S23 Ep4: NoSleep Podcast S23E04

Hi, this is Alex Kantroids. I'm the host of Big Technology podcast, a longtime reporter and an on-air contributor to CNBC. And if you're like me, you're trying to figure out how artificial intelligence is changing the business world and our lives. So each week on Big Technology, I bring on key actors from companies building AI tech and outsiders trying to influence it. Asking where this is all going. They come from places like Nvidia, Microsoft, Amazon and plenty more. So if you wanna be smart with your wallet, your career choices, and meetings with your colleagues and at dinner parties, listen to Big Technology podcast wherever you get your podcasts. WNSP. Welcome back to the darkness of the night. WNSP's overnight programming. DC with you during these lonely hours. And if you're in the WNSP broadcast area, you might be wondering what that smell is. It sure is pungent out there tonight. No, it's not coming from the old septic bed. The wind isn't blowing in from that direction. And it's not skunks, but it is something close to that in name. What we're smelling is no doubt another visit from the skunk ape. If you don't already know, the skunk ape is a large bipedal creature who roams the forests and mountains in the area. They say the skunk ape is so stinky because it rolls itself in animal carcasses to get people to leave it alone. I guess even cryptids can be introverts. So close your windows and spray some air freshener around. I'm sure he won't be in the area long. And if you wanna hear some tales that will curl your nose with horror, it's time for our regular segment here on the darkness of the night, an episode of the No Sleep Podcast. A rustle of the leaves, a fleeting movement at the edge of your vision. How often have you walked a forest trail at dusk only to feel the unmistakable sensation that something unseen is watching you? For centuries, humans have populated the darkness with creatures of legend, whose existence remains unproven, yet whose presence is undeniable in the whispered tales of those who dare venture too deep into the wild and wild. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. No Sleep Podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. I'll bet most of you don't know something about me. Well, hopefully you don't know a lot about me because I want my autobiography to be a bestseller. But one thing that might surprise you about me is that I hold a Bachelor of Theology degree. Yes, I used to be a Bible-Learning man. And so I feel it's appropriate to begin this episode with a reading from the Good Book. Feel free to bow your head if you'd like. First Corinthians, chapter 13, verse 11. When I was a child, I spoke like a child. I thought like a child. I reasoned like a child. When I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways. Thus endeth the reading. Now, ecclesiastical teachings aside, I chose that verse because it relates to this episode. As we grow, we are expected to progress from childish things to behaving like adults. Ah, but where's the fun in that? Holding on to things that keep us young at heart can be beneficial. And when it comes to horror, if it involves children being scared, it can resonate strongly with us. And whether it's children experiencing nightmarish things at the present time or adults recalling nightmares from their youth, horror of this nature can make us feel as vulnerable as the young people felt going through the trauma. So let's not put an end to our childish ways quite yet. Because when the horror is young at heart, that heart will beat faster in terror. Now, tune in, turn on, and brace yourself for our sleepless tales. In our first tale, we meet a group of young friends full of curiosity. But we know what curiosity did to that old cat, don't we? So when the kids decide to scavenge out in the town dump, you know there's trouble brewing. And in this tale, shared with us by author Quincy Lee, one of the kids decides to play a prank on his friends, and it's safe to say this prank turns out to be quite chilling. Performing this tale are Jeff Clement, Atticus Jackson, Matthew Bradford, Danielle McCray, and Nicole Goodnight. So let's hear this tale that is best described by the author when he tells us, we found an old refrigerator and my friend won't stop pretending to be stuck inside. A couple of days ago, my friend Zazz tells us about this dumping ground in the woods and asks if we wanna see it. It's summer, we've got nothing better to do, so we all troop out there. Me, my friend Zazz, my cousin Aiden, who wants to salvage old junk to sell online, my older sister, Lisbeth, and my little sis, Kisha, who tags along cause mom told Lisbeth to watch her. The dump is exactly like you'd expect. Broken washing machines and a sink and tarp and old wooden boards and oil drums and trash, and no, none of it looks like you can sell it on eBay, Aiden. Good luck hauling that 6,000 pound rusted washing machine out of the woods yourself. I don't know how much stuff weighs, I'm bad at math. But we all go crawling around anyway, picking through old tires and flattened boxes and twisted shards and metal, so rusted we're all gonna need tennis shots, or whatever they're called, and shattered glass and a grungy rolled up carpet and rank microwaves that Aiden and sis we can totally make bank on. If we scrape off a zillion layers of crusted gunk, none of it is cool or interesting, and I'm starting to think Zazz is an idiot for dragging us out here. But then, at the bottom of the heap, sits this old refrigerator. This thing is like medieval, like it could be Ben Franklin's refrigerator. Almost more submarine than fridge. Its dented sides and rusted metal handle could probably survive a bomb blast. Dude! Y'all know what's probably in this fridge, right? Aiden doesn't take Zazz's bait. Your lunch? A dead body. Zazz points at me like I just won the lottery, but instead of a million bucks, I get whatever's in that fridge. Suddenly, I know this is the real reason he's let us all out here. Zazz is only ever interested in one thing, scaring the bejesus out of us. Mom used to make us stay away from him because he's older than us and wears a trench coat and steel-toed boots and eyeliner, but eventually she figured out he's just goth. We hang out because our houses are right across the street. Also because he has a crush on Lisbeth, my sis, which he shows by terrifying her. Not the most effective tactic, but he's pretty dumb that way. So when he hovers around the fridge like a moth around a zapper, I know it's gonna be key to his quest to win Lisbeth's heart through jump scares. Good luck, Romeo. And now he spreads his arms like the junk's a stage and we're all on the slope like an audience in seats made of dead appliances. And he starts telling us about refrigerators, specifically how likely we are to find a body in one. Actually, there's a pretty good chance. See, these old fridges were built back when they knew how to make stuff last. Sometimes kids would stumble across them years after they'd been dumped. And if you were a kid, unlucky enough to crawl into an old fridge like this during hide and seek, it wouldn't open from the inside. No, these old fridges have latching doors. So you'd be locked in an airtight sealed box. Your screams muffled by its insulated steel until you suffocated. And no one would know the fridge was actually your coffin until they sawed in the dump and decided to check inside and then the almighty stink. So, Zaz knocks on the dented white door. Who's gonna open it? Nobody makes a move. Go on, Aiden. I nudge him. Maybe there's something you can sell on eBay. No fucking way. You do it. I'll do it. This is from my baby sis, Keisha, who's probably the same age as whatever kid's turning to jelly in there. Lisbeth grabs her. You're not going anywhere near. Guess I'll have to open it then. Zaz flashes a grin and grips the rusted metal handle. He's trying to be brave and sexy and sneaks a glance at Lisbeth to see if she's impressed. Lol. Nope. Zaz's shoulders slump as Lisbeth drags Keisha off to look at something less morbid. Aiden and I wait, because we want to see what's inside. But now Zaz lets go of the handle and gets this look. And Aiden and I make eye contact because we just know he's gonna like up the ante or whatever in a futile attempt to win her over. Sorry if those are the wrong words. And sure enough, a few minutes later, I see Zaz and his black trench coat luring Keisha into the woods while Lisbeth is distracted by Aiden, his usual wingman. Finally, Lisbeth notices Keisha's missing and starts freaking out. Keisha, Keisha, Keisha, you better not be in the fridge. And because Lisbeth is actually a pretty good older sis, she doesn't even hesitate. Just rushes over and grabs the rusted metal handle and it must weigh a ton because she grunts as she hauls it open. A long arm grabs her and she shrieks. Even at a distance, her voice rings our ears. I run down to see Zaz as pulled her on top of him. She's so mad, she's hitting him pretty hard while he's busting a gut. She tells him that is not funny and climbs out and shoves him down and storms off red faced. He's teary eyed with laughter. What an idiot. Keisha pokes out from the woods. Can I come out now? I go up and join her and she asks why Zaz likes scaring our sister. And I tell her it's his love language. She thinks real hard about this for a moment. Maybe he should like try flowers instead. Wow. We're almost home when my phone starts buzzing. Help! Help! In the fridge! Nice try. I'm seriously stuck. Rip. Not fucking kidding! Help! I don't wanna fall for the same trick as Lizbeth, so I ask her what I should do. But she tells me to let him suffocate. Aiden is on the path further behind us taking a sweet time. So I wait for him to catch up and ask him where Zaz is. He looks surprised. Thought he was with you. Something about the way he says this makes me suspect he's in on it. Especially when he refuses to come check with me because it's gonna rain and he might catch cold. Cool, bro. You gonna say that at the funeral too? But like on the .0000001% chance my friend needs actual help to save him from a Darwin Award? I head back. It's weird how everything seems normal when you're with a group, but when you're by yourself it suddenly gets all like creepy and stuff. Heavy clouds hang low in the sky and a few fat droplets hit me. At the dump site the bottom of the slope is almost in total darkness because the sun is setting. The hairs on my arms and legs prickle like a zillion bugs crawling up my skin. Zaz! No response. I crawl down and spot that dented white submarine of a refrigerator lying at the very bottom. Its curving door is stained and scuffed but somehow timeless. Like you could nuke it and it would be totally fine. The OG of dumped junk. It's got this vibe like it's so old. It was the first thing here. And the forest and this whole pile all grew up around it. I wonder if Zaz is really in there. Wouldn't his muscles be cramping? I imagine him all folded up inside like a spider waiting to uncurl a limb and drag me in. I'll admit it, I'm scared as shit. I jump and check my phone. Help! Zaz! No response. Is it so insulated in there that it can't hear me? I pick my way down the slope. A few feet away from the fridge, I pause. Okay, okay, I'm coming. I skid down the rest of the way until I'm close enough to touch the smooth white surface. Hey, maybe you should try flowers instead so Lisbeth doesn't hate you. I'm hoping to rile him into responding, but not a peep, not a sound. Nothing, even when I bang on the fridge. And then I bark out a laugh, all the air busting out of me. Dude, I can see your fingers holding the door open. I watch as he adjusts his grip. He's really determined to wait me out. Kudos to him for having the self-control not to break even when called out. But like, I am not gonna touch that fridge handle, not when it would put me in such easy range of those gripping fingers. Nope, I decide. And when my phone starts buzzing again as I climb away from the dump site, this time I ignore it. In the middle of the night, my phone won't stop buzzing. Cold, cold. Come on, stop. Cold. Cold. Cold. Stuck. On and on. Like, obviously he's not stuck because by now he'd have suffocated. So how would he be texting? But even though I know that every vibration of my phone means he's alive and well and giggling to himself from the safety of his room as he types and definitely not stuck in that fridge, it's starting to super freak me out. I finally turned my phone on silent, but when I check again, he's still texting. The next day, my stomach knots with dread all through breakfast while my phone buzzes. I kinda wanna check the fridge, but it hasn't stopped raining since yesterday and mom won't let me go out while it's wet. The weird thing is there's nothing on his YouTube or Snapchat or Discord or anywhere, just those dumb texts saying he's cold. Finally, I message him back. Cold. Maybe come out of the fridge then. Stuck. Help. Fine, I'll come soon if you stop messaging me. The messages stop for a while, but once the sun starts sinking lower in the sky, he messages again. Are you coming? Cold. Oh, I'm FG. Cold. Cold. Cold. I'm starting to type a reply when a knock on my door makes me think maybe he's finally gonna be standing there with his shit eating grin. But no, it's Lisbeth, looking like she's slept even worse than me. She says as his mom called asking if anyone's seen him. And as soon as she says that, the knot of dread in my stomach becomes a noose around my throat, so tight I can't breathe. I tap quickly into my phone. Hey, your mom's super worried. Stuck. I'm serious. Where are you right now? Fridge. Bro, everyone's worried for real. Can you please stop? Cold. Bro, stop, like for real. That doesn't even make sense. The fridge doesn't have power, so it can't be cold. Cold. Mm. Cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold, cold. He's still typing more colds when I show the texts to Lisbeth. And she goes full nuclear. She flings the phone on the carpet. Jesus fucking Christ, this is not funny. And you need to tell your friend what an idiot he's being. And on and on. And then she grabs my arm and tells me we're gonna find him and chain him to his room to be grounded for life, but first she's gonna strangle her. I'm starting to think she might actually have a little crush on him too. And that her love language is rage. 10 minutes later, we're at the dump site. I'm scrambling to keep up in such a hurry, climbing over all the trash that I don't even notice when my foot hits something with a crack. I stop, step back, frowning. Lisbeth? What? On the ground, under my shoe is Zaz's phone. Lisbeth snatches up the phone and wipes it off. Fucking idiot, he's gonna be pissed. My phone buzzes again as Lisbeth heads down toward the fridge. Cold. Lisbeth. She's yelling at the fridge door that Zaz is an idiot, waving his phone and announcing that he dropped it. The phone in her hand is black, cracked, dead. The fingers of her other hand grip the refrigerator's rusted handle. My phone buzzes. Are you here? Don't open it! She looks back at me, confused. Huh? Don't open it! He's in there, he'll be stuck from his own dumb prank if we don't open it. Don't! Let me go, I have to open it. We fight back and forth and my phone keeps vibrating with texts, cold, cold, cold, even though the phone in Lisbeth's hand is dead. I tried to tell her it's dead, but she tells me there's a delay, that I'm being irrational, that he obviously dropped it just as he was hurrying into the fridge, but no, no, no, no, the phone is dark and wet, and the screen protector has water under it, meaning he dropped it before the rain stopped, maybe even before it started last night, so how, how was he texting from a dead phone? And then she shoves me hard, so I stumble back and fall on my ass. She grabs the rusted door and pulls. Ah! Her shriek mingles with the shriek of the door as it falls open. For seconds, I'm frozen, too terrified to move. I feel something warm trickle down my leg, then I creep around to my sister, looking over her shoulder. He looks peaceful, his head turned to one side, his skin's sort of grayish. With his limbs all tucked up, his face composed in sleep, he looks so young in there, almost like one of those kids he was talking about. I wait for his chest to rise and fall. He's faking. Lisbeth is crying. He's gotta be faking. Lisbeth turns and runs. And I back up from the refrigerator in a daze, still waiting for his chest to move, but it doesn't. There's a rotting smell, but not like a knock you down rotting. It seems like the stench of the fridge itself of decades old air trapped inside. Stale air that tastes a bit rank and very, very cold. I turn and scramble after her. When the police arrive at the dump site, the fridge is rusted closed, so they have to call in a construction crew to bust the door clean off. But inside is nothing but old stains, and they doubt a teenager could even fit in there unless he really scrunched. Missing the door, it's scrunched. Missing person is their official verdict. It's not exactly right though. See, my sis keeps getting flowers scattered in a room or outside her door, or more often tumbling out of the refrigerator when she opens it, dried, pressed, dead flowers. Flowers. She thinks it's his ghost. I think the fact that we didn't find a body means he's alive, but just too chicken to show himself. Like he doesn't know how to end this fridge game because everyone's so pissed at him and he's just still pretending. And since he doesn't have his phone, no one has any way of communicating with him. So yesterday I put his dead phone back at the dump site and what's left of the fridge. Like maybe he can throw it in some rice or something. And once he does, he'll get my messages. So Zazz, if you're hearing this, Lisbeth would like it much better if he could give her the flowers in person. The fridge is broken. You can't pretend to be stuck in it anymore. Come back. Update. Holy freaking balls. Zazz just responded to my texts. Please come back. Please, please, please. Okay. Oh my God, oh my God, my fucking God, I found your phone. Hey, bro, are you really coming back? Please, please, please come back. We all miss you. We miss you. On my way. Finally, Lisbeth is gonna be so happy when he hands her those flowers in person. His mom's gonna be so happy. Aiden and Kisha and everyone's gonna be so happy. I'm Josh Spiegel, host of the podcast, Lunatic in the Newsroom. If you enjoy journalism that drifts into mild panic, wild overthinking, and a guaranteed nervous breakdown, Lunatic in the Newsroom is for you. It's news like you've never heard before. The only newsroom with a panic button. You'll laugh, you'll cry, and gasp. You'll laugh, you'll laugh, and gasp. You'll laugh, you'll laugh, and gasp. You'll laugh, you'll laugh, and gasp. You'll laugh, you'll laugh, and gasp. And gasp and horror as the show spirals completely out of control. It's not just news, it's emotionally unstable. Lunatic in the Newsroom, listen today. Hi, this is Alex Cantroids. I'm the host of Big Technology podcast, a long-time reporter and an on-air contributor to CNBC. And if you're like me, you're trying to figure out how artificial intelligence is changing the business world and our lives. So each week on Big Technology, I bring on key actors from companies building AI tech and outsiders trying to influence it. Asking where this is all going, they come from places like Nvidia, Microsoft, Amazon and plenty more. So if you want to be smart with your wallet, your career choices, in meetings with your colleagues and at dinner parties, listen to Big Technology Podcast wherever you get your podcasts. When it comes to remembering our childhoods, the memories we shared with our grandparents can be a rich source of fond and not so fond recollections. But for the man in this tale, the memories of being at his grandfather's lakeside home are good ones. But in this tale, shared with us by author Austin Taylor, after his grandfather passed, he decides to honor him by building the talk they had planned on working on together. But he soon discovers that there was a good reason to not venture further out into that lake. Performing this tale are Reagan Tacker and Nicole Goodnight. So perhaps it's better to keep your memories in the past. Nothing good can come from learning more about the deepest lake. My grandfather passed away about eight months ago. It still feels a little surreal. I'd always been close to him. When I was little, I would visit him every year for summer break. My mom didn't have to find a daycare or sit her while school was out. And I got to go swimming and fishing in the lake behind his house. Win-win. Each summer he would have new activities planned. Sometimes we would try new fishing, but we didn't have a lot of time. We would go hunting for deer in the rolling fields and wooded sections of his land. It was nearly 80 acres, which felt like an infinite amount of space to explore as a kid. One year we spent nearly two whole months building a tree house overlooking the lake. It was a miracle neither of us fell out of the trees and broke something. Or worse. All of my fondest memories happened out there with my grandpa. The last summer I spent with him, he had already started drafting up plans for the next year. We were going to build a deck stretching out onto the lake that you could go fishing right off of the side of. Maybe he had finally gotten tired of repairing our rickety old rowboat we always took out. It would be the biggest project we had undertaken by far. It might even take a couple summers to get it done. I was so excited my parents had to practically drag me back home. But the deck never got built. That winter my grandpa started having some issues. He would call my mom in the middle of the night ranting and raving about things that didn't make any sense. Most of the time she could get him to calm down. One time it got so bad she had to drive all the way out to his house, nearly two hours, in the middle of the night and stay with him for a few days. I could see it was tough on her. Unfortunately, he only got worse over time. His neighbors found him wandering around in the woods and his pajamas more than once, unable to find his way back home. By the next spring it was clear he couldn't live on his own anymore. Against his protests my mom moved him into an assisted care facility only a few minutes away from us. I went with her to visit a couple times every week. For a while he was happy to see us. Then he was just confused. Eventually, he didn't respond much at all. Everything happened so fast. One day we were hanging out, fishing and listening to old Hank Williams songs. Next day he was nothing but a shell. He lived in that care facility for about five years. It was longer than the doctors had initially estimated. Near the end, I wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a curse. He passed just a few days before his 70th birthday. We had the funeral reception out at his house. My mom and I had to do some cleaning and repairs beforehand. After sitting mostly untouched for five years it was still in pretty decent shape, all things considered. The ceremony and reception were both small but nice. After the reception I went and stood out by the lake by myself for a while. It was only maybe a couple hundred feet across but it seemed so much bigger when I was just a kid. I got quite the surprise a couple days later. At the reading of my grandpa's will we found out he had left the house and land to me. He had written it only a few months before my last summer with him. I could feel my aunts barely veiled jealousy but at least my mom was happy for me. She offered to help me fix up a few remaining things we hadn't gotten to before the reception. She even said she'd help me pay for movers if I decided to move in completely. I wasn't ready to do that just yet. I still needed to finish school and I had a feeling there was probably more to be done around the lot than it seemed on the surface. Every weekend I drove up and did a little more to get it ready. Clearing out the dead trees, placing the warped old siding on the house, pouring new gravel for the driveway. It was slow going but I was getting closer every day. Then one day a few months ago while I was cleaning a pile of junk out of the garbage I found some rough blueprints still spread out on my grandpa's old workbench. They were the plans for the lake dock. Our grand project we never got to build. I'd be lying if I said I didn't get a little emotional looking them over. They were basically all done, missing a few measurements but nothing too crazy so I decided right then and there I was going to build the deck. I would finish this one last summer project. I went and bought most of the lumber and hardware the following week. I also bought a water depth gauge so I could get the last measurements I needed. The height for the posts at the end which would go down into the lake. If it was more than 15 feet or so I would probably just get some anchors and let it float but the original plan is called for posts so I figured I would stick to it if I could. The next weekend I was back out at the house. I borrowed a friend's pickup to haul most of everything in one trip. I also brought some food, water and other essentials. It would make building a lot easier if I just stayed at the house for a few days without having to drive back and forth to town. Enough of my grandpa's furniture was still there to make shorter stays comfortable enough. The first thing I did was go out to get the depth measurements I needed. I dragged the old rowboat over to the overgrown grassy shore of the lake praying the whole time that it would stay afloat at least long enough for me to get the reading. The meter I got seemed simple enough. It looked like a flashlight. You're supposed to stick it in at the surface of the water and it uses a laser to tell how far it is to the bottom. No wonders of modern technology. Lucky for me the boat still floated and didn't even seem to have any major leaks. I hopped aboard and paddled out about 30 feet to where the end of the dock would be. I uncapped the depth meter, stuck it in, flipped the switch and nothing. The display on the side kept flashing reading for what seemed like an unusual length of time. After a minute or so the message changed to error and then it turned back off. I tried a few more times but the result was the same. The wonders of modern technology. And so I headed back to the hardware store. Luckily there was a smaller one closer to the house so I didn't have to go all the way back into town. I bought another water depth meter. This one was more old school, just a weight on the end of a line that you could spool out. Once it hit the bottom you could just read the numbers on the line. Basically just a tape measure with a hunk of metal at the end. Probably what I should have gotten in the first place. I got back to the house and rode out onto the lake once more. I tossed the weight into the water and let it start to sink but it didn't stop. The line kept going. I'm spooling more and more. Almost seeming to pick up speed. 15 feet, 30 feet, 50 feet. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. It eventually stopped at 100 feet. Not because it had hit anything but because that was as far as my meter line went. It couldn't possibly be right. Sure I had never touched the bottom as a kid but it couldn't be that deep could it? I spent a few minutes reeling it back in and tried again thinking somehow it would be different but sure enough it only stopped when there was no line left to give it. I just stood there scratching my head for a bit. Unsure on where to even go from here. Should I get a longer line? Even if I did hit the bottom it wasn't like I could use the post for the dog now. As I thought on it, the depth meter slipped from my hands and fell off the side of the boat. It immediately disappeared from the surface, dragged down by the weight on the other end. Well, there goes a waste of $30. I thought to myself. I sat back on the boat for a while, doing some quick searches on my phone. After 15 minutes or so, the boat suddenly lurched. I steadied myself, almost losing my lone paddle over the side as well. It felt like the world's shortest earthquake and I could see ripples hitting the shores on all sides. Before I could even guess at what it was, a loud splash erupted beside me and showered me in murky lake water. Something flew out from the water, straight up in the air so fast I barely saw it. I shielded my head as it fell back down, landing with the resounding thump between my legs. I cracked one eye open after a few moments. I thought the boat was still moving, but I quickly realized it was just my own trembling. There in the bottom of the boat was the metal weight from the end of my depth meter, still attached to a few feet of line. The line looked like it had been torn off, and what was left was frayed and mangled. I rode back to shore faster than I ever rode before. As I did, I could have sworn the surface of the lake started to swirl and pull back from the edges. I paddled harder. As I reached the grass, I crawled from the boat and took a few minutes to catch my breath. Looking back from the safety of firm ground, all I saw was a once again calm lake, the sun starting to set in the distance and glinting off the glass-like surface. I was bewildered and shaken up in equal measure. What the hell was that? I went inside and dried off the best I could. I changed into my pajamas and sat by the back door, staring out at the lake. Part of me just wanted to hop in the truck and leave, but I couldn't. All I could do was watch the surface, waiting for something else to happen. Every time a dragonfly would land on the lake or a toad would hop out, I nearly jumped out of my skin. The reasonable thoughts of doubt started to creep in my mind. Maybe I had just imagined it. Maybe there was a very rational and mundane explanation for all of this. Every time these thoughts came back, I looked at the remains of the depth line on the kitchen counter, and then I looked back out to the lake. After a few hours, I felt my eyelids starting to grow heavy. I fought valiantly, but I soon lost the battle to my weariness. I had vivid dreams, the con that you can't remember, not that you'd want to, the con that leaves you in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. Fair enough, I woken aghast, nearly falling out of the dining room chair I had commandeered for my lookout. As I steadied my breathing and regained my senses, I looked back out to the lake almost immediately. Nothing, just the moonlight on a calm little patch of water. Once again, I started to question what had happened earlier. Maybe it had just been some large deep water crocodile or something. For those of thing, I looked back at the broken death meter again, as if it held some sort of secret that would answer everything for me. It didn't, but as I looked over at once more, the light from outside grew brighter. It was subtle at first, like the moon moving out from behind a cloud, but it kept growing brighter still. As I looked back outside, I saw its source. The lake had begun to glow with an ethereal blue-green light. Ripples had appeared on its surface, starting in the center and moving outward. At first, they only came every minute or so, but they got faster as the lake grew brighter. In my ears, I started to hear a low hum and an uncomfortable pressure, like descending in an airplane. I started hearing voices through the hummin'. Some of them almost seemed familiar, but the words they whispered didn't make any sense. When I tried to focus on one, it would slip away. I closed my eyes and shook my head in a vain effort to make it all stop. Head didn't help. I noticed that the voices seemed louder and clearer when I looked back at the glowing lake. Slowly, I started to pick up on a single phrase repeated through the haze. Come in. Fighter flight kicked in. I tried to run to grab the car keys and leave, but my legs refused to budge. Someone held me in place. The lake began to rise unnaturally, like some sort of huge bubble was pushing its way upward, creating a dome of swirling water and pulsing light. It rose up and up until it was taller than the house and all the trees surrounding it. Finally, I felt myself stand, but my brief sense of relief turned to horror as I felt my legs walking off their own accord. Towards the back door. Towards the lake. Soon, I felt grass under my bare feet and a spray of cool mist covered my skin. I couldn't stop myself. I couldn't even blink. The dome of water had stopped growing. The light started flashing irregularly like the lake held inside of a violent thunderstorm. In the flashes, I started to make out some sort of solid shape. It was massive, easily 50 feet across. It seemed to be curled in on itself, like a seashell or a hurricane, but the edges were spotted with tendrils here and there that twitched and flicked like a cat's tail. In the center, the light was strongest and seemed to shine down on me like a spotlight. I screamed. Or at least it felt like I did. I kept walking forward at a steady pace until I was only a few feet from the wall of water. One of the tendrils stretched out and waited just past the surface, beckoning me to come forward. A voice in my head spoke louder than my own thoughts. Come in. The words leaked through the folds of my brain. He's already here. I've seen you in his memories. I kept walking. I held out my hand. I embraced the inevitable. And in a moment, I felt my entire life collapse into a single instant. The next thing I knew, I was sitting in a house I didn't recognize. I soon found out it was one of the neighbor's homes. A gruff, older man told me how he had found me. Wearing in the woods in my pajamas, soaking wet, he said it gave him deja vu from when he had found my grandpa years ago. I don't remember ever responding back to him, only nodding and grunting. My mom showed up to get me a little over an hour later. I couldn't read much from her face and neither of us said anything on the drive back to her house. The next few weeks were full of scans and tests, doctors and specialists. I usually zone out when they go over the results, but the gist is always the same. Nothing wrong, have to run some more tests, here's another bill you'll never be able to pay. It almost makes me laugh, but I know my mom doesn't see any humor in it. I've been getting worse all the while, and it's hard for me to think straight. Sometimes I feel I'm dreaming even when I'm awake. And I've been forgetting things. There's little things here and there, but they're starting to add up. Even my favorite memories of my grandpa are starting to feel blurry and faded. I can still feel remnants of joy when I focus, but the details are getting harder and harder to grasp. I don't know what was out in that lake. My mom said she's selling the place and she makes sure I don't leave the house without her. At least not until I'm all better, she says. But somehow, someway, I just know, in the end I'll be back at that lake. Hi, this is Alex Kanchowicz. I'm the host of Big Technology Podcast, a long-time reporter and an on-air contributor to CNBC. And if you're like me, you're trying to figure out how artificial intelligence is changing the business world and our lives. So each week on Big Technology, I bring on key actors from companies building AI tech and outsiders trying to influence it, asking where this is all going. They come from places like Nvidia, Microsoft, Amazon, and plenty more. So if you want to be smart with your wallet, your career choices, and meetings with your colleagues and at dinner parties, listen to Big Technology Podcast, wherever you get your podcasts. I feel like I'm in the minority. That is, when I was a little boy, I didn't have a beloved stuffed animal. No teddy bear, no little stuffed lambie to cuddle up with at night. Hmm, that's probably why I'm so maladjusted today. But for the man we're soon to meet, he did enjoy growing up with his teddy bear. And in this tale, shared with us by author Sam Singer, the man decides to do a good deed and donate some of his old items to a local charity shop. Shame, he made the mistake of giving away his beloved teddy. Performing this tale are Jesse Cornette and Danielle McCrae. So if you're on the hunt for something old and possibly valuable, here's some good advice. Let the antique or no, you're lost. It all started because I wanted to be a good person. I had taken some old things of mine, stuff from my parents' house that I had shoved in the back of my closet, and donated them to Habitsville's local secondhand shop. I figured someone else could use my thread bear Habitsville high t-shirts more than I was at the time. What I didn't intend, however, was to give away Bob. This next bit is a little embarrassing. Bob is a small pink stuffed bear with a little jingle inside his stomach. I've had him since I was a baby, and although I've outgrown other childish things, Bob is sacred. That's why, heart sinking, I retraced my steps last Thursday back to the secondhand store where I was sure Bob had accidentally slipped into one of my donation boxes. It took some coaxing, but an employee eventually informed me that Bob had already been purchased. A tingle of silly grief swept through me, but then I was given hope. Bob had been bought by Nora Vandeveld, owner and chief proprietor along with her two sisters, of Narrow Street Antiques, right here in Habitsville. A quaint little bell chimed when I entered the shop. The musty smell of decay and history hugged my nostrils, not in an unpleasant way. The shop was crowded, but not with people. The sheer amount of things, even just in the foyer, was insane. Books were stacked higher than my head, their spines peeling with age. Knick-knacks and figurines covered every surface, and I suddenly became hyper-aware of my limbs. I made my way inside carefully. At the front desk were three women, the Vandeveld sisters. Two were seated in rocking chairs on either side of the counter, their eyes dark under cloth hats, knitting slowly from a single ball of yarn in a centered basket. It was impossible to tell what they were making, something large and dark. In the center, standing perfectly still, was Nora Vandeveld. She had wild gray hair and a lined face, with sharp eyes that locked onto me as soon as I entered. Good afternoon. Welcome to narrow street antiques. Can I help you find anything? I took a few steps towards her, already unreasonably nervous. Uh, yes, um, I'm looking for a specific item I was told you purchased from the second hand store a few days ago. It's like a small stuffed bear. It jingles. Is pink? She smiled, her aged lips curling upwards so slowly I thought they might creak. Oh yes, we've put that particular item into our shelves. He's around here somewhere. Her grin widened, and I subconsciously took one step back. Why don't you go find him? I gazed over my shoulder. There was a ton of stuff in here, sure, but judging from the shoddy exterior of the building, this place wasn't that big. I'm not one to complain about customer service, so I just nodded. Okay, uh, thank you. I turned heel and headed into the opening between the stack of books. Good luck. Just make your way back up to the counter once you find Bob. I nodded before entering the slim aisle. By the time I realized I had never actually told Nora Bob's name, I couldn't see the front counter anymore. My first hour or so, at least what felt like an hour, went smoothly. My eyes were peeled for any sign of my stuffed friend, and as I weaved through tall wooden cabinets lined with figurines and racks of sweaters from the 1980s, I actually found myself enjoying the hunt. Walking deeper into the antique store was like repelling down a ravine. Every few feet, a new strata of time was revealed. The only thing that troubled me was that I had been there for an hour and still hadn't found the back wall of the antique shop. Not only had I not found the back wall, but I hadn't turned or moved out of this single aisle for quite some time. It was like one particular path had been built for the customers to move through, so slim that if one wanted to move in front of another, they would literally have to climb on top of each other. If I was claustrophobic, I might have had to turn back. I supposed that was why they called it narrow street antiques. I had an old toy truck in my hands when I first saw it. I was considering the fact that perhaps Bob wasn't actually out in the shop, that Nora had been mistaken, that I was in the wrong place. It was during this thought that it happened. There in the corner of my eye, just for a moment, a flash of something dark and quick, I turned my head quickly, but there was nothing. I didn't think much of it. Then I turned my head again, back towards the front. There blocking the only path forward was a huge shape. It was dark and foreboding and utterly terrible. It wasn't a person necessarily. It was like a heavy blanket had been draped over a set of stilts and a bowling ball had been placed at the top. Flies buzzed around its head, or what I assumed was its head, and the scent of decay and death wafted towards me in a powerful wave. There are few times in my life when I had felt pure, unfiltered dread such as this. I stood completely still, and the figure did the same. Except there was movement beneath its sheet, small, shifting, as though the entire shape was vibrating. Then through a little ring-sized hole in the front of the sheet, something came out. A tiny, pink, and plump child's finger. My breathing was shallow as the finger pointed at me. Then the entire figure lurched forward, swaying as though the top was attached to the bottom. I was still stuck in my fear-driven paralysis. It got closer, and my eyes watered from the wretched smell. It was like my feet were incapable of turning back, running back down the slight path and out the door. The buzzing of the flies got louder and louder. I shut my eyes, and then it all stopped. I opened them again to see that the creature was gone. Not even a fly remained. I was shaking violently. I didn't need Bob this badly. I raised a foot to turn back, and it refused to budge. It was like some invisible barrier existed between myself and the back half of the path. Frightened at the prospect of being stuck in this spot to wait for the creature to return, I tried to step forward. It was as easy as it had ever been. The message was clear. There was no choice but to continue. I can't be certain, but I believe three days passed in the antique store until I saw the creature again. It's hard to be sure of the time because, as far as I can tell, the shop never closed. The lights over-hit never shut off. I didn't hear the door at the front open or close either, but that could be because I had traveled a great distance from there to here. It was strange. I didn't feel hungry or thirsty, and I never had to use the bathroom. I didn't need to sleep. I would think I was exaggerating the time, had about three days worth of stubble not sprouted from my chin. I was somewhere in the 1940s when I thought I saw Bob amid a slew of war memorabilia and faded postcards. I saw it, something like a little light pink arm sticking out amongst some other worn stuffed animals. I grabbed onto it, pulling eagerly. Nora had told me, albeit multiple days prior, that if I found Bob, I could bring him back to the register. I had to hold on to the hope that once I found what I was looking for, I would be able to leave the shop. I yanked it loose. But it wasn't Bob. Instead, in my hand, I held a tiny child's finger. Immediately I dropped it to the ground, feeling that familiar rush of anger that often accompanies a terrifying surprise. It bounced once on the surface before lying still, a tiny Vienna sausage. I stared at it. That feeling of hope when I had first thought I had found what I was looking for was extinguished, and instead a crushing feeling of hopelessness and despair filled me. I wasn't where I was supposed to be. I couldn't find my way out. I was lost. As soon as I had that thought, I jumped back. The finger which had been lying still moved. It flipped so the nail was facing up towards me. Then slowly it began to inch its way along, continuing down the narrow path. I looked up, and there he was. He stood still, the Anteaker. If he had eyes, I assumed they were fixed on me. We remained. Me paralyzed by my immobile feet, and he, waiting in place as the finger dragged itself across the floor over to him. I thought it might stop when it got to the edge of his shroud, but instead it merely crawled underneath. It joined the scattered movement that caused the material to jolt around, and then I saw it again. The child's finger emerged from the hole in the shroud, and pointed at me. It was happening all again. The lurching movements towards me, the flies buzzing around, some hitting my face in their flurry. The smell nearly made me vomit. Perhaps I would have if I could have moved, but the only thing there was to do was to watch the figure approach. I didn't shut my eyes this time. I watched as it reached a close distance, about six inches in front of me. Then it bent at the middle, the top leaning down over me. I felt hot breath on the cold sweat that had broken out across my forehead. There was something in there beneath the shadow. That much I knew, but I couldn't bring myself to lift my chin and see it for myself. And then it was gone. Another shutter rattled through my tired body. My eyes were watering from the acrid smell and from relief. My chest was heavy with a terrible uncertainty, and yet I was sure of two things. One, I never wanted to see that thing again. And two, the only place to go was onward. By the second or third week at Narrow Street Antiques, I thought I had found a way to keep the antique her away. Nothing about it now, when my mind is less plagued with whatever influence the shop held over me those weeks. It's hard to say whether or not I was right. But this was at least my working theory. The antique her was looking for lost things, because that's what antiques are, right? Things unstuck in time. Things that have outgrown their usefulness, their relevance, and so their natural place is no longer as a singular object. An antique is meant to be picked up, dusted off, and added to a collection. And I thought, if I got lost enough, the antique her would add me to his. I was in the late 1800s by that point. The items around me growing more decayed and broken with each step that I took. I had learned something new, something incredibly exciting. The path that I had been following, miles and miles on the same straight line, through the seemingly endless shop, was not the only road available to me. My eyes had grown heavy and unfocused while I was trudging along, and my foot caught on the leg of a table. I stumbled, holding out my arm to catch my fall against a large wardrobe on my right. And when I did, it rocked ever so slightly. It created a gap in the wall of old knickknacks that surrounded me, just for a moment. And through that crack, I could see it. A new path. Then the wardrobe fell back into place, and it was gone. I heaved against the wardrobe, pressing my shoulder hard against its wooden surface. It was incredibly heavy, but at this point, multiple weeks, if not months, in this antique shop, I was as determined as I had ever been. I nudged the bulky piece of furniture inch by inch, until I created a crevice that was wide enough for me to slip through. The new path took my breath away. Not because it was beautiful. No. Far from it. Because it was terrifying. There were baby dolls. Not modern ones either. They had to be from the 1700s, maybe even older. All made of cracked china with faded red lips and black dot eyes. They were dressed in plain cloth dresses and gingham trousers. They weren't lined on the shelves or sat up on tables. They made up the walls themselves. A sea of them on either side. And when I looked up, I could see they covered the ceiling as well. A tunnel forming that I couldn't see the end of. And when I looked closer, I could see it. Something strange. Even stranger than what I'd already seen. None of the dolls had their fingers. Absolute terror gripped me. A thousand beady eyes staring at me. No sign of what I had come for. And though I tried to beat it back down, I was feeling more lost than ever. As soon as the inkling crossed my mind, there he was. The antiker standing still as he always was, blocking my path as he always did. I couldn't fight it this time. I couldn't reassure myself. Couldn't look away. Certainly couldn't turn back. I just watched the antiker as he watched me. And then something started to happen. The shapes that writhed beneath his shroud began to rumble and shake. They moved faster and faster, and soon I saw something I wished I hadn't. The fingers, small and fleshy, began to crawl out from under the antiker's shroud. They inched faster than the last one had. And as I watched, they did something remarkably horrible. Crawling like caterpillars. They each made their way onto the hand of a doll. When the last one stopped, there was a moment of stillness. There were no more wriggling shapes under the antiker's robes. We both stood, facing one another. Then the last finger appeared through the single hole in the shroud and pointed at me. That was when the dolls began to close in. They spilled like water from a dam, in from the walls and down from the ceiling. The only thing propelling them forwards, the fleshy fingers on their dead porcelain hands. They dragged their little bodies along, and as they approached, I tried something desperate. I took the first step back that I had in weeks. After that first step, another followed, and soon I was running back down the path, out from behind the wardrobe and back down the narrow path from where I had come. Fleshy fingers and cold ceramic touched my shoulder for only a moment. But the small space that had led me into the doll hallway had slowed down the figures considerably. I was sprinting, my breath hard, and then I skidded to a stop. In front of me, fingers still pointed, suddenly was the antiker. I looked to my left, where a large shelf stood tall, lined with glass animal figures. With a single push, it crashed to the ground. I ran down this new hallway, lined with decorative kites from the 1800s. I ripped through their carefully preserved paper bodies and found myself in another new place, this time lined with novelty can openers from the 1920s. I glanced behind me as I dug through the metal bits and saw the first hints of the tiny porcelain children appearing down the long stretch as I found a path to somewhere new. 50s kitchen aprons, 60s false teeth, 70s record players, all with a different disc playing in a minor key. And then suddenly there we were, 90s stuffed animals. It must have been, because there, between a giraffe with a rip in his neck and a rabbit with a twisted ear, there was Bob. I grabbed him, the familiar jingle briefly bringing me a nostalgic calm. I was running again, knowing that I was nearing the front of the store by the time traveling forwards. I dug through the other stuffed animals, throwing them behind me with one hand while I clutched my prize with the other. Then there was the smallest opening, and I could see it, the foyer, where all of this had begun weeks before. I stuck one foot through, then my shoulder. I went to step out, and then something yanked me back, and I turned. One doll, the fastest of them, had clung onto Bob's arm, its flesh fingers locked into an iron tight grip. I pulled, it pulled, there was a long rip, and the sound of stitches tearing. And then, I was out, the only casualty being Bob's left arm. Stuffed animals fell together, closing the gap. It was as though there had never been an opening at all. I panted, my hands on my knees, my body disgusting with the buildup of sweat and fear on my skin. Welcome back. I looked up. There was Nora Vandeveld standing in the same place she had been when I left her. In fact, she was even wearing the same clothes, and her sisters were still sitting in their rocking chairs, barely any progress made on their knitting since I had left. I moved my mouth, but no words came out so long had it been since I spoke. Her eyes moved down to Bob and his mangled arm. No, it's a shame that's been damaged. I know our shop is a precarious place. She smiled, slow, and knowing. That's one on the house? I went home. To my great shock, it was a mere 30 minutes from where I had first entered the shop, despite the beard that had begun to form on my face and the tired feeling in my bones. There's still so much that I don't know about narrow street antiques and the antiker that lies within it. But sometimes in the very corner of my eye, I can see it for a moment. A dark shape vibrating with a thousand tiny fingers, waiting patiently for me to lose my way again. Our tales may be over, but they are still out there. Be sure to join us next week so you can stay safe, stay secure, and stay sleepless. The No Sleep podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mykulski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornette, and Claudius Moore. Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McEnally, Ollie A. White, and Kristen Samedo. To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us, just visit sleepless.the no sleep podcast dot com to learn about the sleepless sanctuary. Add free extended episodes each week and lots of bonus content for the dark hours, all for one low monthly price. On behalf of everyone at The No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for joining us and seeking safety from the things that stalk us in the night. 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