S23 Ep23: NoSleep Podcast S23E23

The sun shining, birds are singing and all feels right in the world. Until the season changes and suddenly you lose your motivation to get out of bed. In fact, one in five people experience some form of depression no matter the season or time of year. At the American Psychiatric Association Foundation, our vision is to build a mentally healthy nation for all because we want you to live your best life and be your best you all year round. Please visit mentallyhealthynation.org to learn more. WNSP Welcome to our brother's wedding. WSPs, overnight programming. I'm your host D.C. Back at the mic with you. And to begin the show this week, I want to give you an update about the swamp we've been talking about recently. I think I have some very important information about what might be going on down there. I think there may be some kind of swamp man living down there. Oh, swamp man! It's really starting to bump. Yeah, shut up. I'm so sick of listening to that show. Darkness of the night they say. Swamp man. Swamp man, my ass. How can someone living in cryptid valley not be aware of the other cryptids out there? I don't know what's going on down in cryptid valley. But if there's a swamp man worth their time talking about, it's the one in here in old Virginia. Oh, young people probably don't even know about it. I have a good mind to call into that radio station show and tell them about it. The legend goes back so many years after all. When I was younger, there was an area on the coast of Virginia around Virginia Beach. It was called Sea Shore Steep Park. I was a beautiful place to visit. Deep lush, cypress swamps, places to swim and boat. My friends and I had picnics down there. It was a lovely spot. It had history too. They say the area was where the first call and this landed back way back in the early 1600s. Yeah, James Town gets all the hubbub about being the first English settlement. They came ashore in the area. We called Sea Shore Steep Park. I guess that's why they renamed the park around 30-8 years ago. Now they call it First Landing State Park. To me and the other locals. It'll always be called Sea Shore. If they think they've got a swamp man over in the encrypted valley, they should come visit the swamps in the first landing or sea shore. Our swamp man is famous. When we were kids, we sang a song about him. Oh yeah, how did that go again? Oh yeah, something like that. There's a swamp man living deep down in the bog. He'll attack you when the night turns deep and dark. He lives down in old Virginia and he'll get you and he'll skin you. He's a swamp man living deep down in the bog. Oh yeah, you know what, come to think of it. Yeah, there's... Hey, I have all recording of that song. Way back in the day. Where is that? Oh, here it is. Give it some plays. There's a swamp man living deep down in the bog. There's a tank going on when the night turns deep and dark. He lives down in old Virginia and he'll get you and he'll skin you. He's a swamp man living deep down in the bog. Ah, that takes me back. You know, maybe I should head on down to the swamp again to see if the swamp man is still there. Oh, God knows I've lived a good long life. Maybe it's time to see him face to face. Oh well, that's a journey for another time. You know, but tonight I think I'll listen to that podcast I enjoy. It helps me pass the time during the real darkness of the night. A rustle of the leaves. Of leading 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. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. We've reached the twilight of the day. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. We've reached the 23rd episode of season 23. And you know what that means, right? Well, two threes are six. So that means we have six from the episode, six from the season. And this is the six month, the 23rd season has been running. So that makes six, six, six. And that... Okay, I got nothing. I just wanted to sound all cool and spooky. But there is something special to share about this episode. It's kind of, technically, our pan-alty-made episode of this season. You see, through the serendipity of the calendar and the timing of the stars, this season is ending right around Christmas and the end of the calendar year. So rather than muddle up all the holiday and bonus episodes, here's what we're going to do. Next week, episode 24 is going to be our big season finale. We have a feature with creatures brought to us from the pen of author Gemma Amor. It will be a full-length season finale for one and all. So make sure you join us as the season proper comes to a close. However, even though next week is our season finale, we're not going to leave you out in the cold when it comes to Christmas. Watch your feeds on Christmas Day, because we'll be releasing our yearly Christmas episodes on the day itself. The full-length episode for the traditional listeners and the sleepless universe Christmas bonus episode. Oh, I tell you, your stockings will be stuffed full of Christmas horror. All just in time for you to slip away from the family festivities and lock yourself in the attic to listen in peace and comfort or disturbing discomfort. Just the way you like it. And with two full-length episodes back to back and the bonus episodes, we trust you'll understand when, for the first time in a long while, we will be taking an entire weekend off. That's right, the weekend of December 27-28 will be tucked in our beds having a well-earned rest at the end of a very busy 2025. Stay tuned for a January full of sleepless universe bonus episodes, some new years hiatus episodes, and some sleepless decomposition episodes, all leading up to the start of season 24 on February 1st. That is a lot of content to prepare for you. It's a good thing the no-sleep team is composed of entities that are human creature hybrids. No mere humans could provide all that content. And since we're talking about creatures of the disturbing nature, we have tales for you this week about just that. Creatures that will make your day is horrifying and your nights sleepless. And the great thing about horror stories with creatures is they don't have to be confined to the usual things like slimy aliens and sexy Frankenstein monsters. This episode features creatures that preachers and teachers will become screechers from the bleachers to warn you about. So don't wait. It's time to tune in. Turn on and brace yourself for our sleepless tales. In our first tale, we meet a scientist who has brought his son to a top secret laboratory. The reason for the visit is quite simple. Show the boy what the man has been working on in the lab. But in this tale, shared with us by author Matt Georgeson, we'll learn it's not all about beakers and flasks in this lab. It's about things far more alien. Performing this tale are David Alt, James Cleveland, Jake Benson, Ash Millman, and Erica Sanderson. So let's hear what this boy has to say when he tells us there's only one thing I want. Take a good look, kid. I might never see anything like this again. Harry peered at the alien through the thick glass wall. It's that unmoving on the steel bench, a fist-sized, stubby tentacled blob. LED lights reflected off its moist skin. Black veins cobwebbed its grey body. It had no eyes. In fact, it had no features at all that Harry could distinguish. Harry frowned and scratched his floppy red hair. What had he expected? Yoda? E.T. maybe? A potential friend? It's kind of like a veiny octopus. His father bristled. Well, we have other specimens too, but this is the only one I can show you. I've tested and probed this thing to death. It's safe, placid. Anyway, you're lucky I even brought you here. It's not like you wanted to. Last night he'd heard the heavy thumping in the hallway. His father shouting his regular refrain. You show me no respect, and the muted murmuring of his mother trying to pacify him. In the morning he saw her at the end of the cramped hallway, ghostly in her dressing gown, hair crumpled, holding one arm gingerly to her chest, shadows chiseled her face, or were they bruises? None? Are you doing all right, Harry? Let me have a look at you. She came and touched his face softly, studying him. Don't worry about me. Your mother is sick today. Come with me. I'll show you the alien. His father pulled Harry away and spoke to the boy's mother without looking back. Go back to bed. The facility was 35 kilometers out of town, the last ten on dirt. A rusting, barbed wire fence, a checkpoint manned by one idol guard. Surprisingly deserted, at least in the aging low security wing, where his father worked. More like an old office building than a high tech science lab Harry thought. The corridors smelt musty. Now Harry stood at the chicken coop-sized prison, secreted in the building's cold basement, and willed the imprisoned inanimate jelly to do something. His nose wrinkled at the faint smell of chemicals and steel. His breath fogged the glass, reflected back, and fogged his spectacles. Don't touch the glass! His father grabbed Harry's ear and yanked him back. And then suddenly there was another voice. Don't speak child, just listen to me. It was a female voice speaking inside his head as clear as crystal. It echoed softly like a lullaby and Harry felt comforted, yet it also resonated with a quiet authority. What? His father looked down at him. Are you listening? I said this alien is probably a lesser life form. Maybe it was the pet of the dominant alien, which probably disintegrated in the crash. Harry watched the alien with wide eyes. It sat there same as before, although Harry thought he could see it pulse faintly, and its dark veins phased a bluish tinge. It is me. You are looking at me. I am the entity in this prison. I can speak to you. You can speak back, but you must think it. Use your mind only. Harry felt hot and sucked in quick breaths. As a ten-year-old boy, of course, he'd thought about telepathic communication, even tested it just in case he had the gift. He didn't, but he was o'fay with this telepathy concept. Can you hear this? I can hear you. Holy moly, it was really working. What's your name? My name is impossible in your language. Call me whatever you wish. Harry pondered. Why don't you just call me... ...Aly, then? This caught him off guard. He'd only muse that name to himself, not consciously projected it. But he liked it. Aly. Short fur alien. Why can't others hear you? Is it only me? You are special child. Your mind is open and beautiful. Your father and the other men, their minds are closed and hard. Harry, you must rescue me. Harry noticed that she knew his name without him telling. Look at me, trapped here and tortured. I only want one thing Harry, to go home to my planet when my child waits for me. I'm sad and suffering. It's not right Harry. Harry imagined a tinier tentacled grey blob, the child. He imagined a planet with multicolored trees and glassy waters where mother and child swam. That's enough. Let's go back up now. His father tugged him to the exit. I'll come back to you. Don't leave me here to suffer Harry. Help me get the swipe card. Upstairs in his father's office, Harry stared at the pages of his Choose Your Own Adventure book. But the words ran right over his excited brain. Telepathy. And she can speak to me. She can tell me all about her home planet, about space travel, everything. But more prominent in Harry's mind was Ali's final plea for help. Her words hooked into his mind, repeating and tugging him to action. Harry fidgeted and eyed an old swipe pass on top of the filing cabinet, just sitting there between boxes of stationary. He watched his father waiting for him to turn away. But his father sat on his desk, arms crossed, considering Harry with the look of a puppy owner regretting his purchase. So what do you do with the alien now, Dad? Let it go back home or something? His father's ruddy cheeks flushed to darker. That'd be foolish, Harry. What I'm just going to let it out to do, who knows what? I can't do you that. You have to realise that life's tough, Harry. And you have to make hard calls. You'll never work here unless you realise that. Harry put his book down and fiddled with his glasses. What do you mean, work here? This could be your future. You know, my dad worked in this lab too. You never met him. Now there was a man who knew how to keep things in order. I standard, you know. His already narrow eyes narrowed further and he chewed on nothing. His prominent jaw muscles bulging. Now a man who'd let people walk over him. You could learn from that attitude, Harry like I did. Harry's father stood, walked to the window and gazed out. Harry, you respect me, don't you? Harry was preoccupied grabbing the swipe card from the top of the cabinet. But he felt a heaviness in the air. Yes, Dad. He pocketed the card. I'm just going out to the bathroom now. I'll be back. She was still planted on the same steel bench, harsh light painting her skin. Harry. He shivered and grinned as Ali's smooth voice drifted into his head. Hi again. You've come to release me. Harry thought he could hear Elation and relief in her voice. Yes. He squinted in the glare of the LEDs and turned the swipe card over in his hands. What is your planet like, Ali? And your child? Is he a boy? Oh yes, a boy. He's smart and kind, just like you. Come and let me out now, Harry. I will, but... Harry paused. Oh, don't worry, Harry. Once I'm outside, you can leave me. I can travel alone. I can contact my people. Just take me out. Come and scan the door. With these last words, all other sensory inputs seemed to recede into the far distance. When Harry came back to himself, he realized he was already standing at the heavy glass door. Swipe card raised. He paused again. Imagining the terrible trouble he'd be in if his father caught him freeing Ali. Surely a beating to rival all beatings. Harry. Is your father here? Yes. Well, we'll sneak upstairs, dodge him and find an exit. You can trust me. There's only one thing I want, Harry. I want to leave and return to my children. After a few moments of silence, Ali continued. Harry, look at that wall behind me. See the mark on it? That's my blood. That's my blood. He threw me up against that wall in a rage. Your father. If only he knew what it was like to sit trapped in a prison. Harry could hear hatred in Ali's voice when she said, father. He forced his eyes to look at the mark on the wall and then he looked down with a pained frown. He believed it. He felt enouring in his stomach like he'd eaten something bad. Swipe the card and entered Ali's prison. He placed his little red backpack on the bench next to her. I can smuggle you in this. No need, Harry. There is a better way. Ali's gelatinous form undulated quickly across the steel bench. Her stubby tentacles rowing like miniaturized oars and she made a small leap to Harry's bare arm, landing on it wetly and continuing to crawl up towards his shoulder. Harry considered himself brave in the face of gross and crawly things. He'd poked many a worm, even let spiders crawl on his skin. But now with the dripping and fleshy touch of the alien on his body, he involuntarily gasped and felt his skin prickly. Ali spoke to him, voice as velvety as a hypnotist. Relax. And Harry did. She shuffled across his shoulder to the skin at the back of his neck, paused and nestled where Harry's spine met his skull. A pain like the sting of the vaccine needle, only this time it was in Harry's neck. Then a numbing sensation like he'd been injected with ice water, seeping around his skull down his spine and seemingly into his brain. He heard something gurgle. We can go like this, Harry, together. Harry felt his body turn to face the door and found himself propelled towards it. It reminded him of when the doctor tapped his knee and his legs spontaneously jerked. Only this was his whole body. Wait. He spoke aloud and his voice sounded high and mechanical in the metal room. He consciously held his body still. He put one hand behind his head and felt the fleshy lump of Ali sitting there like an intriguing growth. She must have bitten him to hold on, he thought. Are you controlling me? Don't worry, Harry. Of course not. This way we can work together. Our energy combines. I can give you extra strength and reflexes. Things you couldn't do alone. It's like you have a superpower now. Here. Lift up this bench. Superpowers. Harry ablygingly crouched by the heavy steel bench, pulled and felt a surge of strength. The bench lifted as if it were a cardboard prop and Harry giggled. We do it together. Let's go upstairs. The alien rescue mission which had been so prominent in Harry's mind was momentarily displaced by a fantasy. Unknown kid becomes basketball team captain. He saw himself dunking the ball effortlessly while his classmates looked on, a god and a plodding. Come on, Harry. Let's go now. Ali's voice was sharp, louder, but Harry's fantasy penetrated deeper and his brows knitted above hard eyes. He imagined striding into the dark hallway at home, pointing his finger at his father and saying, don't you touch her. His father would try to pull Harry's hair, but then his face would shrink and pale in fear as Harry held him back with one powerful hand. Ali, after I rescue you, will we ever see each other again? Just go at the downstairs already. The sudden metallic saw tooth screech of Ali's voice made Harry jump, but immediately her voice was silk again. Sorry, Harry. I'm sorry. I'm just desperate to get away from here. It's not you I'm angry at. Harry felt a warmth behind his head and imagined Ali hugging him in the only way she could. Yes, I will always be here with you. Suddenly from above them a scraping sound, a door or footsteps. Like Dad might come in at any moment. Then let's not wait. Harry's legs lurched to life and then he was bounding back up the stairs, back back in hand his alien crown fixed behind his skull. Dim floor lights illuminated the symbiotes it darted through the quiet corridors. Harry dragged his legs and puffed no longer feeling the superhero glow he'd felt downstairs. He swiped the card and they rushed in and out of several empty offices. The throbbing behind Harry's skull ached like a wound when the analgesic had faded. Let's find an exit quickly. Let's check these rooms first. The voice in Harry's head was Ali's and his own alternating overlapping harmonious discordant. Grab that screwdriver. Harry rubbed his eyes to focus and realized they were in a cluttered storage room. He took the large screwdriver good for pricing open and exit. And that cord too quickly. He shoved the long roll of electrical cord into his backpack. The bathroom. I can force open the window and then lower you down to the ground in my backpack. We have to do it before my dad comes. Good idea Harry. But first let's go into this room. Harry felt Ali urging him forward and he imagined a jockey digging his boots into the flanks of a horse. Harry entered and then froze. He realized with a feeling of disorientation that he was back in his father's office. And there was his father sitting at his desk at the far end of the room back towards him head buried in papers. The room was silent except for the scratching of his father's pen and Harry's own breathing. Shallow and deliberate. He took several staggering steps forward. Dad. What do you want? Harry glanced the window and saw dustmotes traversing a shaft of weak winter sunlight. He looked back to his father at his balding head at the starch lab coat tight across his shoulders. I have a message for you from the alien. Harry heard his own voice as if from a distance, deeper than usual. Calm. Valvati. Mm-hmm. Harry knew what his father would be thinking. Another one of Harry's stupid games. She says there's only one thing she wants. His eyes felt heavy and his face twitched like a dreamer in a nightmare. All right. So is his sheen now, is it? His father turned around in his chair with a mask of disdain. Ah, tell you, Harry. You're as dumb as your mother sometimes. Harry lurched two steps closer and stood before his father. Okay. So what is it, the alien wants Harry? Revenge. Harry pulled the long screwdriver from behind his back. His knuckles white around its handle. His arm trembling. And he watched his father's face shrink and pale in fear. This week at Little, you can afford to be Mum's favourite. Trito with a gorgeous Mother's Diver Kay from 189. And show your love with a bottle of Alini Prosecco's for Mont-Day, only 469 with Little Dwarfs. Little, more to value. 18 plus exclude Scotland while Stux last offer in 18th March, term's apply. See Little.co.uk slash LP TV. When women become pregnant, many turn to support groups to help them through the monumental changes they will experience. It can be helpful to share things with others in the same situation. But in this tale, shared with us by author Andrew Cosma, we meet a group of women dealing with the usual things, like their expanded bellies, and the unusual things, like their complete lack of fetuses. Performing this tale are Christendimicurio, serotonous, Nicole Doulin and Aaron Lilis. So if you need this special kind of support, you should join the group known as Mother's Without Children. The group session was almost over, and none of us had yet mentioned the reason we were all here. The children. Or to be more specific, the lack thereof. Each session was the same in this regard. Eight to twelve women, all with a particular reticence to admit again, but we'd already admitted countless times before. I never wanted it. We all knew Molly was lying, even Molly knew. Her eyes, the spat out pits of olives. The thing is, we were all pregnant. Our bellies were watermelons. Our lovers rested their heads on our stomachs and imagined they could hear the ocean through our skin. The counselor had even recommended that to us once, for therapy, to rest our ears against the unpragnant bellies of our lovers, to find joy in that everyday heat we all share. When I listened to Divia's bellie, I swear all I heard was static. I didn't tell her that, of course, and I didn't tell the counselor either, or the group, when we shared. Instead, I said I'd heard the sound of butterfly wings lightly frothing the air. Why didn't you want it? I have a question. I said, filling the silent Molly just left there like a dead cat on the side of the road. A dead pregnant cat. Freshly dead. It's bellies still churning. The counselor neatly pocketed her annoyance into the corners of her smile. Yes, Nanette? I took a breath. When are we going to do the game? The air in the room grew thin. Every one of us breathed heavily. The game was the only part of the group sessions everyone loved. No. We can do the game now. With a swipe on her phone, the light dimmed and we slid from our circle of chairs to the floor, making our circles smaller, so our crossed legs touched knee to knee. Tendatively, almost shyly, we put our hands on each other's bellies. Our arms stretched wide, our palms down, as if we were readying to push ourselves up and out into the world we no longer felt a part of. I felt all the energy in my body spark at my fingertips into the bellies on either side of me. But the hands on my belly, I just felt their cold palms. I don't know why their hands felt cold, but I knew it wasn't these particular people. No matter who it was sitting next to me during the game, their hands were cold, as if they'd just been packing ice into a ziplock bag to hold against a bruise. Did each of us feel this way? Or was this unique to me? We didn't talk about the game outside of group. We spilled our secrets out in our dreams. When we had no control over our tongues. Or not at all. Hands placed, lights dimmed, eyes closed. We sat, and we waited. Let's begin. We waited. We breathed. Every breath was a rush of hope. Lungs expanding our bodies as our children were promised to do but never did. And then a point of light pierced my eyelids, clothed as they were. And I was never sure if it was a light the counselor was shining. Or if it was all in my head. As some of the doctors, those we eagerly cut from our lives, had said. And then a whooshing all around and over my skin. But not physical, not a noise. But that feeling of falling, that vertigo felt when not moving at all, but the world. No, the universe veers to the left when you try to go right and then. And then I'm at the door to the room. In and thick with the gaggle of other not mothers in the midst of a conversation I don't remember starting. I was aware of all my senses. As if I'd just woken up. We stunk of burnt coffee and sweat. The nubbly carpet texture poked me through the thin souls of my shoes. The 70s orange of that carpet was so thick it stuck to my eyes smearing everything else I looked at with that rich, cheddarized tone. Molly was saying something about the game. The feeling of not being in her own skin. But something else wearing her like a dress. And the expressions on every other not mothers face was a lawn badly mowed. I interrupted. I said I disagree. I left. But could still hear Molly through the closing door. It untied my belly button and let itself out. I woke to Devia murmuring to my belly. My body ached where the child was supposed to be. The only word I could pick out was a nest, which is what Devia had always wanted to name her child. Her lips mowed to the syllable slowly onto my skin. I did hurt like when I got my first tattoo and I didn't cry out in pain. And the tattoo art is not it as though she'd known all along. The group session was just beginning. It was that quiet, awkward circle of time where we waited for the counselor and filled the emptiness with conversation we weren't interested in. And we weren't listening to. I stared at the light fixtures, denting the ceiling. They had the bright waxiness of scars. I felt...expectant. I felt pregnant. I felt I was going to give birth to something but not like that. As Molly said during every session. I did not like Molly. She said everything she felt, no filter. And once it came out unfiltered, there was no filtering it again. The words we had all smothered in our sleep rising up again through our throats begging to be said. The counselor walked in. We're so glad to see you. The counselor was wearing a dress that flaunted her non-pregnantness. It was a lime green that was angry with the forest green of the walls. Devia couldn't stand color. And I agreed with her when we were together. But in this room, I loved every flashy liquid bit of it, no matter how clashing. I don't remember always being this way. Was it pregnancy? Was it non-pregnancy? Sometimes my eyes felt like flint being sharpened. How are we doing today? Can we play the game? Later, Annette. First, we share. Molly opened her mouth, and every one of our troubles and fears came out. The game had no name at first, but Molly called it, Mothers Without Children. And that was that. The counselor explained that the game would help us deal with contradictions. It would counter any feelings of identity loss we were having, as our bodies were turned to another use. I have said that I don't remember the game itself, that instead of memory, there is a blank, like ceiling wax waiting to be stamped. The first time we played the game, I remember that it began with word association. The counselor explained that this was not the game, but would make the game easier, more impactful, and increase the deadening effect. The deadening effect? Getting used to it. While Molly looked confused, the rest of us understood. The counselor began the game. Joy. We spoke all jumbled together, sunshine and the beach and pizza and a baby crying. Peace. Bubble bath and a litter of puppies and sleep and a silent baby monitor. Despair. An empty metro rail station and a silent lover and Molly Strawberries and an infant's first laugh. Who keeps saying that? I asked, trying to keep calm. Who keeps saying all the baby shit? No, no. This is a safe space where anything is acceptable. No, the fuck, it isn't. Everyone agreed with me, nodding their heads. But we nodded our heads slowly. It had been too easy to keep calm. The deadening effect, like a numbing shot of Nova Cane to the mouth, and suddenly you're drooling everywhere. Except instead of saliva, we were all spilling words from our lips. Words about babies. Words in languages I didn't know. And the next thing I remembered, that any of us would admit to remembering, we were at the door. The game over. Talking about how much fun it was and how it helped us not just emotionally, but spiritually. And I felt like I was the center of my universe again. That I was me. And I always would be. Sometimes, Davia wanted to talk about our families. This was always when we were lying in bed after sex, as though it were some sort of reverse Freudian thing. It was always night, too. With the sky a glow with street lamps that bled out the stars. Davia was sly. Well, she wanted to be. I can't stop thinking about my mom. What she thought about when she was expecting me and my brothers. What were her hopes and dreams for us, you know? I didn't know. I couldn't understand saying anything to my child that wasn't a complaint. How they were taking my body and crafting it into their cradle. How my joints hurt. My hair thinned. My bladder shrank. How I wasn't sure it was worth it to bring a being into this horrible world if they hadn't actually chosen to be here. But I couldn't say any of that. Not to Davia. I don't want our child to know. I said instead, choosing a different sort of truth. Davia perked up. I swallowed a sigh. I'd prefer she start fresh. Free of all of our prejudices, our sins, our hates. Our loves. Davia stroked my stomach so lightly the skin jerked and shivered like a suffocating fish. A fresh start. This was before we knew we weren't having a baby. That we would never have a baby. Our group sessions were held in a section of the sisters of the Holy Cross hospital that was either new or abandoned. Either way, the walls were bare and the furniture was spare. And even the air tasted unused. There had been around 20 of us to start. But the numbers and the faces fluctuated from week to week. The only thing that was the same was the game. Because we were all mothers without children. We were empty vessels. Our doctors had pulled us to come here. Just one more prescription to take. And so we hoped maybe the group sessions would fill us. That between us all maybe one single child would be made. The questions I wanted to know. What had happened to the fetus? Why was my body still blowing up like a balloon? Where did the glow come from? Which drew everyone to me and my distended belly as if the miracle I was could rub off on them like pollen from a flower. If I wasn't pregnant, if none of us were pregnant, then what were we instead? The doctors had no answers for us. They were unflustered at the lack of what should be in our wounds. And because they weren't shocked, it was hard for us to be shocked. For me to be shocked. My doctor's face, his wrinkled pale face, his bald head, basically a baby himself in profile, was calm and collected and intense. His eyes drilling into me in that way which meant everything was going to be fine. Don't worry, take your pills, submit to the tests, talk it out. What is happening to us? What do you think is happening to you? Molly talked it out. The counselor listened. Molly cradled her belly like it was a medicine ball. We all sat heavily on our flimsy folding chairs. The counselor sat with her legs crossed but the rest of us wouldn't dare. These days it felt that if we fell, we'd never get back up. We'd either burst open right there or be trapped by the shape of our bodies like overturned turtles. Not everyone is fit to be a mother. The counselor nodded. Not everyone is fit to be a mother. I had expected her to argue to question me as to why I thought I wasn't fit to be a mother. And whether I blamed myself for what my body had done and was doing, to comfort me and by extension, all of us, through a touchy, feely explanation that what we were experiencing was entirely natural and absolutely not our fault. Molly began to cry and the tears spread around the circle like wildfire. My vision blurred too. Even the counselor cried, though she kept her face carefully neutral. As if her tears, like everything else she was supposed to do in this group session, were there just to make us feel not so alone. But as the rest of the group crumpled into themselves or stared into the near distance, I saw an expression on the counselor's face that chilled me. The corners of her lips were held down in deference to the tears, but her eyes were newly struck matches. In them, I saw eagerness. I recognized hunger. Deville was gifted with an unflagging optimism that everything would turn out all right. It was what had drawn me to her to begin with. And so she bought all the baby supplies, despite what the doctor had said, confident in my body's own confidence. She painted the room a light blue, which was the color of the sky just after a heavy storm, when the entire world was full of hope. She assembled the crib and the changing table, and installed a tiny fridge and hot plate in the baby's room for pumped milk so we wouldn't have to run to the kitchen in the middle of the night, a whole 20 feet away. She remembered when her two younger brothers were born, and how the day is leading up to their births were like Christmas Eve, that almost unbearable anticipation as she went to sleep every night, again and again, until the brand new baby was brought squalling into the house. I loved her for it, and put up with every new gadget, every cautious question she put to me, but would make our lives better and the pregnancy easier. I kissed her often just to shut her up, because the truth was it made me angry. We weren't having a baby. The doctors weren't clear about why, but they were clear about that. And in the face of despair, Davia refused to admit anything was wrong. I told myself she was just trying to help. What kind of cruelty would it be for me to take the only thing she could do from her, to refuse her support? No matter how badly I didn't need it. Davia needed to believe she was helping. She needed to hope we'd beat the impossible odds. I couldn't take that from her. And yes, I didn't share that hope, but maybe it was her hope that kept me going. As if knowing she was hopeful meant that maybe, someday I would be too. No. The truth was I was terrified she'd leave me. I had to play this part at home, and keep going to the sessions because that's the only place I could speak my mind and be perfectly understood. But sometimes, after Davia drifted off to sleep with her head on my chest, mouth slightly open against my kickless belly. I would tell her everything I feared. Every horrible mishap I could imagine. Until my throat was raw. At the next group session, the lights were off. They didn't work. Molly flipping the switch again and again. No one told her to stop while we waited for the counselor to arrive. The darkness in the room was in the air, too. Not just the lack of light. We felt it, embedded in our bones like radioactive particles, an inevitable decay, scarring our bodies from the inside out. The group sessions had been going on for months. The time descended until our due dates loomed before us, and then slunk past, first by days, then a week, then two weeks. At home, the weight of waiting made it hard to move. I'd gotten used to my belly, and the awkward wedge it made of me. I had no fetus inside me, and yet I kept swelling. We all did. Swelling. Swolding. We were like bruises that hadn't yet really begun to heal. When the counselor finally entered the room, it was like a balloon deflated. All of us breathless and waiting. For what, we weren't sure. But for the previous meetings, the counselor kept hinting that big changes were ahead. That she could see it in all of us. How we were coming to accept our new lives, our new situations, our new bodies, and the losses all those new things entailed. You are all here. I'm glad. It means a lot. The trust we've built together. We weren't all there. But we murmured appreciative noises anyway. Faces I recognized were missing. And there were some I'd never seen before. But I knew that for the counselor to say so would undermine everything. Just like Divya, she had to be optimistic and hopeful. And we had to believe what we knew to be untrue in order to reach that higher truth, right? Today, we'll dive right into the game. And there it was. The breathing in of relaxation. Of confidence. Of love. Of hope. No. Of belief that in a few moments, everything would be okay. We could lose ourselves to the game and forget who we were and what we were going through. And all of the big and little uncertainties that make up the life that, at this moment in time, we didn't want. With a nod from the counselor, we closed our eyes. We placed our hands on each other's bellies. But when the light shone through my eyelids, I felt not just the hands of my fellow group members. The memory of Divya's touch and warmth shot up and down my spine. I felt her smile against my cheek, the way she'd mow the words through my skin. And all of the hope she'd been honing these long, nine plus months, worked its way in. I couldn't hope. That's not what I meant. I could accept that the baby would never come, despite what my body wanted. And Divya and I would live with that and she'd still love me and I'd still love me. And the counselor wasn't dumb, but just as hopeful, just as dedicated to living as all of us would have to be. The light shone through my eyelids as the game began. And instead of letting myself sink into that blessed forgetfulness, I opened my eyes and choked back a scream. Across the circle, I saw Molly, with her own eyes peeled wide and her body rigid and straining against the folding chair. Her pregnant belly, sunk into her, hollowed out, like the hole in ice cream scoops leaves behind. The women on either side of her, their hands rested on the edge of the inverse sphere that was now fully half of Molly's body. Their eyes were still closed. They sensed nothing wrong. A dark liquid dripped from the edges of Molly's lips. Her eyes flicked around the room frantic, trapped, and behind her stood the counselor. And her eyes were choious. Her lips moving in a stream of words I couldn't hear above the sound of the fan. The women to either side of Molly. They jerked and went rigid and I saw their bellies collapse inward, clothing and flesh no more substantial than the skin of an onion. And a dark void beneath. I could see nothing in that darkness. The dim light from the room didn't touch it, so there was skin and then the utter black of nothingness. I tried to get up, but the hands on my belly held me back. The women as stiff as statues. I tried again, but even pressing against my chair, I couldn't budge them. Devia. I grunted and shoved and tried to throw myself backwards, but the chair didn't move. And the hands on my stomach, it was like they were glued there. I screamed then, hoping it would wake everyone up, and this nightmare would end. Because it had to be a nightmare. I'd fallen asleep during the game, and this is what my brain cooked up out of fear of birth or of never giving birth. I screamed until my throat hurt. But no one woke up. And the counselor didn't even look at me, not once. She rested her hands on Molly's shoulders, and they sunk into Molly's body like unrizzled dough. Down in the pit that Molly's belly had become, something glittered. They were eyes the color of sun-bleached bone. Then the large bone white hands emerged, grabbing hold of Molly's stomach, white nails sinking into the flesh. Devia. I'd stopped screaming. Devia. I'd stopped breathing. Devia. The thing in Molly pulled itself forward into the room. It had Molly's face. Oh God, Devia. The nothing in me. Kicked. When we think of the word babysitting, it usually means a young person looking after a younger one. Often a younger sibling. But in some families, it can also mean looking after an elderly family member. And in this tale, shared with us by author Emma E. Murray. We meet a young man looking after his kid brother and his grandfather. An old man on a new medication they hope will help him spring back to life. Performing this tale are Jeff Clement, a Lonte Betacate, and Nicole Goodnight. So remember, sometimes the end of life can bring relief. Sometimes we can consider it a mercy. The Vendellator breeze for grandpa. The sound, the wheezy wet that makes me gag if I listen too closely. Most of the time, it's just another background noise I can tune out, adding to the television and air conditioner. Mom keeps his bedroom door open so we can always hear it. But from the living room or kitchen, it's not so bad. Chancin' I can pretty much forget he's even in there. I mean, of course, we still love him. He's grandpa. We both remember the good times before he got sick, though I had six more years of fishing, bad jokes, and playing along with Wheel of Fortune on the TV than Chanc did. So maybe he doesn't remember him quite like I do. He's only seven, and grandpa's been like this for nearly two years, which is a huge percentage of Chanc's life, if you think about it. Anyway, I'm sure he still loves him. Even if he mainly knows him as a vegetable in the back room, whom mom has to rush home three times a day to reposition, futile fighting, bedsoars, and changing his old man diapers. Poor guy. I'm sure he never envisioned his last years like this, and I know he wouldn't want Mom having to do that stuff. It always makes me feel kind of funny and sad when I see him in there. All the IV bags hooked up to him. The white bristly beard that Mom's afraid to trim any closer, and his mouth stuck open for the tube. A bit of spittle forever gathered at the corners of his lips no matter how often Mom wipes it away. A nurse comes a couple of times a week to check on him, clean him up, and he looks a little less run down when she leaves, but it never lasts long. I wish we could afford somebody to come more often. Sometimes, when I need a break from my brother, I go in and talk to him. There's a pretty comfy chair next to the bed, and even though the room kind of stinks, it's nice to be with him now and then. The nurse was here this morning. Her and Mom chatting it up for like half an hour before she left. I wouldn't have even remembered if it weren't for the strange bag hanging alongside the usual ones on his IV stand. A model of the Gatorade Orange, it drips down slowly into his vein. Makes my stomach feel weird. There's something off about that orange bag, but I'm sure the nurse knew what she was doing. When I racked my brain, I remember Mom telling me about the new medicine. Something experimental, not covered by insurance, so she had to take out another loan, as if we weren't already drowning in debt for all the stuff the old guy needs. I hear her talking about it to Ann Gabby on the phone. One last try at bringing him out of the coma, making him grandpa again. She made me promise I'd check in on him more often than usual, which she doesn't know is barely ever. I'm chance his babysitter, not his. Sure, sometimes it's nice to sit with him, but other times, going in there creeps me out. There are days I can talk to him like he's still grandpa, but other times, he's just something that lays comatose on the bed. Part of me wants this new cure to work to have grandpa back how he was a few more years, but another dark part of me wants him to die already. Then we can be free, and Mom can be happy again. Grieve for him and move on. Hope you're liking the radioactive crush or whatever the fuck that is. I say raising my own freshly open sprite up. Cheers. I can't scream from down the hall. I roll my eyes as I take a sip. Turn it off and on again. I grunt as I force myself to my feet, giving grandpa an apologetic shrug before I leave, making sure to shut the door behind me to soften the sound of machinery in a strained breathing. I don't want to think about him. It's too fucking sad. The day drags by at a snail's pace, and I'm lying with my legs up the wall thinking about the girls' school, when the static sound of socks against the carpet grabs my attention. Chance walks into the room, biting his lip. There's a funny noise coming from grandpa's room. It's just his ventilator you dweeb. No, it's not that. And it's not his tummy either. I'm telling you. It's something scary. Just ignore it. It can't. It's really freaking loud. It's loud. And like, the blue looks pushed to the wall. Chance shudders. I'm scared. Put your headphones on. Oh, come on. His eyes are red-rimmed, and his cheeks have gone ruddy like he's gonna break down any second. I guess he is only seven. It's practically still a baby. I sigh, realizing that I have to step up as big brother, or else he'll tell mom when she gets home, and at least be grounded, maybe even forced to cut a switch. Fine. I'll check it out. But he's probably just shitting himself like usual. Chance follows me down the hall. He's just an old guy, and hooked up to all that stuff. He can't help it. I told you a million times there's nothing to be afraid. The words are choked from my tightening throat as we get close to grandpa's door, and I hear the noise. Let, slurping, washing, followed by suction, like deep mud around your boot. I'm nearly close enough to touch the door knob when it goes quiet. Chance and I stand frozen, listening to the usual muffled sounds of medical equipment through the door, and our own ragged breathing. My hand reaches out, grasping the cool metal, and I twist. Before I can open the door, I jump back. A blast of organic sounds conjure images of dripping ooze, and this time it's closer than before. A thin red thread, pokes out from beneath the door, and I stare in horror as it pushes itself forward, lengthening and blossoming out into branching pathways of crimson and yellowed white twists of pulsing tendrils. The thing expands like millions of conjoined worms crawling towards us. Run! I force the whispered plea out, grabbing chances arm and dragging him stumbling behind me through the hallway. My shoulder crashing into the wall as we speed through the turn into the living room. Where do we go? My eyes dart around the room. Before I can clear my mind enough to think, my brother's ear splitting shriek rings out behind me. A drennel and jolt stew my bloodstream. I look behind me to see the stringy thing following us, slithering lengths of tissue from a semi-human form, two masses like arms and two crawling after like legs, all around a thicker tangle like a spine that opens at the front to a bulbous hollow. Reminiscent of the head, pulsing and writhing with millions of connected, smaller things. My fingers claw so deeply into chances arm that even my bitten down nails pierce the skin as I pull him behind me up the stairs. Maybe I can't climb. I have to get away. I practically fly up the stairs. Chances screams close behind, and as I reach the top of the banister, I steal a glance. Only to find the red bundle like living wires have already reached the bottom step. There's no time. Chance clings to my arm as I drag him. He's calling for our mom. I wish she were here. She'd know what to do. Protect us. We raced on the hallway and I throw him into the bathroom immediately following after, bridging a towel in the crack at the bottom and clicking the handle lock into place. We wait. Both trembling, staring into each other's wide eyes. What is it? I don't know. What is it what? I don't know. Did I thank your grandpa? Chance, I don't know. I can't hold back the growing agitation at the pointless questions, knowing any of that won't save us. Are we safe in here? He grabs my hand, his round face growing younger with every moment. I have to be strong for him. I lie. Yes. A scratching like thousands of insect legs along the bottom of the door startles as both, an explosion of goose bumps ripple over my body. Help me with the towel! I crouch down and press the wedged towel as firmly as possible, a force stronger than I'd expected pushing back from the other side. Chance begins to cry again, but he joins me right away. Eyes pinched tightly closed and head turned away as he helps me struggle against the creature. The tip of one thread slips past a fold in the towel and nearly touches my hand. I almost lose my grip, the managed to wad up a bit of cloth, shove it at the tremoring tendril, and force it back to its rightful side of the door. It only fights us for a minute or two, but by the time the pressure subsides, both Chance and I are exhausted. We pant quietly together. My ear pressed to the wood grain of the door. But there's no sound beyond. Is it gone? I put my finger up to my lips and he nods. Time passes slowly in the bathroom. There's no clock in here, so every minute stretches into an eternity. I kick myself for having scrolled on my phone all last night, meaning it's lying on my dresser, charging instead of in my pocket. If only I could call for help, called 911, Mom or anyone. Even if I could just play some fucking tetris to pass the time, help ease Chance so he'd stop rocking back and forth, crying into his folded arms. Do you hear that? I snap out of my daydreaming, the same tickling scratch of tiny appendages from before, but it's not at the door this time. I close my eyes, focusing entirely on my hearing, so I try to pinpoint where it is. In the walls? No. Not quite right. There's something metallic in the clacking beyond the slimy squelch as it eases closer to us. Where are you? Chance bolts to his feet, a horse's scream filling every inch of the body, filling every inch of the bathroom as his arm darts out, finger pointing to the sink, a red streak pulsating worm thing regals its way out of the faucet, reaching out on its own, pointing back at Chance. Fuck! I tear away the towel at our feet and force open the door before dashing down the hall, and then I stop. Where the hell is Chance? Is small child's voice cries out from me from the bathroom? Holy! No. Tears roll down my cheeks and I turn back. I can't leave him. Barreling back into the bathroom, I find him cornered behind the door, cowering under the unfurling intricacies of bone, yellow, and dripping crimson. I try to reach him, but the creature notices me and lashes toward me like a branching whip. Come on! I offer my hand, but Chance is shaking his head, refusing to look at me, completely paralyzed with fear. We've got to go! Open your eyes! The creature has fully emerged from the sink, leaving us a window of escape as it lowers itself first to the toilet lid, and then to the floor. We've got to go! Chance sobs as he finally takes my hand and I hoist him to his feet, but when I turn the thing is blocking our own exit. Sticky, pseudo-hands pull it forward across the tile, and my brain threatens to shut off the situation so surreal and beyond comprehension. Roping material, branching out in millions of quivering threads, rides towards us. The wet tendrils whip around my ankle, tightening us the pulsing hollow outline of a brain, rises, tilting like a curious dog. There's a tenderness about the writhing mass of wiry nerves. No! My stomach drops. I finally understand. Ahhh! Chance is still screaming next to me. Shh! Stop it! Stop it! Listen! I think I get it. What? It's not a monster! God, I'm such an idiot! I slapped my forehead, sweaty palms slick against the clammy skin. It's just grandpa! I think he's not grandpa! Yes it is. And he's in pain. He's asking for help. I'm sure of it. As I speak, the slithering nervous system loosens its grasp. The brain thing nodding slightly. A deep blush spreads over my skin with a prickling itch. I'm sorry, grandpa. Why does he look like that? I think I know. Here, help me carry him back to the bed. My brother's whimpering intensifies as he slips his hands under the thing. I take the front half, moist strings, embracing my arm and softly constricting. Be careful with them. I say did chants. Then lower my voice, whispering to my grandfather. I'm sorry, it took me so long. You look so different. I'm sorry. We work together in silence. One step at a time. Working across the brown carpeted floors through the house, until we're once again in the dark of his room. The ventilator still wishes air in and out of his body's lungs. But I know the delicate being we carry is our grandfather. Not the vessel kept barely alive on the bed. Be careful with them. I think he can still feel everything. I tell my brother, as the stringy red creature shudders against my touch, no matter how gentle I try to be. As soon as we've settled him on the quilt over his body's feet, Grandpa riggles over his body's chest, moving with the rhythm of his lungs, and until he reaches his face and slides effortlessly into his nostril, disappearing bit by bit until he's once again fully encased in flesh and skin. What do we do now? My throat is too dry and tight to answer, as I walk to the beeping medical devices. I don't bother with any of the confusing controls, instead crouching and pulling each plug out. The last one's sparking for a second before the warm smell of hardware shutting down. Worse alongside the winding down of dying machinery. Grandpa struggles for a moment, gasping and spottering against the tubing threaded down his throat. But then he relaxes, every muscle falling limp, as gravity wins the battle. Chances cry in, the air tastes stale and suffocating, and I try to stagger out into the hall, a collapse after only two steps. I'm wailing into my hands, snott and tears, mixing salty against raw skin. But I'm also floating above, looking down at me, my brother, and what was my grandfather only moments before. I never realized how much I loved him, until now. When mom gets home, I've quieted, curled in on myself, right cheek flush against the soggy carpet where my tears struggle to evaporate. Chances crying softly, back against the wall, eyes on grandpa. She doesn't scream or cry, only making a small sound that catches in the back of her throat. She approaches the bed and sits on it, her hand taking grandpa's cold, stiff fingers. We're all silent for a long moment, and I allow my consciousness to lower back into myself. Mom is here, and it'll all be okay. I hear her whisper to him from the bed, an awarm sense of pride that I saved her from the horrors of making this decision herself, sinks into my muscles. I feel more adult than I ever have before. Oh, Dad, I wanted that new medicine to work so badly, but maybe it just made everything hurt more. I'm so sorry. Her tears streamed down her cheeks, dripping off her chin, to soak into the carpet below. I guess it was finally time at last. The! The The The The The The The The The The The The The The 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 NoSleve podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikolsky, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornett, and Claudius Moore. Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McAnelly, Allie A. White, and Kristen Samito. To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us, just visit sleepless.thenosleeppodcast.com to learn about the sleepless sanctuary. Add free extended episodes each week, and lots of bonus content for the dark hours, all for one low monthly price. On behalf of everyone at the NoSleep 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. 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