Muse

Water. It gives us life. We are drawn to it. Yet it holds immense power over us. It can bring unspeakable horror to the most familiar places. Your morning shower, a tranquil riverbank, or the endless ocean. It's time to dive deep into the abyss. from the dark waters of the cape fear river immerse yourself in horror as you brace yourself for the no sleep podcast

In his 1919 essay titled The Uncanny, Sigmund Freud wrote, The subject of the uncanny undoubtedly belongs to all that is terrible. to all that arouses dread and creeping horror. Unlike some of his contemporaries who theorized that this phenomenon was associated with the fear of the unknown, Freud believed this uncanny experience was rooted in the familiar environment of our childhood. Whether or not it's the familiar or the unfamiliar which triggers the uncanny experience, we've all encountered people, places, or things that make us feel dread. And luckily for us, there have been many well-crafted horror stories produced on the podcast through the years, providing plenty of opportunities to experience the uncanny. There's a spectrum of styles, from the suggestive to the graphic. Something for everyone. Welcome to the podcast. I'm your host, Nicole Doolin, and I've been voice acting on the show for over ten years. Before I started on No Sleep, I appeared in the horror podcast Tales to Terrify, which was hosted at the time by the late horror writer and actor Lawrence Santoro, who discovered my voice work on the internet and asked me to perform horror stories for them. That's how David found me and he invited me to join the No Sleep podcast. If I remember correctly, my first story was Forget Me Not, a blend of horror and science fiction. I like speculative fiction, so I enjoy horror, sci-fi, and fantasy. Also historical fiction. so you can still find me on the tales to terrify podcast where i perform horror stories solo if you like science fiction they're also starting a new sci-fi anthology podcast called folded space which is premiering this september and in it i will perform a space opera like no other so stay tuned and if you're interested in horror stories for younger audiences i star alongside atticus jackson in the nightmare soup podcast I want to take a moment to thank you for being a part of the No Sleep family. There's a lot of chaos and division in the world, but we've managed to find common ground here. People from various parts of the globe listen to and support the show, while others contribute their talent, skill, and imagination, and that's something worth celebrating. I know that listening to the stories can provide a diversion from life's challenges, but performing them can also be diverting. When I sit down in front of the microphone and hit record, my concerns fade and I am drawn right into that other world that the writer has created. And it can be very therapeutic. So I'm truly grateful that you make this podcast possible.

And I hope that we've provided you with a pleasant escape all these years. Or should I say a horrible escape? A pleasantly horrible escape? Hmm. Anyway, it's been a long journey with many ups and downs. But we can all leave our troubles behind us and look forward to the future. Or can we? What if no matter what you do, the past comes back to haunt you anyway? What if the secrets you've buried might get exposed? What if the monsters you hope to escape find you? In today's episode, our characters have certainly had their fair share of challenges and secrets they've guarded. They'd rather not face unpleasant consequences if they're found or found out. Yet it seems time has run out. There's nowhere to hide, and they will have to confront the world.

their demons in whatever shape they take, whether they like it or not. It remains to be seen which of them will succeed in keeping their secrets, being freed of their secrets, or destroyed by them. So let's pry Pandora's box open together and let all the hidden demons out.

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In our first tale by author Tyler Jones, we meet a mother and son who hit the road in a hurry because it's time to move on. Corey doesn't know where they're headed, but his mother has to take care of something first. Performing this tale are Matthew Bradford and Kristen D. Mercurio. Their attempt to start a new life might hit a road bump, but Corey knows it's best to do as he's told when his mother instructs him to wait in the car.

Mom is driving faster than she normally does, and it makes me nervous. Not for us, but for other people. The people on the sidewalk, like those kids coming out of the stop-and-go, or that lady walking her dog. There's a light up ahead, and I almost say something, but Mom's jaw is tight, teeth biting down on a cigarette. She just slows for a second and spins the wheel to the right. The tires give a little squeal, and she tears around the corner without stopping. The lady with the dog looks up, scared. She flips us the middle finger and holds it until we're out of sight. Where are we going? I ask for the third time. She didn't answer for the first two times. Smoke streams out of her nostrils like her brain is on fire. She looks a little pale, a little sick. Her window is rolled down just to crack, and the smoke gets sucked out into the air that feels like a blow dryer on high.

Corey, I already told you.

She takes the cigarette out of her mouth and drives one-handed. The car swerves across the lines, almost into another lane, before she jerks it back again. You didn't, though.

Don't argue with me.

I'm not arguing. Her foot presses down in the gas, and I watch the speedometer creep towards 70 miles per hour as we tear down the road. The frame of the car shivers like it's going to fall apart any second. The town shrinks into the rearview mirror. I twist in my seat to look at the old buildings with the faded paint blending into the desert around them. It looks like a place where a town shouldn't be. The back seat is full of her clothes, overflowing out of duffel bags so full they wouldn't zip closed. A suitcase, our pillows and blankets. A plastic laundry basket holds some of my books and DVDs. I didn't even notice this stuff when she pulled me out of school early and dragged me to the car, told me to get in and put my seatbelt on. We've been driving ever since.

Turn around.

She hasn't smoked in a couple days. She said she wasn't feeling all that good. It hasn't eaten in a few days either, and her cheeks are sunken. Her eyes are too big. Mom.

We're leaving.

And she looks at me and smiles. Her teeth look yellow.

We never belonged in this place, you know that. We stayed longer than we should have.

I thought maybe she'd slow down once we were outside the town, but she goes even faster. And the window next to my head is shaking, banging around inside the door. Is this because of the stuff that happened in school? Mom rolls down the window more, and a rush of hot air fills the car as she tosses the cigarette bite. Then the window goes back up, and she pulls another cigarette from the pack, holds it between her lips, and lights it. Mom, is it? She squints, nods slightly. Yeah, I'm...

little. I'm small for my age. Shorter than everyone else in my class. I always have been. And for some reason, this makes me a target for those assholes who feel small inside. At least that's what my mom says. We've been learning about the survival of the fittest in science class, and I just think it's nature acting itself out. I mean, look at the animals in the wild, and then look at students in a high school. It's not that different. Some guys lock onto the person who's different or shorter or smarter, whatever, and take bites out of the week to remind them who's at the top of the feeding chain. This year has been bad though. That guy named Garrett Howard has made it his personal mission to break me down. Mostly I just ignore him, but lately that's only made things worse. Maybe he doesn't just feel small inside, maybe he feels invisible too. A couple days ago he caught me outside during lunch and started yelling at me, calling me every name he could think of. I kept walking, so he pushed me down and punched me twice, hard, right in the face. My cheek is still sore. Garrett got suspended for it, but I'm pretty sure it was worth it for him. The feeding chain remains intact and everyone fears the animal with the sharpest teeth. I touch the still bruised flesh around my eye. It's not that bad anymore. Mom glances over at me and smiles.

You look like hell, kid.

Two years ago, Mom put me in a seventh grade class because of my size. Thought I might fit in better that way, but it didn't work because I'd already been through seventh grade twice and I knew everything they were trying to teach. I aced every assignment and every test and got bored because nothing was challenging. I begged her to let me go to high school and that turned out to be a mistake.

We just don't belong here. I've been thinking about it for a while now, and now is the time to get while the getting's good.

I nod like I understand, but it still doesn't explain why she's driving so fast and why she looks scared. The AC is blasting right in her face, but sweat still runs down her forehead. She knows cops park just off the road out here and wait for people driving like maniacs. People like her. We're not going back. mom sighs and shakes her head takes her hand off the wheel steering with her knees tuck some windblown hair behind her ear not this time kid shit i see her eyes glance over at me from behind her sunglasses with just the hints of smirk on her lips normally she'd tell me to watch my mouth but she lets it slide it's never easy leaving one place for another She taps Ash out of the cracked window. On her side of the car, desert stretches all the way to the horizon. It's almost endless. Just dirt and brush and rocks as far as you can see. When the sun is burning on a hot day, the desert shimmers like it's not really there. Then all the rocks and bushes cast these long shadows on the sand. On my side, it's the same thing, except for a few hills in the distance. the sun must be right above us because i can't see it but it's bright all around mom and i burn pretty easy she jokes that it's the irish in us but i don't know how true that is she's always had sensitive eyes my mom that's why she wears sunglasses even after the sun has started going down but it's not quite dark she says my eyes will get sensitive like that someday too whenever i'm going to be outside, she covers me in sunscreen, the highest number they sell at the drugstore, and even then I still get burned sometimes. But it's okay, because I like the way my burned skin turns translucent, and I pick at an edge and grab it with two fingers and peel it. It hurts a little, but when the air hits the brand new skin underneath, it feels cold and It's sticky. Feels sort of like being boring. I'm sorry. She eases off the gas and the car doesn't rattle quite as much.

We'll find somewhere we can stay longer. Somewhere we'll be safe.

Aren't we safe here? She shakes her head again.

Not anymore.

Where are we...

I need to get something.

She turns her attention back to the road.

Just a quick stop.

My stomach gurgles, and my whole body feels weak and tired. Mom pulled me out of school early, and I didn't get to have the lunch she packed me. Didn't even have a chance to grab it out of my locker before we left. It'll probably begin to rot and stink up the hall before someone tells the janitor. And he'll open up my locker to find a thick, putrid, disgusting soup growing mold and all sorts of bacteria. And by then, who knows where Mom and I will be. Time is a strange thing, and if I think about it for too long, I start to feel dizzy. busy and it's right now and it's all around us it's everything that's happened and everything that ever will like when i try to remember all of the places mom and i have lived they sort of blur together i place my bedroom from one house in the layout of a different house or the bathroom from our louisiana house in the chicago apartment mom says we're not running but it feels like we are. It feels like we always have been. And even though I don't want to leave this town, it feels right because it was inevitable. People like us can't stay in any one place for long. There's a lot of cactus out in the desert, and I see a couple of jackrabbits the size of dogs hopping around looking for food. Their ears twitch, and they freeze in place, watching as we drive by. I almost say something about how much mom is smoking. Adults don't like it much when you point out the things they do when they're stressed. I know she's hungry even though she won't admit it. We haven't eaten much over the last two weeks, and she's made sure I ate before she took any herself. Work is hard for Mom, and even though I don't know everything about her, I know enough. She used to be someone important, until she wasn't. Her family decided they didn't want to see her anymore, and I know that hurt a lot. A few years ago, she did a certain kind of work, night work. she called it, but she says she can't do it anymore. It makes her feel bad inside, even though it paid well. Seems like no matter what job she gets, eventually someone gets mad at her and she quits or gets fired. We don't have much money. I know that too. That's why my clothes are getting worn out. I've needed new shoes for at least a month, but I don't mention it. Mom already knows. I've seen her pick up my sneakers, pry at the place where the soul is separating and sigh. This isn't the first time things have been hard, though, and I'm sure won't be the last. Like I said before, time is strange, and I had a way of circling back around again. Sometimes, at night, I ask Mom to tell me about where she lived when she was an important person. She'll lay next to me in bed, stroking my hair, and smile like that part of her life holds all her favorite memories. She'll talk about the giant house with all the servants, people to cook and serve you food, to wash your clothes, to clean, tend to the garden, the horses.

She had a bell in her room. She could ring it and a servant would come running to see what she wanted. She talks about the staircase, so wide you could fit six people shoulder to shoulder across it. And her bedroom with the four-post bed and the thin curtains hanging from it. The rugs, soft and deep, made in foreign countries by people who had been weaving rugs for a thousand years. A wardrobe full of beautiful dresses. Shoes for every day of the week. A library filled floor to ceiling with books and a fireplace that never seemed to go out. How could someone have all that and not miss it? Mom slows the car down near a mailbox with a cartoon of a coyote chasing a roadrunner painted on the side. The flag you put up when you've got mail going out is a star-shaped cartoon explosion with the word POW written inside it. The tires bounce over rocks when Mom pulls onto the dirt road next to the mailbox. I look in the rearview mirror and see clouds of yellow dust being thrown into the sky behind us. Mom swerves, trying to avoid potholes so deep I feel the impact shudder through my tailbone and into my spine. She keeps driving, faster than we should on a road like this. Because of the mailbox, I'm thinking about cartoons and how a car like this would fall apart in a TV show. The doors, hood, trunk, roof, and tires would just disassemble and crash into the dirt, leaving us exposed in our seats, looking confused. Up ahead, I see a building. Mom calls it double-wide, not quite a house and not quite a trailer. Mom's jaw gets tighter as we get closer. I count at least four cars parked at weird angles around the place. Two are missing tires and up on blocks, broken windshields and rusted metal. A few work shirts and a pair of pants hang from a limp clothesline, maybe a mechanic's uniform or a janitor's. They kind of look the same. The house is a sun-bleached yellow with dirt splatters on the lower half, probably from those big once-a-year rainstorms that cause flash floods. The siding is warped and cracked, and the dust-reaked windows all have dark curtains. like whoever lives there doesn't want any light to get in the whole thing is off the ground like on a wooden foundation pink insulation billows from underneath like cotton candy clouds a few tires are scattered around one even has a cactus sprouting from the center an open barbecue

you as some kind of huge bird's nest built right on the grill. There's a fire pit made from desert rocks with some old lawn chairs and a circle around it. Empty beer bottles litter the ground next to a five-gallon bucket filled with sand. Hundreds of cigarette butts stick up out of the sand like gravestones. Mom brings the car to a sudden stop, making the seatbelt lock and dig into my collarbone. A cloud of dust envelops the car, and just for a few seconds the double white disappears. She takes off her sunglasses so I can see her eyes, and she turns to me, breathing fast. I never liked it when the other kids at school would say my mom was pretty or hot, but they're right. She's beautiful. It's always hard to explain what people look like with words, but she has a special something not many people have. She looks like royalty, Like someone you never get tired of looking at. Timeless, like a statue or a painting.

Corey, listen to me. Wait in the car, okay? This won't take long, but I need you to stay here, you understand?

I nod.

Let me hear you say it.

I understand.

Good. Now, there's a bad man in that house who was trying to blackmail me. You know what that means?

Yes.

Good. He owes me something, but he won't give it to me unless I do some bad things for him, and I'm just not going to do that.

I nod again. What if he won't give it to you? Mom's eyes get dark, her voice slores.

I'm not leaving here without it. It's not just for me, it's for you too.

She takes a cigarette from the pack and puts it between her lips. She flicks the lighter and lets the flame go out. takes the cigarette from her mouth and sets it on the dash.

You know not to worry about me, right?

I know it. Yes.

Okay. Whatever you hear, do not get out of this car and do not come inside. Just let me handle it and know I'll be all right.

Mom takes my hand and squeezes it.

It won't always be like this. Now, what are you going to do?

Wait in the car.

Good boy.

She undoes the seatbelt, opens the door, gives me a quick smile, and gets out. I wonder if there's a dog somewhere, maybe sleeping under the house. Dogs don't like us for some reason, which is too bad because I've always wanted a dog. I almost expect to see some eyes glowing in a space under the rickety steps Mom climbs to the front door, but there's just the dark. She doesn't even knock, just turns the handle and coasts inside. A few seconds later, I hear a man's voice yell something I can't understand. The sun beats down in the car. The armpits on my shirt get damp with sweat, and I feel it tickling down my back. I roll down the window a crack and hear Mom's voice, even and calm. I've learned over the years that some people get louder when they're angry, but not Mom. She gets quieter. Something moves in the corner of my vision And I hope like hell it's not another person out hiding in the brush I slip down into my seat and make myself smaller and turn my head slowly A shadow stretches out on the sand Leading all the way back to a Kila monster that moves with a lazy sort of waddle Its thick tongue occasionally flicking out to taste the air I stare at the orange and white beads that make up its armor Listening as the man screams at my mom The calm voice answer is slow and serious, and he screams some more. Sweat drips into my eyes and stings. I read once that gil monsters have a venomous bite that's really painful, almost as bad as a rattlesnake. I think that's probably true of people, too. We all have venom inside us, but you wouldn't know it unless you mess with us, take something we love or need. the lizard drags its fat tail through the dirt probably looking for food as a crash comes from inside the house the sound makes me jump in my seat and sit up straighter my heart rattles like our car engine when it goes too fast this isn't the first time i've been to a place like this with mom but i don't think it gets any easier i always worry most of the time though the guy doesn't know what he's dealing with. Most people never see Mom coming. She says that's her secret weapon. Like the Gila monster, they don't see her teeth until it's too late. Glass shatters, followed by a scream. This time, it's not the guy screaming in anger, but in pain. And

I've never liked that sound. I can't help but feel bad for a person at the moment it happens. There's more crashing, like a table and chair is being knocked over. I can't hear mom anymore, but that guy is still screaming, louder and more high-pitched. I bet he's never yelled like that in his whole life. Then it gets thick and wet, like he's gargling, choking on it, trying to spit it out, but he's drowning in it. The first couple times, I covered my ears with my hands. I don't do that anymore, because I understand. The same way someone with a pet snake probably doesn't like feeding it a mouse in the beginning, but eventually they learn this is the way it is. This is how the snake survives. Yeah, it's violent and unsettling, but there's also a kind of a primal beauty in it. Life consumes life in order to keep on living. A circle, just like time. After the gurgling stops, I know Mom will come back out soon, and my stomach clenches with hunger. I just hope she's not hurt too bad. She got stabbed once, and it took a while to heal. I wait. The Gila monster has disappeared, and the sun is lower in the sky. It'll be dark soon, which is good. Mom and I prefer to travel in the dark. Soon, the door of the house opens, and light comes out. I see Mom standing in the doorway. She takes one look behind her, then closes the door and comes down the steps. She carries a small cooler in one hand and a beer bottle in the other. As she gets closer, I see the blood all over her shirt. She opens the car door and gets inside. It's the cooler on the back seat and wipes the blood from her mouth with the back of one hand. It smears on her cheek, drips off her chin. Her eyes are brighter now, shimmering, and her skin doesn't look quite so pale anymore. Mom gives me a smile, and those two special teeth are still long. I hear her heart pumping away, steady and strong. She hands me the beer bottle filled to the top with fresh, warm blood. Drink up! We've got a long drive ahead of us.

Let's take a short break for our sponsors who help us keep our heads above water. For waves of ad-free horror content, join our sleepless universe by going to sleepless.thenosleeppodcast.com. Now, let's be real. The advice to drink up is a good one. I don't recommend blood, however. Something far more effective is drip drop. As I've mentioned, I'm trying to increase the physical activity in my life. Getting out there on my bike, going for walks, and working out in the gym. All those things make me sweat. That's why my hydration goals include using DripDrop. And even on days when I'm not sweating like a bog monster in summer, I know the hydration provided by DripDrop is essential for my health. I use it daily, and it really helps. DripDrop is the doctor-developed powder that provides proven fast hydration that helps my body and mind work better. DripDrop uses science-based formulas for rapid hydration so you feel results fast while getting three times the electrolytes of leading sports drinks. Drip Drop is trusted by over 90% of top college and pro sports teams because it's engineered to hydrate you faster and more effectively than water alone. There are 16 original flavors and 8 zero-sugar-plus options that fit seamlessly into my routine. And boy, do I love their sugar-free-plus peach flavor. So come on, join me. Right now, Drip Drop is offering sleepless listeners 20% off your first order. Go to DripDrop.com and use promo code NOSLEEP. That's DripDrop.com, promo code NOSLEEP for 20% off. Stock up now at DripDrop.com and use promo code NOSLEEP. Now let's plunge back into the deep waters of horror.

When Charlie and his mother need a safe haven from his abusive father, his grandmother...

takes them in despite past differences. Nona fast becomes an ally to the young boy and teaches Charlie how to cope with his nightmares. Performing this tale by author Amanda Cecilia Lang are Marie Westbrook, Danielle McRae, Aaron Lillis, Sarah Thomas, Graham Rowat, and Nicole Goodnight. Hopefully for Charlie's sake, Nona's lessons help him to get rid of the heebie-jeebies.

Charlie was five when Nona introduced him to the heebie-jeebies that lived inside his crevices. Carrying a single suitcase between them, he and his mother came to Nona from a greyhound bus in the midnight snow. The slippery walk from the depot stretched on and on through slushy sidewalks and unfamiliar small-town neighborhoods. By the time they reached a gigantic iron gate, Charlie's feet felt soggy and numb, and his teeth wouldn't stop chit-chit-chittering. He'd rarely been out of his bed this late at night, and never in the blustery cold. and now known as ancient, thick-boned house loomed two stories large, too monstrous not to contain monsters. Charlie buried his face against his mother's hip. We must be brave for once. But his mother stood on the sidewalk for a very long time, watching the sleepy house with cold, faraway eyes. Only when Charlie asked with an earnest shiver if they were going to sleep in the snow did she finally ring the doorbell. It took Nona a long time to answer. Charlie's mother had to ring twice more before they heard footsteps creaking toward the door. The sickly yellow porch light snapped on, scattering the darkness, and Nona peered out at them. She was old, older than anyone Charlie had ever seen. Her eyes wrinkled, and she didn't seem to recognize her own daughter standing there. Finally, his mother stepped into the light, revealing her suitcase and split lip. And Nona mumbled something Charlie didn't understand. After a slow hesitation, she shuffled aside and let them in from the cold. The vast, unkempt rooms were enormous and cluttered with overfat furniture and peculiar odds and ends. Every antique edge and corner hung heavy with cobwebs and dust motes. Every shadow moved, full of skittering shapes and tiny, glittery eyes. Those first nights after running from his father, after his mother swallowed her mangled pride and asked Nona if they could stay a while, Charlie felt the house crawling all around him. Chitters and whispers in the moon-washed gloom. Unfamiliar scritches and scratches. Shadows with spiders and spookies and things that go bump. He wanted to be brave for his mother's sake. He tried to keep his big imagination small. But hiding under a musty quilt on a creaky brass bed in an echoey bedroom was never going to make the strangeness of his new life go away.

Inevitably, the bad dreams scurried over him and turned into shrill, petrified sobs. Just like when he used to wake up the whole damn blasted house with night terrors and enrage his father. Little sissy boy, Charlie clapped his hand over his mouth, but too late. Heavy, shuffling footsteps chased his whimpers down the hallway and filled his open doorway with the nightgown silhouette of his mother. She swept to the edge of his bed, but as the window's moonbeam caught her face, Charlie's relief twisted into a wild, gape-eyed horror. His mother's smooth, familiar beauty had grizzled while she slept, and standing above him was the husk of a living corpse. Just like the ones in the bedtime stories his father liked to tell. Spider shadows skittered in and out of those sunken eyes. The undead thing closed skeleton fingers around his shoulder and only when it hushed his cries with a voice of raspy velvet did Charlie recognize Nona's face smiling down upon him.

Poor child. You truly are a skittish one, aren't you? Oh, seems us nervous Nellies come in all sizes.

Charlie burrowed deeper into his quilt, hot tears streaming. Back then, Nona was still a stranger and Charlie never spoke to strangers. Especially because he might say cowardly words and get himself booted out onto more icy streets. His own father didn't care what happened. happened to him. So why should Nona? I know exactly what you're feeling. Deep down, spooky ideas squirming like buggies. You don't live half a decade alone in a big, empty house and not feel

the heebie-jeebies creeping under your skin. Heebie-jeebies? Charlie mouthed the words and a prickle round down his neck. Hebe-jeebies. Yes, that sounded right. He pulled his quilt tighter and peered out at Nona, breath held, fast to listen. Your mother never believed in them,

but they're very real indeed. Nasty little pests. They burrow around your nerves and crevices, Freezing you up with scary, ugly worries. Simply horrid.

But you want to know a secret? Nona tapped the tip of Charlie's nose with a sly finger. Jeebies can be vanquished, caught, and released. Charlie shifted inside his bundle.

They can?

Oh, yes. Nona's watery gray eyes sparkled. May I show you my trick? He sniffled and nodded solemnly. Sit up straight, then, and hold still. She wiggled her fingertips like a fortune teller examining a crystal ball. Humming a curious sing-song, she closed her eyes and raked the air around Charlie with watery hands. It was all rather dreamy and bewildering. A wrinkled old woman putting on such an elaborate show at his midnight bedside. And he couldn't help but wobble a grin. Nona cracked an eye at him.

Oh, my stars, a most dreadful infestation, right here.

She corkscrewed her fingertips into Charlie's underarm, surprising him, and his jeebies, too. That's right, I gotcha, you little nerve chewers. She tickled away, chasing those buggers until Charlie rolled backwards, wriggling and giggling.

That's it? Oh, goodness, so many jeebies. Hold on, dear boy. It's easiest to snag their tippy-toes.

Just when he thought he might burst from so much squirmy-wormy laughter, Nona cupped her wrinkled hands together. Got him. Charlie sat up, wiping it tears of delight.

You got my Jeebies. May I see them? Oh, dear me, no. Never look a Jeebie in its beady little eyes. Gibis are never to be seen, Charlie. Especially freshly plucked. Never give them that power.

Nona's smile turned serious.

You understand? Promise me. Cross my heart. Good boy. Now. Nona held out her cupped hands to him. Whisper the bad feelings into my hands. Remind those Gibis what they are. all the awful things that frighten you.

Charlie regarded Nona uncertainly. Tell his gibbies that? Though he did feel braver without their nervous toes whispering all through him. He leaned forward hesitantly and Nona nodded, encouraging him. He thought he heard their spiny legs scritch-scratching at her palms. With a gulp and a deep, daring breath, he told his gibbies about the monsters that go bump, especially his angry, unhappy father. Being away from the man with his tattooed knuckles and mean bedtime stories felt happy and scary all at once. His father liked to tell Charlie about zombies eating the eyeballs of gutless pansy boys and green hands under the beds of crybabies. But scariest was his promise that without his roof and his paycheck, Charlie and his no-good mother would freeze to icicles in the winter streets. Scariest, because it almost came true. Now that Charlie thought about it, that other bad feeling scritch-scratching inside him wasn't from Nona's big cobwebby house, but the fear that she might toss them out of it. But when he sat back, having told his GBs everything, Nona smiled at him with the warmth of a fireplace.

Never worry, my boy. You and your mother are always welcome here. and your father most certainly is not. Now, Charlie, one last step. Are you ready? Charlie nodded. You must shut your eyes and let your GBs go. Here, wrap your hands around mine. He did so and closed his eyes. On the...

count of three. One, two, three. Together, they opened their hands, and with a scritch and a scratch across the quilt and then the floorboards, Charlie's heebie-jeebies scurried away into the deepest shadows of the house and were forgotten. Over that long fairy tale winter and into the next, Charlie and Nona grew to be the coziest of buddies. Nona never kicked him and his mother out into the icy streets, just like she promised. And in return, they dusted away the cobwebs full of moth husks and replaced all the smoky, burnt-out light bulbs that Nona had been too rickety to reach. The house was still big and old and full of spiders, but now it glowed like it had when his mother was a kid. Sometimes, though, Charlie sensed an unhappy distance looming between Nona and his mother. They'd had a big fight a long time ago, way before Charlie was born, Nona told him one night. But when Charlie asked what the fight was about, Nona said sometimes it's best not to dig up nasty memories, best to just forget. While his mother was busy bettering herself, working a second shift at the diner or taking night classes at the college, Nona taught Charlie how to bake ginger cake and the difference between a fuzzy wolf spider and a deadly brown recluse. In exchange, Charlie showed Nona how to make snow angels and catch daddy longlegs in jars. He helped her tie her shoelaces whenever her spine ached too much. And after the doctor told her no heavy lifting on account of her upset old heartbeat, Charlie always carried their trays of cookies, and glass bottles of Coke from the kitchen to the parlor. And of course, whenever his imagination stretched the shadows into ghouls, sending prickly toes racing up his spine, Nona helped him vanquish his heebie-jeebies. Catch and release. She was an expert at jeebie hunting, like on Halloween when Charlie saw his first zombie during trick-or-treat, and later that night heard a torso groaning up the long staircase. Or the evening of the town's big snowstorm, when the power went dark and the candles tossed distorted shadows all across the walls. Scorpions and furious father faces. The same winter, the wind and wet snow snapped the tree branch outside his window. And Charlie's imagination was certain he heard Nona falling down the stairs, cracking her fragile old bones. All her cola-stained teeth knocked right out her. But all his mean dreams, all his many-legged worries, small and big, they were no match for Nona. In the menace of night, whenever Charlie needed her, Nona came shuffling down the hallway, fast as her old bones could move, ready to wrangle those gibbies right up.

Some liked to hide between his toes and the giggly landscape of his ribs. But the hairiest gibbies, like the frights about his father, hid under his arms where he was most ticklish.

Nona, what are your worst GBs? I mean, the ickiest ones with lots of bristly legs. Oh, that's easy.

Nona tapped his nose and sat on the side of his bed.

The GBs that promised I'd never meet my grandson or see my daughter again. But look, see, here you both are. All those years of worrying and sadness for nothing.

Charlie beamed, though something about Nona's answer prickled the pit of his stomach.

You've felt those chibis for years? Didn't you have anyone to catch them for you?

Well, no. I suppose it was just me. You caught your own chibis? Wasn't always easy, I'm afraid.

Charlie hadn't even been sure it was possible Once, when Nona had seemed extra sleepy from their day He tried plucking a big plump meanie from between his toes Only he wasn't sure he vanquished it The next day, his father appeared on Nona's front porch Looking to sweet-talk his mother Just like Charlie had feared Nona had refused to unlock the door for the man But Charlie felt certain he'd appeared because of the elusive heebie-jeebie After that, Charlie left the jeebie hunting to Nona.

Sometimes the worst jeebies are the ones you catch alone.

Nona, if you ever need help with your heebie jeebies, just holler. Promise?

Such a dear.

Of course, I promise. After that, whenever the bug bomb commercial came on the parlor TV, the one where roaches twigged. Switched across the screen with spiny legs and feelers, Nona would shudder and enlist Charlie's faithful help. Same whenever they sat in the waiting room at her doctor's office. But even though she swore Charlie was a master at catching her jeebies, he wasn't so sure. For one thing, he never felt their toes inside his clasped hands. And sometimes Nona's brave smile wobbled and shadows skittered behind her eyes. Then came the evening when his father returned with roses. This visit proved worse than the last, because it was already dark outside and his mother was home to unlock the door. Even so, Nona refused to let the man inside and ordered Charlie to an early bed. That's when all the unhappy feelings hiding in the silence between his mother and grandmother came rushing out. Charlie gripped the banister, trembling like a sissy boy at the top of the staircase, while his macho father stomped back and forth across the porch. Shouts echoed up the front hall.

I can stand on my own. I'm a different person now. And men like that never change. Don't be that same foolish girl again. I'm begging. Christ sakes. It's only drinks at the roadhouse. To catch up. He came all this way. With satin-tongued promises. Temper tucked in. Drinks. And then what? Another seedy motel room. A lifetime tied to trouble. Think about poor Charlie. You, mother of all people, don't get to tell me what to do with my child. Remember?

Nona sucked in a sharp breath. Then the front door opened and slammed. Charlie's mother hadn't even kissed him goodnight. Then came the slow, creaking footsteps of Nona making her way up the stairs. I see your shadow lurking there, sweet boy. Come now. Bedtime awaits. From outside Charlie's bedroom window, his father's headlights sprayed across Nona's worried face, then spun away down the long driveway.

Had a nasty feeling since the day I met that man. But your mother never believed me about the heebie-jeebies.

Without needing to be asked, Charlie tickled Nona's ribs. She giggled dustily and clasped his hands together. Leaning in with a hand trembling against her chest, Nona whispered her deepest fear. When she finished, Charlie promised.

I won't let him take me away. Never, ever.

Nona folded her hands around his. They closed their eyes and released. But as always, Charlie wasn't so sure he felt Nona's gibbies crawl away. And the shadow shapes were back, scurrying behind her sunken eyes before she even dimmed his bedside lamp.

Sleep tight, my boy.

She became a stooped silhouette in the door, then footsteps scraped down the hallway. Charlie felt his own heebie-jeebies tiptoeing around, old worries nesting beneath the tucked-in quilts of his thoughts. But tonight, of all bad nights, he wanted to be brave for Nona. At last, the exhaustion of his father's visit swept Charlie under. In the feverish imagination of his dreams, he saw the man strike his mother in his old Camaro, splitting her lip again for daring to leave him and better herself. Then, howling, he cranked the wheel and squealed tires back to Nona's house. No bitch was gonna lock him out. No sissy son of his was gonna cower from him. Then, in his dreams, Charlie was in his bed, whimpering as familiar footsteps stomped down the hall. Not Nona. The hulking silhouette of his father appeared in his doorway. Charlie opened his eyes, awoke to a tearful sound, sharp, bursting cries echoing, fading. Nona? Nona? Had those sounds belonged to her? Or to Charlie? He waited. Breath sucked deep. In the moonlit stillness, an old spidery chill prickled his skin. He imagined his father on all fours, scuttling unseen through the shadows. And this time, the whimper did come from Charlie. Loud and awful. He waited for the familiar shuffle down the hallway. Waited for the golden sweep of light from his bedside lamp and known his soft hand on his cheek. But tonight, she didn't come. Charlie squirmed. Maybe that first whimper had come from Nona's bedroom. Maybe right now Nona's heebie-jeebies had her frozen in place. Charlie sat up in bed, determined, but also certain the instant he placed a bare foot on the floor, his father would reach out.

from under the mattress and grab his ankles. Charlie leapt from the bed anyway. Nothing grabbed out at him, and Charlie found himself tiptoeing down the hallway. The nightlight Nona had installed for midnight bathroom trips scattered a faint starburst along the floor and ceiling and stretched out gloom. Nona's door stood open at the end of the hallway. Charlie crept inside the winter-cool bedroom. A beam of pale moonlight slanted in from the window, but didn't touch the murky outline of the bed or the lump resting under a pile of quilts in darkness.

Nona?

Silence. Charlie inched ever closer.

I've come to vanquish your jeebies.

Nona's silence stretched even louder. Standing in the moonbeam now, Charlie reached into the shadow and placed a hand on his grandmother's quilt. Something shifted beneath, writhing, squarming, chittering. Nona! The quilt fell away, like an egg sack hatching. GBs erupted from Nona's sleeping form, a buzzing wave of pinchers and antennae and twitchy ghosts of the mind. Inky, slick exoskeletons, so pitch black they stained the eye. They swarmed down the mattress and across the floor, across Charlie's bare feet. He wailed and stumbled backward. Not knowing what else to do, he did what Nona would do. He flicked the bedside lamp. In the feeble glow, the creepers disappeared at once. Faster than cockroaches scattering into secret corners. No jeebies. Only Nona, lying there. A warm, nightgowned bump. Silver hair. A nervous Nellie, if ever there was one.

I'm still right here. Don't you worry.

Ever faithful, he tickled away the last of Nona's heebie-jeebies. Tickled and tickled, until her tender, warm ribs grew cold and stiff. Until the darkest-before-dawn return of his father's headlights flashed down the driveway and across his trembling pansy boy face. Later that week, at Nona's funeral, Charlie fidgeted at the end of the church aisle. Drippy-nosed, tears swollen, almost too infested to approach the coffin. He knew Nona was in there, but during the pastor's prayers, Charlie had hunched low in the front pew, unable to see over the open edge of the polished white box. His father sat on the far side of his mother, costumed in his handsome blue eyes and best behavior, a casual arm draped over her sobbing shoulder. These calm moments of the man petrified Charlie the most because he felt like a dare. Go ahead, make his day. Charlie spent the service shrinking away from the grinning skulls tattooed on the man's jagged knuckles. But now the prayers were silent. Time to say goodnight to Nona forever. While his mother sobbed with old friends from town, Charlie tiptoed alone toward the open casket. Every step felt like the night in the hallway. A growing nest of GB squirming inside his ribs, chewing up his heart. He had let Nona die. He'd let her jeebies get her. And now, a new hideous terror lodged inside his darkest crevices, a hard-shelled thing growing bigger with every step closer. He could see none of his folded hands, the tip of her nose and her powdered, doughy wrinkles. Her smile stole his air, startlingly wrong, a tight-lipped thing of pale molding clay. He wanted to turn and run right then, but his father might be watching with his narrowed gaze and yellowed, insectile smile. Doggedly, Charlie hugged himself and tucked his hands into his underarms. His fingers wriggled on his secret hunt for GBs, and to his surprise, Antenny tickled his fingertips. A horrified giggle escaped him, a giggle despicably out of place beside Nona's coffin. Even so, Charlie cupped his hands together with a quick little clap. As always, he was certain he'd had a Gibi in there. But standing over Nona, he brought his hands to his mouth anyway, preparing to whisper his newest, ever-growing fear, the one where Nona whimpered from somewhere far, far away, while his father stood over him, sneering with laughter. If he didn't spit out the idea soon, it would become real. If only the words he needed didn't feel so enormous and twisty. he opened his mouth and fell silent his father had crept up behind him he clamped his grease moon fingernails into charlie's shoulder and squeezed into the bone

ached no more tears now chuck those are for the girls charlie swallowed something inside his

cupped hands circled his palm with tiny feelers then spidery legs squirmed through

a crack in his fingers. Nona said never look a freshly plucked jeebie in its beady little eyes. Too late. The tiny monster sprung from Charlie's knuckles and landed on the edge of Nona's coffin with a hard, chitinous thunk. Like Nona's clay smile, Charlie wanted to scream at the wrongness of it. A bug, but not a bug. A centipede-sized ghoulie put together with different odd bits. Like a cut-and-paste collage. Clicking legs made of greasy fingernail clippings, thorax of yellowed tobacco teeth, folded wings of tattooed flesh, dozens of devious, handsome blue eyes. That thing came from Charlie? With a twitch of leathery wings, the J.B. flitted from the coffin lid into Nona's folded hands. It crawled with the intent of a cockroach, gliding up her arm, then her shoulder and the doe of her neck. Charlie froze, horrified, certain that the thing would worm inside Nona's ear canal. Instead, it skittered across her mouth, spiny legs parting her lips in a grimace, revealing cola-stained teeth. Choking on sick, screaming horror, Charlie glanced up at his father. Had he noticed? If he had, he was too much of a manly man to react. The GB finished probing Nona's lips and wandered up the doughy curve of her cheek. It ruffled her eyelashes, made her eye wink. Charlie's father checked his watch. Fun time's over. He clamped a hand on the lid, happy to close it and trap Nona into infested darkness forever. Wait. But Charlie had never sounded so puny. Can't wait. The ground at the cemetery is too frozen to bury her. His father leaned in with whiskey hot breath. Gotta get her Back in the fridge right away, before the grave bugs start squirting their eggs inside her. With a flitter of fleshy wings, the GB sprung off Nona's face. It darted through the air, its round, translucent belly shimmering fatly. Charlie saw the sack of tiny, pulsing skulls as it landed on his father's cheek. Juicy with fresh terrors, it meandered across his bristled mustache. A whimper echoed inside Charlie's bones. The stained glass church seemed to tilt a whirl sideways. sweeping his and Nona's fairytale life clean away. Hope was out of reach. With a gleeful flick of feelers, the GB folded its wings, then wiggle-wormed up inside his father's flaring, raging bull nostril. The man never even flinched. He simply grinned at Charlie and closed the coffin up tight. Charlie missed Nona. Missed her so horribly, Every thumpy bead inside his chest felt like waking from a nest of nightmares. Except Nona wasn't around to shuffle down the hallway. The lack of her was deafening. Every moment felt wrong and upset.

And even in the very brightest rooms of her house, Cobb Webby's shadows thickened and swirmed. Charlie slept with the lights on now. Alone at every bedtime, he strained to hear the downstairs chatter of his babysitter's television. A volunteer from the neighborhood, the young woman had plopped down in the center of Nona's couch and acted exasperated whenever Charlie tried talking. And when he summoned the spit to tell her about his heebie-jeebies, she'd only snorted. Your mother warned me about you, kiddo. Buc-ee's aren't real. Really, the only comforting thing about the woman was that she wasn't Charlie's father. After the funeral, the man hadn't been able to afford any more nights at the motel, and Charlie's mother wouldn't let him stay at Nona's house out of respect. Charlie expected him to rage at being told what he couldn't do but he'd simply winked goodbye to Charlie and returned quickly to his grease monkey job in the city with a GB still lodged inside his nose. Every morning since he'd called Charlie's mother to check in. The phone would chime, Charlie's stomach would clench and the way his mother sometimes giggled as if she'd forgotten all the split lips and nasty middle of the nights made Charlie's spine crawl. But his mother didn't believe in heebie-jeebies. She'd whispered into the phone just that morning, You're all the family we have left. And Charlie missed Nona worse than ever. Now hidden under his quilt, he found himself infested, a mindscape of clay smiles and tattooed wings and coiled nightgown corpses. Gravediggers couldn't put Nona in the frozen ground, so Charlie's imagination stuffed her in the downstairs refrigerator between the glass bottles of coke and the stiff remains of her last ever ginger cake. The awful scrunched up image twitched inside his head, meaner and meaner, until glass bottles rattled and Charlie cried out. Let it echo. He waited for his babysitter's footsteps to trudge up the stairs, holding his breath as tiny monsters ran circles inside. But after what happened next to Nona's casket, he didn't want to catch his own GBs ever again. Even as Charlie thought it, his armpit prickled. Two bristly feelers licked out from the crevice and something plump wiggled loose. Feathery legs twisted beneath his pajama shirt. The edge of his collar shuddered and lifted. A bits-and-pieces monster appeared. Frozen grave dirt, cola-stained teeth, doughy wings, and eyes, eyes, eyes. The glued-shut eyes of Nona. Charlie shrieked. In the sticky yellow lamp glow, the Gibi took flight and thumped the wallpapered corner where the blackest streams gathered. As it vanished into the inky murk, the darkness sprouted feelers, mandibles, legs. The shadows multiplied and slithered outward.

It was his forgotten Gibis. They skittered everywhere, dotting the walls and ceiling and floor. Everywhere, little feet clicked and chittered. Every Gibi Nona ever caught and released had returned. Only who would protect him now? Charlie Coward wailed for Nona. At the breath's end of her name, a Gibi skittered out across his tongue and hooked its pincher to the corner of his cheek. He screamed, spat, and twisted from bed. The quilt tangled around his legs, and the ground rose up to knock the air from his lungs. The jeebie fell loose and scurried past his nose. Still, nobody came to save him. Scrambling barefoot, Charlie whimpered out into the hallway. At the top of the stairs, he paused to listen. The drone of the television haunted the lower floor. Shadowy legs chittered and buzzed, spilling out his bedroom door. Afraid to look back, Charlie gripped the banister. White knuckles and tippy-toes all the way down. In the parlor, every stained glass lamp glowed at peak brightness. The commercial for the bug bombs that used to give Nona the shivers hummed on the television. Shadowy little pests flitted across the screen as someone watched from the center of the couch. Not his babysitter. Charlie clapped a hand over his mouth.

That you making all that ruckus, Chuck?

His father cricked his neck, stood from the couch, and turned with gleeful redshot eyes. And oh, creepers, he didn't look so hot. Dark, crusty bruises caked the inflamed edges of the man's left nostril, and his whole body had a twitch about it.

Sent the brat sitter home, done letting a gaggle of skirts raise my boy.

Charlie's throat had gone dry. His first big words came out as a rasp.

You shouldn't be here. Nona doesn't want you there. Nona ain't kicking no more, is she?

Prickly shapes twisted in and out of his sharp-toothed grin.

But you're right. It's not my house. Know whose house it is, Chuck?

Charlie didn't understand the question. It was Nona's house. It would always be Nona's house. His father took a jagged step closer, swiped a backhand across his nostrils.

I grit and sweat my whole life to make rent on a lousy two-bedroom, and a pansy boy like you tumbles skirts first into a big, fancy castle.

Nona said I'd never have to leave here.

Imagine that. And after the hissy fit she threw when your mama got knocked up.

The man leaned in. His bruised eyelid bulged and peeked. Something spiky prodded at the fine-veined skin.

Didn't think we'd make nice parents. She didn't want us to keep you.

That's not true. She promised she'd never put me on the street.

Not the street, Chuck. She wanted you scraped right out of your mama.

Charlie shook a sick dizziness from his head. Just more nasty mean stories, lies to scare him.

She kept me safe from you.

Did she? His eyelid rippled, but the man still refused to flinch. Even as the lid split down the oozing center, hatching, a GB scurried loose. Made of blood-packed snow and steel scrapers in the tiny hand of babies and tummies, it glistened wetly and tracked a dotted red trail down his father's clenched jawline.

How's that old dead bitch gonna keep you safe now, Chuck?

Charlie backed away and choked on a lump. He screamed for Nona without a voice. Behind his father, beyond the doorway, glass bottles rattled in the kitchen. Then, with a magnetic suction pop, the refrigerator door swung open. A rectangle of silverware. Silver light cut across the checkered linoleum floor, and a shadow filled the empty glow. Wiggly fingers and a nightgown silhouette. Icy amazement prickled Charlie's spine, and despite his looming father, he froze. Nona? His father exhaled a bullish laugh. A threat Charlie knew too well. More wild jeebies poked around inside the man's inflamed nostril and the bruised lump of his cheek. Spineless runt. If I stomped on you, you wouldn't even crunch. In the kitchen, the slow slog of a bedroom slipper scraped along the linoleum. It was her. Charlie's throat uncorked. Nona! Rage cracked his father's face. His five o'clock shadow contorted and tore open with a sickening wet rip. Handsome eyelid to hard-cut jaw. A nest of writhing shapes squirmed across his face. Larvae dripped free. You aren't scared, are you, Chuck? The man's oozing gaze narrowed on Charlie, fist-balled, knuckles jagged, ready to pounce. No. Charlie snapped the invisible webs, holding him in place, and ran toward the closest escape. The staircase! Up and up, gripping the infested banister as his father stomped after him and swiped at his heels. Up and up, as Jeebies spilled across his hand and crunched under his bare feet. At the top, Nona's bedroom was nearest. Charlie bolted for it. Behind him, his father leapt off the staircase like a brown recluse, coming down hard on all fours in the hallway. The nightlight smashed to black. The scattered stairs fell away just as Charlie slammed Nona's door. He scrabbled for the doorknob, twisting the skeleton key and bracing for his father's scuttling weight to slam against the door. But the chaos in the hallway cut to silence. Charlie backed away from the door, inched slowly through the dark of Nona's room. No moonlight tonight. Prickles in his blood. Nightmares crawling through every crevice. Alone, but not alone. Behind Charlie, the brass bed frame exhaled a slow screech. Something shifted atop Nona's mattress. Uncurling, sitting up, swinging frozen legs over the side. A thousand forgotten gibbies loosened from the quilt and scurried to the floor. Then two fast shuffling slippers raced up behind him. Nona! Even so, Charlie choked back a wail and ran for the door. Too afraid to unlock it, he pressed his face against the wood and rode a chittering wave of bright white terror.

From behind, fridge-chilled fingers corkscrewed into the crevices beneath his arms. Wiggled and tickled and hunted. Finally, Charlie burst with a mind-crawly streak of laughter. His hands clapped together in the darkness. Got that, GB. Now, my boy, we vanquish him. The key untwisted in the lock. The door cracked open. After a few thumpy heartbeats, Charlie realized it was his hand on the knob. Listening with all his senses, he pulled the door open. The long hallway beyond appeared empty. The far end, the sickly yellow lamp glow from Charlie's bedroom, cut a dim path across the floor. The shadows barely even twitched. Charlie crept forward, arms crossed, hands jammed in his armpits. A few steps from the stairs, he rose on his tippy toes, searching for movement down below. Something uncurled on the high ceiling above him. He didn't want to look. A heebie-jeebie dropped on the floorboards near his feet. Then another. Another. A hard-shelled rain. He looked anyway, rolled his eyes heavenward. The spider-hunched shape of his father clung to the rafters in a squirming nest of cobwebs. Wearing a ghoulish, split-faced smile, the man sprang free and landed with a heavy, insectile thunk at the edge of the staircase. Teetering, towering over Charlie, he opened his mouth. Gonna crush you, Chuck. And Nona's grave bug spilled out. Skulls, crossbones, monsters that go bump. Charlie brought his hands together like a thunderclap. Hands clasped. He stood tall and terrified and approached the maker of all his ugly worst dreams. I'm done having you as my father. The man snickered, showed no fear. But he should have been afraid. Charlie opened his hands and something prickly and heavy and nasty sprung out. Lucky this time, Charlie had his eyes squelched tight. Never look at a freshly plucked GB in its beady little eyes. His father roared, bellowed. The house shook with a terrible tumble clatter. Down and down his father went.

Ending with the chitinous crunch of bones Then silence, release Slowly Charlie lowered his hands and gripped the banister Dared to peek His father waited there Curled in a hell-bent heap at the bottom of the stairs Jagged limbs and knuckles, swollen skull cracked down the middle A dark mess leaked ever closer to the shadows But nothing else moved A soft giggle escaped Charlie, a ghost sigh of relief. After all these years, Nona's house was finally pest-free.

Transcription by CastingWords And I send you all my best wishes, and hope good fortune finds you. Thank you for listening, and take care.

As our stories sink beneath the waves, we claw our way back onto dry land. Join us again next time when we plunge into the chilling depths where water hides its darkest secrets. The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical scores are composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Michalski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornett, and Claudius Moore Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McAnally, Ollie A. White, and Kristen Cimito I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us Just visit sleepless.thenosleeppodcast.com to learn about the sleepless universe. 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 taking the plunge into our dark waters. This audio program is copyright 2026 by Creative Reason Media. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media. No part of this audio program may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. All rights reserved. Identity theft can cost more than you think.

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