, Maeve did not oblige. She hummed Be Thou My Vision until she reached the giant farmhouse. Making it to the front porch, she finally turned. Across the field, the thicket sat, looking back at her. She stood still, waiting to catch a glimpse, only heading inside when it began to rain. It hated the rain. Hanging her jacket on the coat rack, she set the flashlight on the kitchen counter. And the knife on the glass case above the fiery hearth. Carved into the bone handle, the creature extended its claws out toward a man, one of her ancestors, who extended a dead lamb in return. Mommy, I'm feeling dreadful. Mary Kate looked it. Mary Kate looked it. She was paler than her fair skin usually appeared. A fever? I think so. Maeve smiled, took a wet cloth and dabbed it at Mary Kate's brow. There, there, dearie. Just like Bak Noi. That's it. It's time to ask him for strength and to rest. Together, mother and daughter prayed. They prayed for Mary Kate's sudden illness to vanish. They prayed for John's safe return. Quietly, they prayed that the creature might be satisfied with their offering, so that it might leave them in peace another week. Could Sula Bray be gone? Maeve blinked at its old Gaelic name, Yellow Eyes. She did not bother telling her daughter she'd seen it. No, my dear. It will never be gone. Some Danaheers have lived their entire lives without a say to others. She thought of herself, of Sean, and their sons. Others may witness it many times and go on about their business, but we do not provoke it. We give sacrifice. In return, we are given our lives. Relatively comfortable ones at that. What pact her druid ancestors had made was lost in the annals of time, leaving only instructions passed down from generation to generation by tongue alone. Sacrifice meat once per week. Leave it on red rock. If it grows tired of lamb, sacrifice a cow. If it has no taste for beaves, provide honeycomb and precious things like gold and silver. When it has want of something you do not possess, offer a human life. Easy said than done. Sean had failed this. Try though he did, Sean had been unable to offer a stranger, a drunk, nobody, any number of undesirables they knew of in Balidau's that Maeve would have had him choose. But in the end, after having sobbed in the barn for many hours, he removed his clothes in the dead of winter, strode to red rock, and offered himself. Self-sacrifice was always the most worthy of offerings to be had. Maeve still had not forgiven him. Never will. Do these things and you will live a long, prosperous life as will your kin, but it did not stave off self-destruction. For years, a decade at least, the creature had grown quiet in a deep slumber, so they guessed, as it had been noted to have done in the past. But like a thorn thought long dislodged, it had returned. Sean had not been of Danahe blood, although it must have known that his offspring and his mate were Danahe's, the creature had returned far sooner than anticipated. The thing Maeve was beginning to realize was that Sulerbwe was greedy. A knock at the door. Maeve and Mary Kate looked at one another. The door opened. Another knock and the door gently shut. Manny, Mary? Maeve breathed a sigh of relief. Then she rushed downstairs and took John into her arms. Son! She beamed up at him. Welcome home. You gave us quite the fret. Your sister isn't doing very well, you know. How's the treen home? Are you hungry? I was fixing to- Nun, the porch. She then spotted something red on his hands. What's this? Are you hurt? Nun, the porch. He glanced down at his hands, then back up at her. It's not mine. Maeve shook her head, sporting a whimsical grin, confused at what the lad was getting at. Oh, the porch, the porch! What of it? Look. There was no jest on the grim face that stared back at her. Opening the door to see for herself, she first took note of the rain falling heavier, soaking the fields, hills and woods, making up the dunneau havent. The storm had come, but it wasn't as bad as she thought. To her left, the porch swing, swung to and fro in the wind. She was about to turn to John and shrug her shoulders when she saw him. There, at the bottom steps of the porch, red pieces of meat sat in a pile. It doesn't want that. Maeve waved a hand at Mr Flannery as John backed the vehicle away with a cooler full of beef sitting in the back of the truck bed. And not just any beef, but one of the old farmers prized cows. All of Balidau's would be hearing the dunnehas had paid a hefty penny in short notice for its slaughter. To draw that sort of attention was dangerous for them. The dunnehas had erected clumps of trees around the several stone circles found throughout their property, not just decades, but centuries before. Maeve beamed with pride at her ancestors outward look to the future for the protection of generations to come. Camouflage from drones and hidden from the surrounding eyes of drivers on the roads bordering the land, their secrets had remained. But that didn't stop the townsfolk from wondering about the mysterious dunnehas. No birthday parties for the children on the property growing up. Only well-behaved friends had been allowed to play at their home and only inside. No parties or extravagantly loud merry-making of any kind were allowed to play at their home. No. Not for the dunnehas. Not with Sula Buie lurking about the hills at night and when they weren't looking. Pulling onto the road, Maeve gave a short nod and smiled at Mr. Flannery. The old man did nothing to acknowledge her, he just stared as they left. Old bastard. John glanced over, his mouth agape for a moment before turning upward in a rye grin. The lad wasn't accustomed to his mother cursing. What's got you riled up? All the yellow eyes lost the taste for mutton before. If that's what's got you, it's sorts. All will be well. I just wish the others would leave us be. Who is it that's bothering you? You saw Mr. Flannery, the looks he gave us, the suspicions. He doesn't trust us. He didn't trust your dad and he didn't trust Maeve and he sure as shite doesn't trust you or I. John laughed, his boisterous outburst causing even Maeve to light up a wee bit. We do, we must to survive. It might as well have been the Danahar family motto. We must do what we must to survive. Except surviving meant blood sacrifice and lying to one's neighbour for the sake of comfortable lives. They were wealthy, it was no secret. Their children had wanted for nothing just like she and Charlie. Generation after generation could live lives where one would not have to guess where their next meal would come from. With their wealth the Danahars had given much to the folk of Balidao's which was perhaps the sole reason why the people hadn't come with their torches and pitchforks to uncover the secrets of the ancient Danahar land. Donations were made anonymously to the church, to the school, to the poor, but they all knew something was amiss with the Danahars. As Maeve looked out the window she took in the beauty of her country. The hills and hedgerows blooming with the golden glow of gorse and furs bushes where yellow did not catch the eye it was green such lush greenery for as far as the eye could see. Suddenly John slammed the brakes on the truck causing the cooler to slam against the back of the truck bed. He honked his horn at the man dragging his feet in front of them. Maeve didn't have to guess whom John was referring to. John honked again when his shout was ignored. This time the inebriated fellow turned to the side of the road. Column O'Brien tipped his hat and raised a tiny flask as John and Maeve passed him by. I don't hear you pity Uncle Charlie like that when he's properly blustered. They passed the exit to Balidau's where she'd gone to school, where she'd met Sean at the docks as a lass. The church was there too but it felt less and less like home when the evil plaguing their land became greedy. Tired of secrets, tired of the lies, tired of not having a confidant other than her children and of her drunk of an elder brother Charlie but she had the Lord and in him she trusted but even he had been silent as of late. Charlie was waiting for them on the front porch when they returned, a glass of whiskey and one hand a cigarette in the other. Dipping the cigarette butt into what little alcohol remained at the bottom of the glass he set the whiskey glass down on the bloody stain where yesterday's sacrifice had been left and helped John remove the cooler from the back of the truck. All that flannery give you hell? Bored looks, always the same from him, from everyone. Right up. Charlie turned to his nephew. We best get this out to the rock eh lad? Wait, have you been up to see Mary Kid? Eh, sweating the Seasworth, pale as a ghost. Then he vomited a portion of the alcohol he'd drunk since she'd last seen him three days before, off on another binge. Miraculously Charlie held on to his side of the cooler keeping it from completely spilling out onto the ground. Instead the lid only came open a crack allowing some of the melted bloody ice water to leak out a mite. Once Charlie had regained his composure Maeve stomped toward her brother and wagged a finger in his face. I've told you Charlie Danaha, you're not to be a drunken mess around the children. You're not to- I'm not a child. You're my child boy and I've not finished speaking. She glowered hard at the overweight man Charlie Danaha had transformed into since his best mate's demise. No longer was he the brick built fellow all the women of Balidao's swooned after, but a depressed foul mouthed louse only good for menial tasks around the property and tending the flock. He'd even taken to sleeping in the shed out back. There he could drown in his sorrows all he pleased. She's sick Charlie. Mary Kate, you're only nice sick because of that ficking bastard. She pointed in the direction of the thicket, the cave. It's a greedy sort. You'll not be around her in such a state. Sulibwe is not understanding. If it does not get what it requires it will kill her. It will kill Mary Kate, then it will take the rest of us. Charlie Danaha stood up straight pushing out his chest. Your husband was my best mate and your children were the closest I'll ever have of my own, but don't you go lecturing me of its needs and what it'll do. Don't forget sister, don't forget who brought its sustenance when our da passed for decades. Me and your man handled things only in recent times do you make sacrifice. Maeve's icy stare remained unwavering. Hey, only now because my brother is only half the man he once was. Our father and my husband thought me too soft for the task, but I've blooded my hands while you've been off to the pub or hiding away in the shed with a bottle. I'm sure my Sean would be so bloody proud of the man his best mate has become. Ma'am, I think Uncle Charlie gets the point. No more drinking around Mary Kate. She'd had good reason for the outburst, but looking at the depressing state her brother was in made her wish she had taken a softer approach. Charlie, I... No. Charlie held up his free hand, bile still dripping from one fingertip. You're right. Maeve was visibly taken aback. It wasn't like Charlie's character to cave in when blame had been placed on him. I'm the one who should be sorry. I won't be drinking around Mary Kate any longer. Count on that. I'll get better. He met her eyes. I'll do better. Maeve squeezed her brother's right shoulder tenderly. I know you're a... I know. Clearing his throat, Charlie Danahud nodded his head and took a moment to light another cigarette. After releasing a plume of smoke high above them, he faced his nephew once again. Come on, lad. Say we ring the dinner bell. The next morning, the choice cuts of Mr. Flannery's prized cow were littered across the porch. The sight brought Maeve to tears. It was evident what the bane of her ancestors wished for, but there were still a couple of options left to them. After she, John, and Charlie had cleaned up the mess, Charlie said one aloud. Best we gather the family juice. Gold, silver, angiolary, binary. She wished the Danahud's of old had written down instructions in a book somewhere, offering up their horrifying experiences for future generations to mirror in times of strife. No. No book, no letters, a cave painting, or hieroglyphics carved onto one of the stone circles' boulders. Nothing. Only instructions passed down from one Danahud to the next. Somewhere down the line, it was said that fine things appeased the creature's needs, delivering balance back to the Danahud line. What the creature did with such things Maeve hadn't an inkling. It was not her place to understand, but to give to the beast so that they may in turn live. And so John and Charlie went to the lone yew tree, a tree said to be older than the twin yews close to the ruins of Cromcastle. Digging at the foot of the great tree, John and Charlie laboured until they brought up a medium-sized chest. An iron lock dangled at the front. Maeve strode forward, crunching the red berries fallen from the yew tree beneath her feet. Producing a rusty key, Maeve inserted it into the lock and twisted until a lock clicked. Neither she, Charlie, her children, Sean, nor any other Danahud she had known existed, had needed the chest. Judging by its half-rocked state, the wood might crumble away if handled too harshly. But they all had more respect for family relics than that, especially those that were meant to help them in a time of need. Inside the chest, she pulled out several gemstones, rubies and a small bag of silver, not bothering to look at the coins to see which Irish king had his face imprinted on. It mattered not. What about the rest? We put it back. We only take what we think is required. In time, we will replenish what we took. Why not just offer it cash? Charlie, smoking a cigarette with his back against the yew tree, wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Jewry coins and fanery. We were never told cash, lad. Shrugging his shoulders, John shut the chest and locked it, handing the key back to Maeve. His shovel back in hand, he began piling the loose soil back on top. Charlie flicked his cigarette, taking the precious stones and coins from Maeve and placing them into a small sack of wolf's fur, the last wolf taken from the property long ago. Another relic of the past. A fine thing to be given. A fine thing to be given as sacrifice. Mary Kate screamed in bloody terror. Rolling out of bed, Maeve heard glass shatter. No, not my girl. Not my girl. Heavy footsteps hurried from Mary Kate's bedroom and onto the roof. Mary Kate continued to scream. In terror. Running across the hall, Maeve burst into her daughter's room. Glass lay in pieces across the floor. A lamb's head sat at the foot of the bed. It was fresh. Mary Kate was coughing now, having spent herself from all the high-pitched screaming she was capable of. She was paler despite medication, prayers and the sacrifices made. Maeve climbed into bed, kicked the lamb's head onto the floor and cradled her daughter's head in her lap. She began stroking Mary Kate's cheek. There, there, dearie. It's alright. Calm now. Calm. Nanny's here. John appeared in the doorway then, his father's double-barrel shotgun in hand. What is it? As Mary Kate caught her breath, she pointed a shaking finger at the window. It was him. I walked and he was watching me from the window. Then he came in. I saw him. I saw him, Nanny. Then Mary Kate turned away, burying her face into Maeve's nightgown. John. Maeve motioned him toward the window. He approached slowly, the shotgun raised, glass crunching underfoot. Satisfied, there was no immediate danger, he set the gun against the wall and stuck his head out of the window. Maeve held Mary Kate tight as she attempted to squirm her way to the floor to retreat under the bed as she'd done as a small child during a storm. It's okay. He's gone. He's gone. John extended a hand outside the window and retrieved something that must have been sitting idly on the roof. In his palm, John held a bloody sack. And when he shook it, Maeve felt chills crawl up her spine at the sound of clinking metal and jewels. That morning, Maeve found Charlie on the porch steps, a new bottle in hand. Maeve looked out across their property, unsurprised at what she saw. The sheep, torn to shreds. And your dear, you're the one who's been looking for me. You're the one who's been looking for me. You're the one who's been looking for me. You're the one who's been looking for me. And your dear, another horror. At first glance, it appeared it was nearly a quarter of the flock, over 30 of them dead for nothing. Dead because she hadn't just cut to the chase and done what they knew they must. We know what all the allies once know, eh lad? You're Danu, what to do? Didn't tell me it had gotten that far. I didn't tell your mar before we found the pieces that didn't lack of them strewn about red rock. He pointed to the deformed sheep. Like these ones here. Eyes out, tongs missing, guts ripped open, flung about. Maeve snatched the bottle sitting next to Charlie, but Charlie snatched it back. Not this time, let it be. But Maeve yanked the bottle free and began pouring the liquid onto the porch. You promised. Charlie ran his fingers through his thinning red hair, then searched his person for what must have been a cigarette, finding none. He groaned as if in great pain. You promised. Charlie waved a hand. I promised not to get drunk in front of the children. It came after Mary Kate, you saw? You know what we must do now. Did not come after Mary Kate? Was a warning that he would? If it doesn't get what it wants. She glared down at her brother, her anger beginning to show. Are you in any state to do what you know we must? She slapped him on the back of the head. Do you leave it up to Maeve? To Joan? She slapped him again. Nodding his head in shame, Charlie reached for the bottle. There was still a slosh left that hadn't been poured out. Draining its contents, he threw the bottle into the tall grass and stood. Now be getting me another bottle. The pub smelled of Charlie. But it was more like Charlie always smelled of the pub, reeking of smoke, alcohol and earth. Local farmers mostly poured in each night to recount their tales of the day, telling much of the same as they had the day prior. Loyal customers all. Maeve strode past a table of men spraying beer and spittles they roared with laughter. At the other end of the pub, a group of women whispered to one another, as Maeve made her way closer to the bar. A den of her in the pub was no rarity, but for Maeve, one who was held in such high esteem with the church, her presence would be noticed the longer she remained indoors. She paid for a beer and made her way outside where a few small tables sat. She found him there, as expected, deep in his cups, just as Charlie had said he would be. A cool's, Maeve, no? Maeve sat across from the old drunkard. Column sea legs O'Brien looked up from his glass and smiled wide, revealing his few remaining teeth. The folk of Balidals had no quarrel referring to him as sea legs to his face or his back, it made no matter. It wasn't as if he'd spent much time on the water, but the booze kept him from waddling about as if on the deck of a small ship during a wild storm. Maeve done her. He slapped the table. Not so cold with a bit more of this in you. Down in the block will do you some good on a night like this. He raised his glass and clanked it together with Maeve's. Column chugged the rest of his beer, wiping the froth from his unkempt beard when he was through. He pointed at her glass. It's not so polite not to drink when a fellow raises his glass to you. Oh. Oh. Maeve smiled uneasily. She put the rim to her lips and sipped, leaving a red smear of lipstick as she parted from the glass. Not one for the juice? Apparently not. But it is very cool. Perhaps you can finish, Maeve. Column leaned in close. If I didn't know it, Miss Danahar, I'd say you was charming, Maeve. Maeve put a hand to her chest. Oh, Maeve? I'd never. Gently, Maeve slid her beer across the table until it was sitting next to his empty glass. Please. I am sest. If you say so. Raising his glass once more, Column chugged its contents in only a few seconds without spilling a drop. Maeve rubbed her shoulders. Mind walking me to my truck, Column? I think I'd best be getting home. He mimicked a gentleman's bow in his chair. It'd be the least I could do you for. Standing up, Column held out his arm and the two walked arms into twine as they made their way to the back alley. Parked quite far. Hmm. The parking lot was full. Busy, Nate. As any pub should be. But couldn't you have parked around those... The cudgel came down on the back of Column's skull so hard Maeve thought she heard it crack. She gasped as John began dragging Column by his boots down the alley. She'd known what to expect. But knowing what to expect and a thing actually happening in front of you were not one and the same. You've killed him. Aye. John heaved Column into the bed of the truck, tossing the bloody cudgel in after. Then it was a good plan. You laid out. When they returned, Charlie was passed out on the porch, a new bottle at his side, and vomit caked onto the right side of his face. There was a time when Charlie Danahar could be relied upon. But she realized then for certain those days had long passed. She wanted to stay a bit to give a few kicks to the worthless sod, but quickly thought better of it. After all, Mary Kate was upstairs still suffering. There was no time to linger. Together, mother and son dragged their victim to Red Rock, the moon guiding their way full and bright. By the time they'd arrived, both were panting with exhaustion. A man of small stature, Column was still dead weight. They sat his limp body up so that his back was leaning against the boulder. Blood continued to trickle from the wound on the top of his skull. Then, to Maeve's horror, Column's eyes began to twitch. In the cave, they heard something stir, something moving slowly through puddles of water. Quick, do it again. The creature moved closer, its heavy breath emitting an odor greater than any rotten thing she'd had the displeasure of smelling before. Her son was frozen, and his body was completely frozen. Her son was frozen, his eyes glued on the cave. John! I don't have the cudgel. She looked around them, taking note of a large stone beside Column's waking body. Son, it's coming. Help me. John began to sob, but Maeve slapped him hard across the cheek. Help me! Bending low, they lifted Column so that his body was splayed across red rocks. They removed his clothes, John his shirt and jacket, and Maeve his boots, trousers, and underpants. He was trembling madly from the cold. Take this. Maeve placed the large stone she'd found into John's hands. John looked up slowly, his mouth agape. He'd seen it, was staring at it. Ah, oh, please, my head. Don't bloody look at it, son. Maeve pulled John's face towards hers. Look at me. Good boy. Now, do as mommy tells you, and bring the rock down on his head. My head. Column's voice was so weak that Maeve was sure he'd die soon anyhow, but they hadn't the time. I can't. Maeve stared at her son in shame, unsure of where she went wrong with the men in her life. One dead, one run off, one adrunk, and this one. She snatched the rock from him. If you want our line to live on, for us to live good lives. She held the rock above Column's face. Maeve brought the stone down onto Column's skull. We do. She brought it down again, a bad aim, shattering Column's teeth and lips. What? We must? And again, this time a better aim, the stone smashing through skull, flinging bits of brain, bone, and flesh. To survive. Maeve. The creature hissed something in old Gaelic as its head rose from behind red rock. Mahu Shavisha. Mahu Shavisha, she thought she heard it say. Well done, servant. Maeve tossed the bloody rock still clutched tight in her grasp to the side, and retreated backwards in terror until she was standing beside John. Tzulebui stood tall, twice as tall as any man, leathery wings and tatters fluttering at its back, two thin slits on its face opening and closing. Sniffing. Its eyes peered down at them like two mountains of yellow furs. It dragged a clawed hand across Column's body, never breaking eye contact with them. Blood began to spill from the rock as the creature opened Column from sternum to claw. Tzulebui locked out a long split tongue between a mouth full of black teeth, and began to hastily lap at the drunkard's steady flow of crimson spilling from his eyes. The rock was in its abdomen. Like hot soup, steam drifted from the warm blood rising into the cold night air. Maeve reached for John's hand and squeezed. They watched it feed as two revered guests in the company of something greater than themselves, the thing that had given their family so, so much over the centuries. In that moment, Maeve knew it would be okay. Knew that Mary Kate would be feeling herself come the dawn. Knew that they would continue to pass down the word to their kin for as long as their bloodline remained. Perhaps this time, she'd be the one to write it down. As Tzulebui continued to feed, now tearing away flesh from a thigh, she squeezed John's hand. She would never give up. Not on John, or Michael, or Mary Kate, not even Charlie. After all, blood was everything. Blood is all we have. You know, thinking of that story, this show is a bit like that beast. A conglomeration of authors' works, editors' constructions, artists' visuals for the episode art, the producers' splices, cuts, and stitches, our social media team's promotions, the disembodied utterings of us voice actors, our maestro's music, and David's oversight. The No Sleep Podcast is a large weekly production that I've been so lucky to be a literal part of. I imagine I'm like an elbow nub, or maybe a little phalange. And this beast does not get the coalesce into the sentient being that it is without the support of our fans. So thank you from the bottom of my elbow nub for listening, and especially if you've been listening for all these years, and this far into the episodes. Good night, and I wish you no sleep, podcast. Okay, lugging my nose. As our stories sink beneath the waves, we claw our way back onto dry land. Join us again next time, when we plunge into the chilling depths where water hides its darkest secrets. The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical scores are composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mykulski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornette, and Claudius Moore. Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McEnally, Oli A. White, and Kristen Semido. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us, just visit sleepless.the NoSleepPodcast.com to learn about the sleepless universe, ad free extended episodes each week, and lots of bonus content for the dark hours, all for one low monthly price. On behalf of everyone at The No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for taking the plunge into our dark waters. This audio program is copyright 2026 by Creative Reason Media. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media. No part of this audio program may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. All rights reserved. Thank you. Why are you attacking? I'm being attacked. You are my number one. It hurts when you do that. Okay, I'm being attacked. I'm actively being bitten. You mean talk about the horror that is cats and sound booths? Succeed. Especially those who may not have thrived in larger settings. Find out more at our open day on May the 21st. Search Oxford Millwood School Open Day. I'm in the kitchen with Charlie Bigham. So what have we got here, Charlie? My brand new pan-fried pad Thai noodles. Noodles? But you're Mr. Fish Pie Guy. Guilty. And while ovens are all at roasting, the pan is king of noodling. Whether it's pad Thai, yakisoba or laxer, finding that perfect texture is a bottomless noodle rabbit hole. But all I have to do is stir it in the pan for six minutes, right? Bingo. Try the new Charlie Bigham's Asian Pan-Fried Noodle Range, handmade in my kitchen. Pan-fried in yours.