S23 Ep1: NoSleep Podcast S23E01

Step into Lightfield Living at the Express Byfolding Doors Milton Keynes showroom and experience products that seamlessly connect your home's interior and exterior. From by-folding and sliding doors to windows, entrance doors and glass roofs, all built and installed by Express. Whether renovating, extending or building new, see the quality for yourself at our stunning showroom or visit expressbyfolds.co.uk. WNSP You're listening to Darkness of the Night, WNSP's overnight programming. DC on the mic. I just got a call from Tony Kay over at the diner, who phoned in to say there's been another sighting of the Dober Que down by the lake. That rascal has been dragging people off the shore to their watery graves for years, but he's been quiet lately. Well, it seems he's back for a spell. So, like we say for all the cryptids in the area, don't approach them, don't startle them, and don't be their next victim. And be sure to give me a call if you see one so I can let the town know. Now back to 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. Welcome to the 23rd season of the No Sleep podcast. As always, I'm proud to be your host, David Cummings. It's nice to have a radio station lead us into our episodes each week for season 23. WNSP seems like such a caring station. Oh, and I should point out that our WNSP is in no way affiliated with a radio station in Alabama. They're far too real for our fictional tales. Think of our WNSP as existing in the ether of our sleepless universe. But regardless of all that, I like how our WNSP keeps us warned and updated about the strange creatures that inhabit their broadcast area. And it ties in nicely to what we do, because of course, horror is full of tales about the cryptids and creatures that may or may not really be out there, watching us from the dark forests, deep lakes, and endless tunnels and caves that dot the landscape. This season we'll be exploring those areas and sharing many tales of those cryptids out there. So if you decide to spend time outdoors this season, make sure you're aware of your surroundings. Whether you're hiking in the woods, backpacking the trails, or camping in a certain valley, we'll make sure you're as safe as possible. But when it comes right down to it, this is the No Sleep podcast, so that might mean you're not very safe at all. So it's a new season with many terrifying tales ahead. We're glad you're tagging along for the creepy confluence of cryptids, camping, and contentious concerning chronicles. Now, tune in, turn on, and brace yourself for our sleepless tales. In our first tale, we meet a group of students returning to their old school. A reunion, you ask? Well, not exactly. You see, as we'll learn in this tale, shared with us by author M. Starr. Forty years ago, the students of the school buried a time capsule, and now they've returned to see it opened. Well, most of them have returned. Performing this tale are Ilana Charnell, Jake Benson, and Penny Scott Andrews. So when digging things up from the earth, you have to expect some decay. After all, in the ground, they do tend to molder. It's been 40 winters since they buried that time capsule in the out-of-bound zone at Glenroy State School, and soon, the digging will start. The day is unseasonably hot for mid-August, and Principal West is coveting the shade of the welcome sign, greeting ex-students through a war-bored microphone. He's making bad taste jokes, and none of them are landing, and it feels like 1983 all over again. He scans the meager crowd for familiar faces, froguide, and nervous. I could save him the trouble and tell him she's not coming, but I like to watch him sweat. I could tell him that many things, the silly old fool, speak secrets into his ear, fluff as he gestures to rows of fold-out chairs in that same old pit-stained shirt, and asks for quiet, please. I could tell him Bobby Klein will soon be here, and he'll ride the gutter of the drop-off bay in a Commodore with squeaking brakes, and scream at his wife for adjusting the rearview mirror, that Michael C will run late because the train station is so much further than he remembers, that the Pollard sisters and Trisha Frost just shared a sneaky carafe at their catch-up brunch, and they'll bitch and giggle in the back row like they did at school assembly. And none of them will ask about the girl who used to play in the dirt. I could tell him many things, awful things, if he'd listen, but Principal West has never been good at listening, so I watch him swelter in the midday sun and wait for the sweet scrapings of shovel on soil. She was friends with the bugs and the crawly things, and her dirty fingernails stained the chalk, and that's just one of the reasons nobody wanted to play with her. Dirty Gertie, dirty Gertie, they'd say, lingering in the canteen line for party pies and sunny boys and laughing at the loose cling wrap that flapped around her Vegemite sandwich. She held her breath as she walked by them, hurrying to the garden with airpuff cheeks so she couldn't smell the pastry and tomato sauce, exhaling only when she could breathe in the mask of sweet wet dirt. She turned the rocks one by one, and shared breadcrumbs with the wood lice that crawled underneath. Pretended she couldn't hear the kids still laughing through their meat pie teeth, their pockets fat and jingling with lunch money. At least I have you, she said to the bugs, scooping them up oh so gently. At first they curled into armored balls, little rolly pollies in the palm of her hand, but with patience they always unfurled, and by the time the lunch bell rang there'd be insects exploring the creases of her heartline, her headline, her lifeline, little gray bugs crawling all over her skin. Eww, look at Dirty Gertie! The kids would say, five of them worse than the rest, and they never let her play Red Rover or swing with them on the monkey bars no matter how much she scrubbed at her fingernails. Trisha and the Pollard twins named the second last water fountain the Dirty Gertie Bubbler, and nobody drank from it but her, and Bobby and Michael made puking sounds whenever she did so she spent her days dry and parched and longing for hydration while they laughed and sucked at chocolate milk. But that all fell away when she played with her pill bugs. There was comfort in the company of crustaceans and earthworms and microbes. She sat in the dead leaf mulch and pretended she lived down there in the dirt with all her terrestrial friends, where there were no canteens or monkey bars and dirty fingernails were the norm, and I watched her. Like a trap door spider, and decided we should be pals. They're all here now, grouping together on undersized plastic chairs, like their quintet did four decades ago. Bobby's wife sits on the outer and prays there'll be no reunion drinks afterwards, but by the way, Jenny Pollard is fingering his shirt collar, we both know she has bigger problems. Principal West is tapping at the microphone as if he doesn't notice the feedback. His sweat stain has spread to his back, the sun far too high in the sky for a Melbourne winter. I know we're a little early for this, but we're building a new gymnasium on this site next year, so we've had to bring things forward. He makes a bad joke about time traveling, receives nothing from his disinterested audience, and moves on to the ceremonial bureaucracy, the rehashing of school history and school spirit. Next will be the digging, the unearthing. Soon there'll be six feet in the ground, ready to exhume that old corpse filled with time and paper scraps and, oh, the things they'll find when the trapdoor is opened. The whole school burned with time capsule fever for weeks before they buried the thing. They spent their classroom hours discussing the future, talking about who they wanted to be. Bobby said he was going to be a heavyweight boxer, like Rocky, and beat the shit out of his old man. Michael would be his trainer, not his manager, and the dumb kid went along with it, even though he wanted to be a butcher. Prisha made pictures of herself on the young talent time stage, and Jenny and Jackie dreamed of being gold medal relay runners at the Commonwealth Games, though neither of them could pass a baton. Gertie didn't like to think about the future. 40 years was a long time, and her lifeline was short. She forced her mind forward through the decades, and, as always, her mind returned to the cold comfort of dirt and earth. She refused to write a letter for the time capsule and wound up in Principal West's office, where she'd already learned to keep her mouth shut. He had no interest in water bubbleers and bullies. He only wondered why she didn't try harder to fit in. Why do you have to make things so difficult, Gertrude? Do I need to call your parents again? And he didn't notice the way she cringed as he reached for the phone, how pale she turned when he lifted the receiver from its cradle and threatened to dial. He held it in the air, suggested she think about it over lunchtime, try again, try harder. She promised she would, and he hung up the phone. And she scrubbed at those nails to the skin on her fingers was raw, confined to the dribbles of the dirty, dirty bubbler, willing herself to think forward to span the decades and see what the future held for her. But all she saw was dirt, all she craved was dirt, and soon she was back in the garden, seeking comfort from slaters and mud. She didn't bring her lunch that day. The last few slices of bread too mouldy to cut away, and the canteen smelled like sausage rolls and finger buns. She wondered what it was like to have a pocket full of loose coins and filled her own with dirt to compare. She joined the canteen queue and hoped the lunch ladies would think it was worth something. Where's your fedgy mites sandwich, dirty girdy? They all teased her, but she kept her eyes forward, inching ahead one purchase at a time. When she finally reached the front of the line, and the apron lady asked to take her order, she pointed to the pie warmer, belly screaming as the woman reached for tongs in a brown paper bag and let too many pastry flakes fall to the ground. She carried a meat pie back to the counter, tomato sauce and gravy bleeding through the paper bag, and smiled at Gertie. One dollar, thanks love. Gertie reached into her pocket, took out a fistful of dirt, clunged it on the counter. It was crawling with ants and spiders that spilled over the counter and into the kitchen, and the apron lady screamed, told her to get out of there. Took back the pie. Gertie turned away, head down, waited for the jeers to start. Dirty girdy, dirty girdy! But they never came. She looked up, expecting to see the more staring and laughing, but none of the usual taunters were there. And when she returned to the garden, she saw someone had overturned the rocks in her absence and stomped on all her little friends. Gertie was taken to the kitchen for a drink. She scooped earth over their broken armours, their roly-poly bodies squashed and squirming, and I whispered condolences to her as she turned to soil. And I know she heard me because when the lunch bell rang, she took a fresh sheet of paper and wrote her piece for the time capsule. She sealed it with dirt and bug guts, dedicated it to Bobby and Co. Curses are a beautiful thing, especially when they're unintentional, accidental. Evoked by angry words and innocent minds. When the time capsule was buried, I was already writhing inside it, hungry and sniffing at paper folds and pencil lead, ready to eat. They felt me over the years too, sensed me feeding on the scraps of their dreams, savouring their lost opportunities like mulled wine and blue cheese. Delicious. Each word, each inky hope, devoured in life as I feasted below. When Bobby lost his punching hand in a factory mincer, his right hook gone in a flurry of meat and red spray, and he kept screaming about the shadow that flicked off the safety switch. That was me. When Michael was at the bus stop, after losing too large on a horse called Mud, and he thought he saw that monster in the reflection, stooped and sniffing at his hair with a twisted lupine grin. That was me. When Trisha Frost fell from her young talent time stage into studio lights that burned her hair, her face, her career, and she swore that someone shoved her from behind. That was me. When Jenny and Jackie were dismissed from the state team because they failed the drug test, and neither of them ever touched a banned substance, you best believe that was me. And now they're all here. And the digging has started, and the best is yet to come. And when the capsule is pried open, and they find me coiled amongst the decay and tritus and dead bugs, they might finally ask where Goody is. As they claw at their faces and scratch at their eyes and scream her name till their lungs turn ashy, I'll tell them she lives down here with me now. That she likes how the bugs move through her bones, how the worms writhe in her eye sockets, how the earth feels her belly. That we love the dirt. She and I, and we are old friends. And we love the dirt. Step into light-filled living at the express bifolding doors Milton Keynes showroom, and experience products that seamlessly connect your home's interior and exterior. From bifolding and sliding doors to windows, entrance doors and glass roofs, all built and installed by Express. Whether renovating, extending, or building new, see the quality for yourself at our stunning showroom, or visit expressbifolds.co.uk. 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 in horror as the show spirals completely out of control. It's not just news, it's emotionally unstable. Lunatic in the newsroom. Listen today. Big life events can make a person recollect their past, their regrets, their I shoulda, coulda. And the man we'll meet in this tale is Alex. He's about to be a dad, and he's going to conquer an adventure cut short in the past. And in this tale, shared with us by author Matthew Scott, Alex's attempt to do some spelunking leaves him dealing not only with the past, but the very present danger. Performing this tale are Matthew Bradford and Atticus Jackson. So be very careful when caving in a tight section known as the Limestone Wet Suit. I'm gonna leave this here where maybe somebody can find it. Last words via notes ad. I'm sure they're looking for me and maybe they'll send a kid or a contortionist down eventually or something. But by then, all of going on, following the echoes of Doug's voice, plunging further into the system in the hopes of stumbling across another way out. I guess I'll either find daylight on my own, or my bones will end up decorating some deep natural tomb that no human eyes will ever see. So, uh, yeah, I'm sorry, first of all. Sorry to mom and dad and Brittany and the little one and Seth and Mr. Jorgensen. He always insisted I go down with a buddy and he had him beginning to see why. So mainly I want them all to know that, yeah, I'm sorry and I know that I fucked up. But secondly, I want them all to know what happened. See, I'd been down the wormhole before, on a van trip around the Midwest this summer after college. Doug and I checked out the entrance to the cave just outside of Echo Bluff State Park in Missouri. During the day, it was a lightly visited tourist spot with a ticket booth, boardwalk, and an array of fridge magnets for sale. Synchon Sticks Cave, the sign outside red. There were too many people about, so we came back at night and jumped the fence. Then we took a path down the tourist boardwalk to the entrance to the real part of the cave. It's unassuming, a hole in the wall and an unlit section of the boardwalk measuring around two feet wide and one foot high. And beyond that, a whole new world. I'd seen a hand-drawn map online of the cave and saved it to my phone. After the wormhole was a long, near vertical shaft called the Rat Run, which opened up into a chamber they called the Elbow Room. Here, the artists had scrawled a crude series of stalactites and stalagmites. Reaching the Elbow Room wasn't bad. This section right after the wormhole was a tight squeeze, which we took feet first. Then we were descending down a contracted throat of rock for ten feet or so before popping out among the stalagmites. The Elbow Room was worthy of tourists. It was like an enormous mouth with spiked teeth of limestone hanging down and pointed up. The stone was wet and slippery. That was already worth the trip, but we weren't about to stop there. We kept on into the next section of the cave, checking the map at each turn. Not that there was much in the way of navigable alternative paths, we just wanted to see how close we were to that mythical line on the stone floor where the map stopped, and it could very well be that no human had ever passed. I let Doug go first. He was the one who showed me the splonking ropes and had always been kind of a substitute older brother, with his misguided white dude Dreadlocks and engineer's ingenuity to exploring new ways of enchesting cannabis. I figured it was he who would best be able to pick a manageable path into the labyrinth, plus he had broader shoulders than I. So if he could make it through a squeeze, I was certain I could. We made it a little further, down the log flume into the poop deck, and then into a cramped warn of tunnels called the Swiss cheese squeeze that could just only fit Doug's frame. We were nearing the edge of the map, and I was just getting excited about getting to name the next section of the cave when Doug lost it. He was sandwiched in between a ceiling and floor of unyielding limestone, and all I could see of him were his waggling legs. His voice was spookily muffled by an unknowable weight of earth, but I could make out mounting panic. What's up, Doug? I'm stuck, bro. I'm stuck. No, you are not. If you got in there, you can get out. I said that, but at the same time, I had a flash of the nutty putty incident, where some dude around our age had fallen headfirst into a deep subterranean fissure and found himself firmly stuck. He spent 27 hours with his head pulling with blood and rescuers scratching their heads as to how to free him from the earth. They never got him out. Instead, they concreted over the mouth of the cave and told everyone to stay away, forever. But this wasn't nutty putty. I grabbed at one of Doug's legs and gave it a good yank. That didn't seem to help. Okay, man, just breathe. You're gonna need to exhale as much as you can. That won't help. It's my arm. It's pinned up against my fucking body, Alex. I remember feeling my own heart start to brace. It was Doug who taught me what to do if I felt like I was stuck in the first place. There's really stuck, and then there's just stuck up there. I remember him saying as he pointed to his forehead, and one is a lot more common than the other. I tried to cycle through all the advice he'd given me if I found myself stopped and seemingly unable to go on. The main piece was understanding that once panic set in, the body tended to make itself larger and make the feeling of stuck even worse. Hyperventilating pushed the chest out, and the scrambling around in the little space you had made it feel like it was closing in on you. Breathe, Doug. I grabbed his ankle firmly and gave it a squeeze. You're okay. Pretty soon after that, he slid back out with his shirt torn all to hell, and the skin on its right forearm ripped shreds. He was red-faced, but laughing a little. I need to get out of here, Alex. As we tramped back to the van, we agreed never to speak of this moment again. Years went by, and Doug and I floated along in different directions in the winds we were pulled in. I kept on caving where I could, but the years of snowboarding all winter and rock climbing all summer were behind me. The clincher came when Britney came home with a positive pregnancy test, and I realized my REI job probably wasn't going to cut it in about a year or so. Still, there was time for one last trough. I packed the van and set out west, following the same route Doug and I had taken back in those simpler years. I tried to recreate the feeling of freedom I had back then, smoking a joint at a lookout, drinking dive bars in little towns and sleeping out under the stars. But I felt slightly numb through all of it, like that living electricity receiving limb I once had had dropped off and left me some time in my early 20s. Maybe down in that hole where Doug and I had panicked in the dark. So I came back, for him as much as for me. To the best of my knowledge, this was the only hole in the ground that had ever bested him, and I wasn't going to let the same be true for me. The amazing thing about a cave is how little it changes. It's already been there for thousands of years, so a few years makes absolutely zilch difference in the geological sense. Societies can transform and the world can burn up around it, but Sinkin's stick's cave remained indifferent. For all time's sake, I came by night and let the fence. I initially hadn't planned to go all the way back down to the swish cheese squeeze, but by the time I was face to face with a wormhole, I knew it had me. I put my headlamp on and slipped in. Like I said, the first feeling was stage avoo. While traveling across the country had been just a dim echo of that vibrant first time, going underground still carried that chilling frizz and a fear mingled with excitement. In the dark, there was still magic. I made it through to the first chamber at a good pace and cast the light on my headlamp over the stone tines jutting from the floor and ceiling. It was just as I remembered it. Barred some new graffiti, staining formations that took centuries to take shape. Then back down the log flume over the cylindrical crevices of the poop deck, and I was there, the narrow tubes of the swish cheese squeeze. Rainwater over the year had carved out a natural sewer system of several smoothly worn tunnels, but only one of them looked spacious enough to accommodate me. It was the same one that had beaten Doug. I pushed my pack through ahead of me and stretched. Doug had always been a bigger guy, but I wondered if the pounds I'd put on in the intervening years would see me stuck just as fast. It didn't matter. I guess those pounds did nothing to broaden my shoulders, and after a few deep exhalations, I was able to inch through the gap. I continued in the form of a tunnel not much wider, and I scraped the hell out of my knees coming through, cursing myself for not packing my pads. I had opened up a little bit on the other side and I shone the light around to get my bearings. On the map, it was called the anti-chamber, and it was the last named feature. After that were a few wide enough looking tunnels, and then it was totally uncharted territory. I knew I should have turned back then. This was stupid. I'd set out alone with minimal equipment in the middle of the night, and nobody knew where I was. I was breaking all the cardinal rules of caving, but the lure of being the first to go off the map was too enticing. I promised myself I'd push forward for another half hour or so, and if I hadn't found a tunnel to take me off the map part of the cave, I'd turn back. It didn't take that long to hit a wall. The tunnel I was following appeared to be a dead end at first, and I felt my heart sink. I'd have to turn around. There was literally no more space for excuses. But then my lamp light brushed over an ink black pothole in the floor, just below the corridor's end. It was a small hole, dug by rainwater running through the cisterns of rock. At first it appeared to be nothing special. The place was full of little drainage holes in the rock. Looking more closely, however, I realized that this hole didn't stop or constrict into a tiny plug hole after a foot or two like so many of the others. This hole was possible. I stood there for a while thinking about it, but probably not long enough. It was tight, for sure. There was a good chance I wouldn't be able to fit through. What worried me more was how directly vertical it was. If I went feet first, I wouldn't be able to see to navigate the slight curves of the shaft. But at the same time, going head first straight down into the dark like that was a strict no-no. It was the thought of Doug that spurred me on. He'd been so eager to get down here and give a fresh tunnel a name of his choosing. He'd been tossing around the ideas in the van, each more sophomoric and scatological than the last. After he'd chickened out, we hadn't mentioned it. As we drove off that night, I remember seeing the downcast look in his eyes. So I crouched down for a closer look and then wrapped my bag strap around my foot, before lowering myself head first into the tight abyss. The walls were wet and almost slippery, which made for a quick going for the first few feet. All I needed to do was swivel my shoulders in just the right way and gravity would help pull me down, scraping through my t-shirt as it did so. But I could feel the walls closing in. I had no idea how far down I was due to the dual realities of being unable to turn my neck and my body obscuring the view back up the shaft. I mean, it could have been the halfway point, or it could have been 5% of the way to comparative freedom. Don't worry about that, I told myself. My voice sounding flat and lifeless and sedimentary confines. It's not going to let you go just because you're near the end of the tunnel. I slowed my breathing and exhaled as much as I could. My torso began to slip further in, and I could feel one of my shoes catching on the edge of the shaft. I kicked each of them off and felt the cool air through my wet socks. I just needed to push myself off one of the slightly extruding crenellations on the wall. My arms were out ahead of me in a Superman pose and unable to grasp on the wet rock below, but with my feet newly freed, maybe I could wrap a toe around the edge of the wall above me. I pushed hard with a big toe on my right foot, and at the same time exhaling, twisting my shoulders. The heavy feeling of blood beginning to pool had begun to set in. The rock was resisting, as if it was like trying to get out of a wetsuit made of limestone. Then, just as I was about to stop pushing, it felt the walls around me shift up an inch. It was working. I inched my way down through the crack an inch at a time, driven almost wholly by my big toe. I had never been so thoroughly encased in the immovable. I briefly wondered if anybody had. Peering down ahead of me, I could see the shaft begin to open up, from a space around the size and shape of the inside shape of a coat hanger to a round space that could probably accommodate a basketball. I gave a whoop, which vanished into the blackness with barely an echo. My headlamp must have been working its way off my head that whole time, and it took that moment to slide off my sweaty forehead. I watched the spinning light illuminate the rest of the jagged shaft for a split second, and then it was gone, down into what appeared to be a chamber below. It had clattered on the floor, and now sat there lighting up a featureless stretch of rocky floor. I swore to myself, and kept shuffling downwards at a tidal pace, swapping between each set of toes to keep pushing. Then, suddenly, my torso was clear of the worst of the squeeze, and I was falling downwards. I yelled out loud and raised my arms out in front of my face to protect myself from the quickly approaching ground. I'm not sure how far I fell. It wasn't enough to break any bones, but still far enough to knock all of the wind out of me. I felt like it had taken a bus to the chest as I scrabbled around for the headlamp. Shining it around the chamber and trying to catch my breath, I realized I was on a sort of ledge jutting out above a tunnel that sloped off into the murk at a gradient I could probably scramble down. My bag had gotten loose at some point and must have fallen down after me. Luckily, I found it just on the lip of the edge. I sat there for a little while, drinking some water and catching my breath. I had a steadily sinking feeling as I squinted back up towards the darkness I'd just fallen through. Without ropes, I wasn't sure how I was going to get back up there. Shit. I hadn't counted on the shaft opening up to a wider space beneath. I kept my breathing deep and steady, and staggered to my feet to try and reach the ceiling with my outstretched hands. If I stood on the tips of my toes, I could just barely brush my fingers along the roof of rock. It wasn't going to be easy, but surely I could find a way to scramble up the side and get some kind of purchase at the opening of the shaft. Part of me knew that was swishful thinking the whole time. It was the kind of thing Brittany was always harrying me about, plunging forward into a reckless situation without thinking it through, and then complaining bitterly when faced with the consequences. I mean, that's what happened with the pregnancy. I'd grumbled when she'd leveled those accusations at me, but some part of me knew the contours of this flaw of mine even better than she did. I mean, I'd lived with it all my life. I carried it like the scar on my chin I'd received after speed wobbles took me off my skateboard halfway down an overly ambitious hill in the neighborhood. But I think this is the first time that I've actually come to terms with that fact. I sat there for a while in the dark, thinking about all of that, and felt my eyes prickle at the idea of Brittany and the kid. She was sitting back home waiting for me to get back so we could get on with all of the expected baby stuff, buying cribs, prenatal classes, baby showers. It doesn't look like I'm going to be much help with that. Eventually I turned off the light on more light-hearted trips. I loved turning off the light and feeling the unbelievably total blanket of darkness. This time it had more to do with battery conservation. I had an extra mag light in my pack and my foam slide and a few glow sticks, but the headlamp was the brightest, most comforting source of illumination on this side of the topsoil, and I didn't want to use it all up at once. I expected to see what you'd normally see when you turn the lights off deep underground, absolutely nothing. Instead, there was a dim red glow to the walls further down the tunnel. I headed as close as I dared to the edge of the ledge and stared down into the soft, almost pinkish glow, coming from further into the earth. The walls here were smooth and looked wet, almost spongy, and the floor was similar, devoid of the limestone detritus that covered the rest of the tunnels further up in the system. I tried to piece together what could be causing the glow, some kind of bioluminescent fungi, firefly urine. My mind flipped through all the limited files of scientific knowledge I had about life in the deep dark, but nothing seemed to fit just right. I mean, there was one possibility that my mind kept returning to, however, maybe this was the refracted flicker of the sun, sent through the system from some not-too-distant second opening into the outside world. My rational mind knew that I was grasping at straws, but I couldn't shut up that voice deep down within me that wouldn't let it go. It spurred me on, down the tunnel, and into the red. The cave was different here. I could make my way refreshingly easy down this section of the cave, with my head just brushing the ceiling at points and the floor as free and clear as an urban sidewalk. The width of the passage was just as if I reached out with both my arms. I could brush the walls with my fingertips, walls that were sweating, warm and soft from what I figured was some kind of Stygian fungi. I hadn't even turned on my headlamp. The rosate bruise of the walls was enough to light the way. It was as if the tunnel was made for me. I must have followed it for half an hour or so before it seemed to level out. The walls widened steadily until I found myself in a chamber ring by twin sets of stone formations, protruding from the ceiling and the floor and nearly meeting in the middle. They'd reminded me of the formations I'd seen back in the elbow room, but rather than the fang spikes of stalagmites and stalactites, these were blunted tablets of stone. Each was probably the size of a trashcan, and even in the strange red light I could see that the color was off. Rather than the pale gray of limestone further up in the cave, these looked almost like they were carved from ivory. I pulled myself over the two central stones in the bottom set, while lowering my head right down to avoid bumping it on their upper counterparts. On the other side, the floor yielded beneath my feet like wet cushion. I gazed around at the smooth walls, here a kind of deeper vermilion, veined with a shade approaching purple. And at the far end, the way forward, it was a tight aperture, nearly a sphincter, the color of sun-dried appleskin. I could feel a warm breeze coming from it, a good sign, but along with that breeze came a sweet, coiing smell, like raw meat and honey. I'd smelled it before hiking out in the woods. It was the kind of smell that brings vultures and coyotes and other creatures partial to carrion. I felt a strong urge then to turn back, and was about to, and I saw something that ticked my fight or flight over to the static option. It looked like it was moving. A pendulum-like formation above the tunnel's entrance seemed to droop down further into the feted wind, before recoiling up back to its former position. That didn't look like it was made of rock to me. I wanted to retreat then to the relative comfort of my cell at the bottom of the vertical shaft, where at least I could feel the familiar limestone in the cool of a deep cave. But it was then, when I heard him, calling my name. At first, it was just the two syllables of my name echoing out from the bowels of the earth. Alex. I didn't recognize Doug's voice at first. My first instinct was to think I had imagined it, that the stress of the situation had pushed my brain into manufacturing external voices to what comfort me. But then there it was again. Alex. It didn't sound like me. I imagine my own brain would talk to me in my own voice, although I could be wrong. But it did sound familiar. This way, Alex. That's when it hit me. That was Doug calling me on into the depths. My brain was worrying too fast to run through all the impossibilities the world would have to vault for that to be true, and I called back out to the voice. Doug? Doug? My voice sounded muted and quiet in that strange chamber. Come on, Alex. There's fresh air down here. There's light. So, yeah, I'm back here. At the bottom of the vertical shaft, thumbing all of this at a frenetic pace into my phone. Please excuse any typos or spelling mistakes. Please accept my apologies. I was profoundly idiotic in coming down here alone, but now with my light running out in this phone battery's percentage in the single digits, I better make my goodbyes. I don't see much of a choice as to what to do next. I heard Doug down there, past the teeth and tongue, calling up from what looked for the life of me like the opening of some gargantuan esophagus. Okay, I know I can't really be him. I know Doug died two years ago from a fentanyl overdose in Portland when he was just trying to have a few bumps in the shitty bathroom of some dive bar, but it sounds just like him. I'd like to see him again just one last time and talk about the old days when we were free and alive out on the road. And more than that, I'd like just one little last taste of daylight and fresh air. Step into light field living at the express bifolding doors Milton Keynes showroom and experience products that seamlessly connect your home's interior and exterior. From bifolding and sliding doors to windows, entrance doors and glass roofs all built and installed by express. Whether renovating, extending or building new, see the quality for yourself at our stunning showroom or visit express bifolds.co.uk. Hey, 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 in horror as the show spirals completely out of control. It's not just news, it's emotionally unstable. Lunatic in the Newsroom. Listen today. Look, camping can be something fun to do, but if this podcast has taught you anything, it's that there are things out there that just don't like you in their home. Claire knows what I mean. And in this tale, shared with us by author Izzy Cooper, we find Claire isn't doing too well after a fall. But don't worry, she's not alone out there. Oh, actually, that's the reason Claire should be very worried indeed. Performing this tale are Kristen De MacCurrio and Kyle Acres. So make sure you understand your place in the food chain as you consider what's predator and prey. I huddle in my tent against the cold as my teeth chatter. There's a dull pain in my left arm as I hug it tight to my chest and its makeshift splint. My legs feel stiff. I must have been sitting here a while, but I can't tell exactly how long. I broke both my watch and my arm when I slipped and fell down the side of a small ravine five days ago. My phone is dead. The portable battery we packed sapped by the cold. The only way I can get a sense of what time it might be is by the position of the sun barely peeking through the clouds and the fact that the thing that's trapped us here is still waiting outside. Still alive in there. I think I hear you shivering. I look next to me at the body of my friend, Hannah. She slipped away sometime in the night after we first set up camp at the dead end of this ravine. She hit her head when we both fell down here. She seemed okay at first, bleeding but still conscious and aware, but the next morning she wouldn't wake up. I guess that can happen with head injuries. The day it happened we were at the end of our trip. I wanted to set up camp one last time as the sun was setting, but Hannah thought we should push forward a little longer. She said she wanted to at least make it back to a river we passed on the way in. Then it would only be a few hours hike back to the park entrance. I should have insisted, but I didn't. And we didn't see that ledge as well as we could have thanks to both the snow and the receding sunlight. Claire. Claire. Are you still in there? Did you leave your friend behind for me? Or are you waiting to join? I still don't know how it knows my name. I look at the closed tent flap with the things emaciated silhouettes stretched tall by the fading sun before I turned my gaze back to Hannah. I know it's a grim thing, sitting next to a dead body in a tent, but I don't want to do the alternative. If I move her outside, the thing will eat her. It told me so. It offered to give me a head start if I let it. But I've known Hannah since we were kids, and I know she's dead, but I can't stand the thought of leaving her body behind. Before the thing showed up, I promised I would send someone back to get her to bring her home. That morning, I cried until my eyes got red and puffy. I shook her, kept trying to tell myself she was just asleep. But Hannah never got up. After some time, I packed up, held her cold hand, and I was in the tent. I was in the tent, and I was in the tent. I was in the tent, and Hannah never got up. After some time, I packed up, held her cold hand one last time, and made that promise. I was going to leave her in the tent just for a little while and bring someone back for her. But I didn't make it far. I walked along the ravine, passed a turn in the rock walls, and then saw it crouching ahead of me. I thought it was a person at first, so I called out, and I got a better look at it. The thing was small and gaunt, with clawed hands and oddly mismatched arms. The left one shorter and stubbier, almost swollen looking, clutching something bloody that it was gnawing at. It turned to me and smiled needle-like teeth through a curtain of unkempt hair. I had heard some urban legends about this park before. Nothing notable. Just your typical, creepy, not quite human creatures that every set of woods seemed to have lurking inside it. I never really believed in stories like that. Not when there are very real dangers out there, like bears, mountain lions, or the like. Maybe that's why I froze at first. It was like my brain was trying to process what it was seeing. I remember thinking maybe it was a costume. Despite the gore in its mouth and the absurdity of that scenario. In a flash of movement, it dropped to all fours and sprinted for me. I nearly slipped as I turned around and ran. I felt its claws hit my backpack, and the force of the blow sent me sprawling. A searing pain shooting up my broken arm when I hit the ground. I scrambled for my knife, and the second I gripped the handle in my good hand, I swung the blade in a wide arc. I slashed across the thing's arm, red blood splattering the snow. It shrieked and stumbled back. That gave me enough time to push myself up and make it back to the tent. I fumbled with the zipper, my cold fingers feeling numb. Thinking back, it must have given up the chase, at least temporarily. It knew I had nowhere to go. Claire, come on. At least talk to me. I'm bored. Screw you. So you are still alive. So stubborn. Aren't you tired? Freezing to death is such a slow way to go. I can make it quick, you know. Or just let me take your friend. Why go through all this trouble for a corpse? I could see the sun starting to set again. For whatever reason, the thing didn't stick around at night. But that didn't give me a chance to get away either. I found that out the second night. After it left the first time, I waited for what felt like hours listening for any sounds of it still being close. Eventually, I quietly climbed out of the tent and slowly zipped up the flap. I wished I had something to prevent the thing from just opening it and getting to Hannah, but I figured there wasn't much I could do if it just decided to tear open the tent with its claws anyway. I slowly made my way to the mouth of the winding ravine, since climbing wasn't an option thanks to my arm. Based on our map, the fastest way towards help and civilization would be to head due north from the end of the ravine, through the trees and off any path. It'd be a rough hike. And that made me hesitate, but it was the quickest way out. And at least our compass hadn't broken in the fall so I could still navigate. Past the trees, I'd be able to find the country road we took to get here. Maybe flag down a car or head east towards a gas station we had passed. I made it to the mouth of the ravine before I saw it, twirling a stick in its claws. I froze. Why are you doing this? Then why let me go back? Because this is more fun. And you have nowhere else to go. It grinned its needle-filled maw at me. I slowly walked backwards, stumbling a few times before turning and running the rest of the way back. I was carrying my knife in my good hand at the time. Maybe I should have tried to fight. But it was fast and its claws tore up my backpack before. It could have easily killed me out there in the open. So I retreated. Now I'm trapped. The thing leaves at night but only as far as the ravine entrance, letting me wander so long as I don't try to go past it. During that time I gather what I can find for a small fire to warm up a little before trying to get some sleep. Not that I get much. I can't find anything to eat either. I'm out of the food and water we packed. The only fresh water I get comes from melting snow over each meager fire. But I'm running out of things to burn. While my empty stomach feels like a hollow void inside me. I know I can't keep this up. I'm sore, tired, hungry, and getting weaker. By now people have to know we're missing. But even if Resky was coming, how long will it take to find us here? Even if I let the thing take Hannah, I have a feeling it will just go after me the second I let my guard down. I can practically hear it salivating each time it talks to me. And it's a predator. It probably prefers fresh, warm meat to a dead cold meal. I also don't know how much longer it'll be before it finally gets bored and just claws open the tent. But it doesn't like risking a fight either. That's something people don't often realize about predator species. They don't always attack prey if the risk of getting injured while the prey fights back is too great. An injury in the wild can spell death after all. It's one reason why trying to make yourself look big and aggressive can sometimes save you. You make yourself look like too big of a risk to make the food worth it. I think it's waiting for me to get too weak to fight back. Knife or not, my time is running out. And we both know that. I shiver again as my empty stomach churns. I have to do something. I look back at Hannah's body. The only nice thing about the cold is that I think it's keeping Hannah from decomposing. So at least there isn't an awful smell in the tent. I feel tears welling up again. This is your fault. I told you we should have set up camp earlier. Sun setting again, Claire. I'll see you in the morning. Its footsteps crunch against the frozen ground as it goes back to its usual nightly station. I hate you. We could have at least waited for spring or taken a different trail in or anything else but you always have to have things your way. Warm tears start falling down my cold face. And then you go and die on me. Leave me with this thing. I hate you. Hannah remains silent. The lack of sleep and food makes my head pound. I feel gross having not bathed in longer than I had anticipated. My hair feels matted despite being pulled back and stuffed into my hat. My broken, swollen arm throbs as my stomach growls in the quiet. This is your fault. I should just leave you to that thing. I stand up and in a moment of pent up anger I almost kick Hannah's body. I catch myself in time. I realize what I almost did and I sob louder. What do I do? I curl up in a ball on my torn sleeping bag and cry. Then I feel anger rising again. No. Screw that. I'm doing something. I don't want to die here. I don't want to die sitting here. I don't want to die starving and cold. I don't want to die lying next to the corpse of the person that got me stuck here in the first place. I take a deep breath, wipe my face and get ready for mourning. I hear the thing's footsteps approaching. I can hear it's the light at seeing the open tent. He said, you'd make it quick. I said, you'd make it quick. I said, you'd make it quick. He said, you'd make it quick. There's a pause. Then laughter. Oh, don't worry Claire. I will. I promise. You just sit tight. It has to crouch to crawl into the tent. Did it get bigger? I can't quite tell as my back is too. With my head turned slightly to watch it out of the corner of my eye. It pauses. It must see Hannah's body, now laid out on the floor of the tent, stripped of her puffy winter coat. It tilts his head. I strike with the knife clutched tight in my good hand. It shrieks, stumbling back. The knife misses and the thing tries to swipe at me. But its claws can't strike all the way through the layers of both mine and Hannah's heavy coats. I sink the knife into its stomach. It screams and snarls. It lunges at me. Teeth bared and aimed at my throat. Another shock of pain shoots up my broken arm as I brace it between us. Your eye to eye. I let go of the knife and grab a fistful of its disgusting matted hair. I yank it back and I lunge forward. I sink my own teeth into its throat. It shrieks again. It claws at me. But I'm too numb. I bite down and taste warm copper. It kicks and screams. I clamp my jaws and pull me away. It gurgles and chokes. It tries to claw at my head. But only pulls my hat off. My hair loose and wild. I scream. Bare my teeth. I pin the thing down and I bash its awful head against the ground. It claws. I bite. I tear. I blink and the thing is Hannah now. Her eyes alive and wide with terror. I shriek and smash her head against the ground. It's the thing again. I slam its head against the ground. It's Hannah now. Dead. Her body bloated and eyes cloudy. I hull her up and smash her skull wetly against the ground. It's the thing. Its eyes losing focus, blood pooling from its neck and head, which I slam into the ground once more. I do it again. And again. And again. I scream. I bite. The next morning, I pick the last of the meat off the bones with my teeth. Not enough left to light a fire to cook it. But meat is meat. I gather what's left of my things and crawl out of the open tent. I follow the ravine, pass the entrance and into the woods. I walk for hours, due north on my compass. I find the road but see no cars. I turn east and see the gas station in the distance. I reach down, take a handful of snow, use it to wipe the dried blood and dirt from my face, pull my hair back and under my hat, and walk towards it. I walk for hours, due north on my compass. I find the road but see no cars. I walk for hours, due north on my compass. I find the road but see no cars. I walk for hours, due north on my compass. I find the road but see no cars. I walk for hours, due north on my compass. I find the road but see no cars. Our tails 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 Sleeve 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 Sumido. 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. This audio program is copyright 2025 by Creative Reason Media Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. Step into light filled living at the express bifolding doors Milton Keynes showroom and experience products that seamlessly connect your home's interior and exterior from bifolding and sliding doors to windows, entrance doors and glass roofs all built and installed by express. Whether renovating, extending or building new, see the quality for yourself at our stunning showroom or visit express bifolds dot co dot uk. Every day the world gets a little weirder and a lot more awesome. Cool stuff daily takes a look at everything from mining in space to the latest in the fight against cancer to how AI is basically changing everything. It's all the cool stuff you didn't know you needed to know. Join us for cool stuff daily as we take a quick look at science, tech and the wait what stories that make you sound way smarter at dinner. Subscribe to cool stuff daily now because the future is happening fast and it's way too fun to miss. 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 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.