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 Thank you for joining us for the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. As we speed towards the end of Season 24, we are keeping busy, planning for the season finale, and all the bonus content and other fun things we'll have for everyone between seasons. Shoot! We'll have our usual fan-favorite episodes like old-time radio, and suddenly... Come on, Raph! That's a foul! Suddenly shocking, I mean. And we have some delightfully creepy episodes from our sleepless decompos... Are you kidding me? That was not on site! I mean our sleepless decompositions episodes. You know what, I need to apologize if I seem distracted. The World Cup is happening, and I've got the game on while I'm doing this. Sorry about that. But isn't that what so often happens to us? We've got a job to do, something important that should require our full attention, only to find us distracted by other things. Whether it's our phones, something on TV, or perhaps another person who shows up to annoy us, we end up focusing more on the things that aren't a part of our job.

And to illustrate this point in great detail, we have tales this week that feature people going through situations just like that. They're trying to do their job, or get something important done, only to deal with things that make the situation turn frightfully fearful. It's almost like their stories turn into tales of unrelenting horror, which is a good thing for us. So I'm going to get back to work and focus on the task at hand. No more distractions for me. And your job now is to listen to these tales and become immersed in the horror. That's it. Oh, and of course, your other assignment, as always, is to brace yourself. Because it's time to plunge into the horror of our sleepless tales. In our first tale, we meet Eddie. He's a college student earning some cash working the night shift at a truck stop. He's alone and deep into the night. Surely there's not much to keep Eddie from getting his chores done, right? Well, in this tale, shared with us by author Sam Kahn-Pantle, Eddie's shift is interrupted by a strange customer who looks like he needs to cool off. Performing this tale are James Solis and Dan Zappula. So remember your tasks, get your work done, and above all, remember, please, no smoking.

Three slow hours into an eight-hour shift. Things are already getting dull. I don't know if I should be grateful or not that I haven't seen a customer in ages. Only my boss would make a busy college student work alone at a grimy truck stopping. in the middle of nowhere at 2 a.m. But shit, at least I got away from my roommate for once. I pull out a list of shift tasks for the 18th time to check if somehow something new appeared. To think I'd give anything to clean right now. Turn on all lights. Check. Organize cash register. Check. Clean toilets. Check. Mop floors. Check. Restock fridges and shelves. Check. Damn. Even for my boss, it's a pretty thorough list. He always forgets to tell me to turn on the lights. The store is spotless. No links to the previous shift workers. And I already ran out of chores to make up. I even searched through an abundance of cheesy, truck-themed name keychains, in case I could grab an extra anniversary gift for Casey. Seriously, how do we have keychains for Maybelline and Gizmo, but not Casey? The sound of the front door swinging open snaps me out of my tangential thoughts. There's a fuzzy shadow of a customer in the entrance. Wait, what the hell? Hello? I lean over the counter to get a better view. Can I help you? No response. The shadow is gone. I swear someone was there. I get up to check outside and shut the door. It's storming like fucking crazy, and the wind must have pushed the door open. I breathe out. No intruders, or ghosts, or demons, or any of that shit. Thank God. I scribble a reminder on a sticky note to make the door a little harder for the wind to open. That's all. Just the wind. Nothing unusual. Two more excruciating hours go by, and I only deal with one customer. An eccentric older woman in a yellow raincoat, who purchases the weirdest combination of road snacks I've ever seen. tries to tip me a suspicious, wrinkled $20 bill and tells me I'm a handsome young man who should come visit her cabin sometime. Great. Right as I'm wondering if I'll meet any more fascinating characters, the store plunges into darkness. Of course this damn thunderstorm causes a power outage.

Following the whining drone of every piece of technology and the building turning off, Our ancient generator attempts echolocation. I trudge around the back of the store for a while, bumping against walls, until at last I reach our generator's small red light. Yeah, yeah, I hear ya. I feel my way around the utility room for the necessary cords and plugs, which must be stashed around the room in the most illogical way possible. Okay, you go. Here, and you go in there. With a short delay, lights flicker on, fans wear up again, and the security locks click back into place. Thank Christ. I could have sworn this old generator would be faulty. Back at the front, the damn door is open again. I didn't even hear the bell ring. The storm is getting worse. Cold gusts crawl into each corner of the room, knocking products off the shelves. Rain and hail splatter the windows from every direction. The sun should rise soon, but the sky is abysmal. Even when lightning strikes, I can't recognize anything other than the curtains of rain. Then the hands. Long, sharp hands reach through the doorway. Fingers curl around the frame, dragging the horrible being attached to them into the truck stop. I stumble back and grab the edge of the counter. Whatever the hell's in front of me, it sure ain't human. Its charred skeletal corpse smells like smoke, and it leaves ash wherever it touches. Its back is hunched over to fit inside this building. its long neck pressed up against the ceiling tiles, but it could easily be 10 or 12 feet tall. This fuck, what the hell is it? This thing has lanky, withered limbs, antlers protruding from its head. and glowing eyes sitting in a deteriorated black skull. Those eyes. Fuck, I can't pull myself away from them. This freak of nature is staring at me, staring inside me. Its gaze worms its way into my eyes, pumps ice through my veins, and restricts itself around my lungs. My back slams against the floor and feeling drains out of my body. Shit, why is this happening to me? The room sways and blurs together. I can't hear anything over a horrible, incessant ringing. The figure towers over me, moving closer.

An ashen, bony hand reaches towards my immobile body. Its arm splits into twos, threes, doubles back on itself. The fluorescent light's blinding halo shine in my face, yet I can't close my eyes. Dark smoke swirls from its body and it fills the room. Its fingers press on my shirt, and my eyes well up with tears. Whatever's left of that thing's flesh is burning hot. Little by little, its hand digs, works itself into my chest. My shirt ignites and peels away. Cheap fucking fabric melting into nothing. My skin burns and bubbles into ashes. Muscle, fat, and bones slough away to make room for this thing searching for my slowing heart. Tears leak out of my eyes, and the moisture just evaporates. My lungs swell with smoke as I grasp for anything breathable. The sour, choking smell of my burning body is almost as torturous as the pain. Is this it? I have to die here? Some shitty demon kills me in a truck stop in the middle of goddamn nowhere. Do I even get to say goodbye?

Eddie!

The thing retracts from my flesh, a second away from my heart. My anatomy rebuilds itself. It fills the pit in my mutilated chest with reckless abandon. Blood rushes through my body, and I still can't hear anything over the pounding in my head. The face appears through the corpse's body. The withered creature disintegrates into smoke and ash. The face screams and shakes me. Black spots fade in and out. My double vision flicks together for a moment, and I recognize who's above me. Eddie! Get up! We have to leave! Get up! Casey? I can't hear myself. He pulls at my stiff arms. Salty teardrops fall on my skin. The building's on fire! You have to get out! What? It's so cold. I force myself up, relying on Casey to hold me upright. I cough some smoke out of my lungs. He grabs and pulls me out of the store. My head throbs and I can't keep myself on my feet. He shoves me into the passenger seat of his car. and I unhelpfully attempt to orient myself. Casey throws something soft over me. A blanket? I try to tug on it and see something bright out of the corner of my eye. Casey's right. The truck stops on fire. The reflection of flames dances on the car's window. Was it ever even raining? Did lightning strike when I wasn't paying attention? There's no fucking way this was some natural disaster. It made this happen. Did you see it? There's no response. I turn as much as my stiff body allows, in case he looks worried. Did you see it? On top of me? See what? You were just laying there. I thought you were fucking dead. His eyes flick away from mine and he grips the wheel. Tears carve tracks through the soot staining his cheeks. I can't think. In case he didn't see. My head won't stop pounding. It touched me. It was killing me. He didn't see it. I'm in agony where it dug into me. Under the blanket, I gently feel my chest. The skin is tight, like a layer of thick, fresh scar tissue. It's numb, but the flashes of nerve pain follow my movements. If that thing wasn't real. If it was a hallucination from inhaling smoke. I stare back at the burning mess. The flames grow higher even as we drive towards the hospital. Sparks show up.

shoot out from the back of the building. The roof crumbles into itself, right where I would have been laying. Blaring sirens and flashing lights rush closer, but I doubt the fire trucks can save what remains of that place. There's a shape in front of the building, silhouetted by the fire and smoke billowing around it. Somebody is standing outside. I squint and barely make out the shadowy pair of antlers and piercing, glowing eyes, as bright as the fire behind it. It's watching 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. That story reminds me about how terrible it is to burn your food. Charred food isn't tasty. That's why Kelly and I love Home Chef. Because I'm not organized enough to be a meal prep person. but with Home Chef, my meals are on point every time. The meals are wildly impressive and so easy to make. I count on the Home Chef weekly delivery to stock my fridge and take care of meal planning. I've not only saved time, but also reduced dishes and cleanup. And the recipes are easy enough that I don't burn the food. Home Chef is perfect for busy schedules. Whether you need a 30-minute meal, an oven-ready tray, or even a quick microwave lunch, Home Chef has you covered. Home Chef takes the stress out of your week with convenient weekly deliveries that keep your fridge stocked and eliminate meal planning and grocery runs, making it easy to eat well, save time and enjoy quick and delicious meals, even on your busiest days. And people really love it. Home Chef is rated number one by users of other meal kits for quality, convenience, value, taste and recipe ease. For a limited time, Home Chef is offering no-sleep listeners 50% off and free shipping for your first box, plus free dessert for life. Go to homechef.com slash nosleep. That's homechef.com slash nosleep for 50% off your first box and free dessert for life. homechef.com slash nosleep. Must be an active subscriber to receive free dessert. Thanks for your support, Home Chef. And we're thankful that this episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. We're now into summer, and summer is the favorite season of many people. We think about vacation, time to be outside, and lots of warm weather activities. But summer can also be a time of stress. Kids are out of school and need looking after. Jobs and housework keeps us hopping. And before you know it, you're burned out, either literally from the sun, or figuratively from all that you've got going on. I'll tell you, there is no summer break for me. I always have so much to do that my problem is not having enough time to get outside and enjoy myself. That leads to feelings of not doing enough for me. That's where therapy really helps me. Therapy can help people better understand their needs, feel more confident setting boundaries, and create a version of summer that actually feels good. So let BetterHelp's licensed therapists help you find a healthy balance during the summer and beyond. Trust me, it works.

With an average rating of 4.9 out of 5 for a live session based on over 1.7 million client reviews. You don't have to say yes to everything this summer. Find support in therapy. Sign up and get 10% off at betterhelp.com slash nosleep. That's better, H-E-L-P dot com slash no sleep. Now let's plunge back into the deep waters of horror. Here's some advice. Always be nice to census takers. After all, they're counting on you. Ah, that's fun. I bet Albert would laugh at that joke. He's a census taker in the town of Hemsley. But in this tale, shared with us by author Don Tobin, Albert soon realizes that the numbers aren't adding up.

and he has to figure out what's going on in this strange little town. Performing this tale are Graham Rowett, Mary Murphy, and Peter Lewis. So check your lists, do a proper headcount, and then try to figure out why there are the extra ones.

For twelve years, I'd made a life out of counting people. Census work was neither difficult nor particularly thrilling, but it suited me. I found that numbers were reliable in a way that people were not. People misremembered and exaggerated. They moved around, had children, and ultimately died. I made sense of the mess using nothing more than a pen and a ledger. It pleased me more than anything to tame the disorder and tuck it away into crisp manila folders. It kept me moving, door to door, town to town, enumerating the living and recording the dead. Sometimes I'd visit places that suited me, tree-lined streets where the houses stood in neat rows and the hedges were trimmed just so. I'd knock on doors with polished brass knockers, where the scent of fresh baking drifted through windows from orderly kitchens. Those were the sort of neighborhoods where fences were straight, and even the dogs, if they barked, sounded well-mannered. But not every place was like that. One day, I was somewhere else entirely. Hemsley was the sort of town where the numbers rarely changed. It was a small, insular place, tucked so deeply into the hills that it might as well have been forgotten. A decade had passed since I last had to count it, yet I found that little was different. There were a few coats of fresh paint here and there, sure, but it had the same sagging porches, the same rusted vehicles poking out of the tall weeds, the same rural blight settled in for the long rot. I sat in my car for a moment, engine ticking in the afternoon heat, to watch life play out in the periphery. Somewhere off to the side, a door slammed, followed by the hurried slap of bare feet on pavement. I turned my head just in time to see a girl in a yellow dress dart across the street, already breathless. She nearly collided with a boy who had been waiting at the edge of the opposite yard, hands ringing at his sides. They stood close, their voices barely carrying over the street. The girl shifted on her feet, throwing a glance over her shoulder as if fearing pursuit by a parent. Such were the quaint troubles of children. I remembered being their age, when the most trivial things felt like the end of the world. Scuffed knees, lost toys, a wrong answer in front of the class. For a moment, I almost envied their innocence. Life was easier when the worst of it never stretched beyond the playground or the brief reproach of adults. The boy pointed, and the girl's eyes flicked toward me for just a moment

before she grabbed the boy's wrist, tugging him away. They disappeared around the corner of a house, whispering urgently. I watched them go, turning back to the task at hand. With a curt sigh, I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel. Right. Routine town, routine job. Reaching across to the passenger seat, I brushed aside some loose papers to pick up my hat, setting it into place over my thinning scalp. My briefcase followed, cool leather firm beneath my fingers. I pushed the door open and stepped out of the car with a grunt of exertion. The first house on my list was a familiar one. It sat a little apart from the others, as if it had edged away over the years. A simple folk Victorian, likely built when the railroad first came through, its once white clapboard siding now a soft, sun-faded gray. Mrs. Genevieve Holloway had live there alone for as long as I had records of the place. One resident. One was a neat little number. What better place to start? I rarely lingered at doorsteps, and almost never accepted hospitality while working. It wasn't my job, nor particularly my temperament, to make conversation. But last time, the heat had been unbearable, and when Mrs. Holloway had offered me a glass of iced lemonade, I'd surprised myself by accepting. I remembered the cool weight of the glass in my hand, condensation pooling.

at its base as Mrs. Holloway talked at length about her garden. Soft tinkles from the wind chimes rang down from the porch eaves, filling the silence between words and the rhythmic screams of cicadas. It had been idyllic, serene even, for a while. But as I approached the porch now, I could tell that era was over. The place had a forlorn look to it that was nothing like I remembered. The lace curtains were drawn tight, starving the house of natural light. Paint was flaking away from the disheveled steps, which were half-buried beneath layers of leaves. As I made my way to the door, my fingers brushed a wilted geranium, its planter tipped askew, as if someone had meant to write it, but never finished the task. Well, it had been ten years since I'd last seen Mrs. Holloway. A lot could change in that time. Still, I hoped for the best as I shuffled my case to the other hand and knocked on the door. For a few fretful moments, there was silence, and I feared I'd lost an acquaintance in Hemsley. But then, the sound of feet scraping over hardwood came from within, and Mrs. Holloway answered. Relief washed over me. She was alive, but not well from appearances. She had always been a thin woman, but her frame seemed diminished, as though the years had hollowed her out rather than merely settling over her. Her skin had gone pale, stretched over her cheekbones, emphasizing the sharp angles of her face. A pair of smudged readers balanced at the tip of her nose, their silver frames contrasting sharply against dark circles under her eyes. And yet, beneath it all, I could still make out the woman from memory. The way she held herself, slightly stooped in a thin lavender robe. The flicker of recognition in her gaze as she stepped out in her slippers. The spring-loaded screen door slapping the threshold behind her.

Well, if it isn't the census man.

A hint of faux flirtation simmered beneath the frailty of her voice.

Come to count us in Hemsley again?

I quite liked that she remembered me, and played along by removing my hat, curling my hand over the brim with a coy smile. That is, if you don't mind.

Of course, of course. Can I offer you something to drink?

Having anticipated the possibility, I shook my head with genuine regret. I'm afraid not today, Mrs. Holloway. This year I have to count Brookmere as well, and I'll need the daylight.

Is that so?

She eased herself down into a rocking chair in the corner, gesturing toward a wicker chair with a floral cushion. Dark patches of mold speckled the fabric, creeping along the seams, but I only hesitated for a breath before lowering myself onto it. I replaced my hat and prepared my ledger, shifting slightly as if that might distance me from the mustiness of my seat. Habitually, I licked my fingers to peel some of the pages apart, glancing up with a cordial smile to indicate I was ready to begin. Household numbers? I asked, smiling in a way that said, it's just a formality. Two, of course. She tugged her robe closer around her shoulders, rocking her chair with her feet. Interesting. I faltered for a moment, flicking my eyes up without raising my head. She smiled sweetly. Two. I see. Did you remarry? She shook her head. A child returned home.

No, dear, just me and the other.

I licked my fingers again, turning a page. If there was a new inhabitant, I would need to ask a few additional questions. Male or female? She let the utterance drag on for a moment, eventually offering a nonchalant shrug. My brow furrowed, and I shifted my pen down to the next line. College educated? it? Mrs. Holloway nodded, though from her posture I wasn't sure whether to take it as an affirmation or not. I suspected that I could have asked anything and received such a nod. It was the sort of gesture given by someone that hadn't heard the question, but wanted to move on. Disturbed, I considered her for a moment. The simplest explanation was age, forgetfulness. I'd seen it before. Elderly folks losing track of time. time, misremembering who was alive and who wasn't. It was sad, but not out of the ordinary. Of course. I marked one member of the household, surreptitiously sliding the second paper to the back of the stack. Still, as I shut my ledger, I found myself watching her for a moment longer than usual as I stood. She made no such effort, seeming content to spend some time on the porch. Indeed, the pallor of her skin suggested it may have been a long while since she'd spent any time in the sun. The silence stretched for just a little too long, until I cleared my throat politely, clasping my case with a pinch. Well, Mrs. Holloway, that's all I needed for today. I'd best be on my way if I'm going to make it to Brookmere before sundown. Maybe next time I'll take you up on that lemonade. As soon as I'd said it, I regretted it. I'd meant it as a simple pleasantry, but the words carried an awkward assumption, considering her age and condition. Mrs. Holloway only gave a small, unreadable smile and continued her rocking. If she found what I'd said to be a faux pas, she gave no sign of it. She waved me off with an airy wave of her wrist. Uh-huh. Till then, Mr. Censusman. I smiled again at her nickname. She seemed able to hold a conversation when she wished, but it felt a bit like an ember struggling to hold its glow. You may call me Albert if you wish. But she was already somewhere else. Her gaze unfocused, the slow creak of the rocking chair and a crescendo of cicadas, the only response. As I stepped down from the porch, a peculiar sensation settled over me. There was a nagging, irrational notion that someone was inside the house watching me through the windows. I had no reason to think so.

The curtains were drawn, and they were opaque with the glare from the sun. But for just a breath, I felt strangely certain about it. Nothing to do but to shake it off. It was silly. Clearly, the old woman's odd insistence on another housemate was playing tricks on my mind. Still, as I walked away, I found myself smirking at the absurdity of it. Maybe it was Mr. Holloway's ghost keeping an eye on her. Maybe the old man had never left, lingering in that dim parlor while his wife sat rocking on the porch with the census man. Of course, I didn't believe in ghosts. Not literally, anyway. But in another sense, oh, sure, everyone had ghosts. Ghosts were the past refusing to settle, regrets refusing to sink to the bottom. They were the things that stuck with you no matter how many miles you put between yourself and where you began. I idly wondered what kind of ghosts Mrs. Holloway had. Maybe it was living in a town that barely existed, watching the world shrink like a pond in a drought, with a vast horizon laid out beyond her porch, promising worlds that could no longer have meaning to her. Maybe it was sitting around, waiting for an old body to give up the fight. I didn't know. Maybe she was looking forward to seeing Mr. Holloway again, if such things were possible. But then I thought about... A photograph, tucked away in a drawer, face down. A street I always took the long way around to avoid, it was never able to resist glancing down. Numbers had always been easier than people for me. They had rules. They were balanced. They didn't ask for anything I wasn't able to give in the right amounts and at the right times. My fingers flexed against my briefcase, gripping the leather tight until I smoothed the hand over my mustache and forced myself forward. It wasn't my job to dwell. It was my job to count. So I would. Door after door, with names and numbers recorded in steady, concise little writing. If all went smoothly, the hours would slip by unnoticed, but it wasn't long before the numbers in Hemsley started to feel a little... off. At the next house, a man with hollow cheeks and eyes like dull glass answered the door. His hands trembled slightly as he leaned against the frame. Census, I explained, subconsciously keeping my distance. I just need to confirm the number of residence in the household. For? The man spoke flatly. though not impolitely. He looked me in the face, but never quite met my eyes.

I glanced beyond him to the inside. Small, dim space behind the man was unusually quiet. A woman, presumably his wife, sat at the kitchen table, staring at the wood as if there were a novel entrenched in the grain. Near the living room, a little girl peeked at me from behind a chair, wide-eyed in a way that, in any other context than a simple family home, might have signaled distress. It took me a second to recognize the yellow dress I'd seen when I first arrived. Now she was perfectly still, her fingers curled tightly over the top of the chair, seemingly holding her breath. Four, the man had said. At first I thought maybe the boy I'd seen the girl Meet lived there as well. And the fourth? The man blinked at me, then at the empty space beside him, as if expecting someone to step forward. Oh, they must be out. I frowned slightly. Out? As I spoke, the girl gave a small shake of her head, just once, as if she herself didn't believe it. She held up a shaky hand with three fingers raised. The man at the door hesitated. He'll be back soon. He smiled. A thin, off-kilter thing that showed teeth, but no life. I marked three in my ledger and hurriedly moved on, mumbling my thanks. It was the same at the next house. And the next. A woman insisted there were four in her home. I counted three, the other two barely stirring on the couch. A tired-looking couple claimed five. I only counted two frightened children. A widower claimed to have two. I noticed two bowls set at the table behind him, one recently empty, the other caked in black mold. Always One More Than Expected Whenever I asked about the extra ones, the responses were muddled. Vague assurances, nervous glances, stammered corrections. Sometimes, people changed the subject entirely. Other times, they simply stared at me, their expressions blank, as though the question itself didn't make sense. I'd seen census mistakes before, people miscounting or including relatives who only visited occasionally, but this wasn't some oversight. It was a pattern. The deeper I went, the clearer it became. Every face I saw was drawn, their skin like wax paper stretched over their bones, their clothes hung loose on their frames, their movements were sluggish, and getting them to speak more than a sentence

was like pulling teeth. Was there some sickness here, I wondered? Some fever playing tricks on people's minds. I hadn't been briefed on any outbreak, but it was possible. Could be something wrong with the water. I was thankful I'd turned down that drink from Mrs. Holloway. Still, the unease burrowed deeper into me with every door I knocked on, with every wavering, uncertain voice insisting on a presence that clearly wasn't there. Eventually, frustration got the better of me. I stood at the edge of the town square, flipping through my ledgers, scanning numbers from the last census. Hemsley had always been small, its population predictable. Ten years ago, I'd recorded each household, cross-checked every name, logged every resident with precision I was proud of. Even allowing for natural shifts, deaths, births, people moving, my records should have been roughly accurate. But they weren't. Even factoring in normal fluctuation, every single household had one more than it should. I stared at the numbers, tapping my pen absently against the page, trying to make sense of it. One extra person. Everywhere. Then there was that damnable feeling of being watched from every vacant window. Hemsley's small-town coziness had somehow turned watchful. It made the hair stand up on the nape of my neck the more I endured it. A sharp gust of wind rattled the trees lining the street, sending a loose scrap of paper skittering across the ground. The sky was turning overcast, dimming into a dull... sickly gray. I exhaled sharply, stuffing my pen back into my case and slamming it shut with more force than was necessary. This was absurd. I strode across the square, boots crunching against loose chunks of pavement, and exasperatedly climbed back into my car. I tossed my case onto the back seat and pulled off my hat, thrusting it onto the dashboard. Then, turning slightly toward the passenger seat, I spoke. There's something wrong with this place. I rubbed the bridge of my nose. My thoughts were running slow, like wading through tar. I say we just move on. Next town is... I frowned. The name wouldn't come. It was right there, slipping between my fingers. Brookhaven? No, Brookmere. I think you'll like it there. Quiet place, just like this one. Good people, easy to count. I was greeted by silence. I glanced over at the passenger seat.

My partner was watching me. The smile was the same as always. Small, unreadable, almost polite. But the eyes... The eyes weren't there at all. Just smooth, cold hollows, empty sockets where something should have been. Such a strange person. Right, I said, feeling more tired by the minute. I shifted into gear. Brookmere, then. Plenty of people there for you to meet. My partner's smile widened.

The horror keeps flowing after a word from the folks who make all this free content possible. I am two full weeks into my journey with GLP-1 medication, and I'm thrilled with how my body is responding. I'm feeling positive effects, and that's exciting and motivating. If you want to know what's really worth your time when it comes to losing weight, skip the guesswork and get Weight Loss by HIMS. HIMS offers access to an affordable range of FDA-approved GLP-1 medications that now includes the Wagovi pill and the Wagovi pen, plus lifestyle tips to support you along the way. With Wagovi at HIMSS, lose up to 20% or more of your body weight when combined with diet and exercise. It helps you regulate your appetite and eat less, so success is within reach. Plus, Wagovi is the first-ever GLP-1 pill for weight loss, so there are no needles needed. Even better, with a range of affordable GLP-1 options, HIMSS makes it simple to find a weight loss approach that fits into your world and your wallet if eligible. You'll get a treatment plan personalized to you and unlimited dosage changes as needed. Ready to reach your goals? Visit HIMSS.com slash nosleep to get a personalized affordable plan that gets you. That's HIMSS.com slash nosleep. HIMSS.com slash no sleep. Weight loss by HIMSS is not available in all 50 states. WGOVI is the registered trademark of Novo Nordisk AS. To get started and learn more, including important safety information, WGOVI clinical study information, and restrictions, visit HIMSS.com. Now let's plunge back into the deep waters of horror. YouTube. They say these days more young people watch YouTube over regular TV and streaming combined. Frankly, I think the platform is full of debauchery and debunkery. Oh no, wait, wait, that's a YouTube channel called Debauchery and Debunkery. And it exposes frauds and scam artists. And it's hosted by Macs. But in this tale, shared with us by author Quincy Lee, Max is challenged by a woman who says she can absolutely make her believe in the supernatural.

Performing this tale are Aaron Lillis, Jesse Cornett, Atticus Jackson, Lindsay Russo, and Nicole Goodnight. So bold claims require bold evidence. Otherwise, you'll simply be debunked.

I'm sitting on a sofa in a cramped, messy room. The carpet is faded and stained, the wallpaper peeling, and spots of mold speckle the ceiling. Everything about this old house screams disrepair Next to me on the sofa An old man with sagging, papery skin Sits staring at an empty chair in the corner A younger man, somewhere in his 30s In a suit with the slick haircut and white smile of a dentist Or maybe a realtor Flashes his pearly whites at the old man

Hello, sir, my name is Nathan I'm a spiritual medium. Your family reached out to me and asked for my services. Can you tell me some of what you've been experiencing?

She's there. Who's there?

Nathan, the medium, glances at the chair. Back to the old man.

Who is it you see sitting in that chair?

He sniffs, wrinkles up his mouth in a frown.

I don't know her name.

For the record, I don't believe in any of this stuff. I am here because I don't believe. I'm also recording this entire interaction. The old man, the medium, the invisible woman in the chair in the corner. I make sure to get the chair. Lots of footage of it. I am tempted to get up and go sit in it, but that would ruin this whole charade, wouldn't it? Anyway, I just keep filming. Nathan, the smarmy medium who should be a realtor, looked confused when he first looked at the empty chair, but is now playing along, full woo-woo psychic mode.

To the woman in the chair, can I ask what you are doing here? What is it you would like to communicate?

Silence.

And Nathan turns to the old man. Do you see any change in her? The old man shakes his head.

She's just sitting there.

A few minutes more of a lot of nothing. The medium decides to cast a blessing on the room to help put her spirit to rest. And then, the old man sits up straight. His eyes go big.

She's getting up. She's laughing. She's cursing at us.

Then he starts whimpering.

She's coming closer.

She's coming. She's coming. Stop her. He starts screaming. and the medium leaps up, chanting words of a prayer in what is probably Google-translated Latin. He waves a hunk of burning sage and sprinkles salt while the old man screams. I get the whole thing on my phone. The screaming, the sage, the sweat on Nathan the medium's brow as he shouts with increasing ferocity over the old man's howls, snarling at the empty chair. And when the moment is right, I yell,

The old man stops screaming.

His face breaks into a grin as he turns to me. How was that, Max? Brilliant, Pete, you were brilliant. I angle my phone toward myself, speaking to the cameras we have set up to catch the psychic at work, and to my future audience, you all, who should subscribe to my channel if you haven't already. This is Pete, an actor. I'm Max, host of Debauchery and Debunkery, where we used to take a shot for each lie, but we quickly realized we'd get drunk way too fast. Now we just debunk stuff and then get drunk later while laughing about it. The only person who is not an actor here is Nathan, the medium, who, as you can see, quickly began speaking to an empty chair. Nathan, you stated several times that you could sense the presence in the chair. What do you have to say now that you know Pete here is an actor? Nathan has lost his charm. He stammers, red-faced.

furious at having been set up, looking between me and Pete and the chair as if unsure which of us is the most to blame for his predicament. He insists his powers are genuine and babbles that there is a spiritual energy in the chair. Well, I go on to remark about how the chair itself is from Target. We bought it this morning. So was there spiritual energy at the department store before we brought it in. He says it must be in the house then. I tell him how the house itself is a set. It's actually my house, and I live here. And this entry room doesn't usually look like this. We made it grubbier for effect. Though I guess you're right, there's not the greatest vibes. Feng Shui has always been a little off in here. And I do need to replace the carpet. The stains are real. The mold spots on the ceiling are fake. You get the idea. Call me Max. Short for Maxine or Maximilian, depending on my mood. I'm currently Nathan the Medium's worst nightmare.

What you are doing is entrapment.

His ruddy red face is on the verge of tears. Oh, his business is gonna take a hit, all right.

You act so sanctimonious, but this bullshit is hurting people. You're hurting people by dismissing their beliefs, disrespecting the spiritual.

You know, I'd say that's exactly what you're doing by taking advantage of people, just like you tried with Pete here.

I bet you go into schools and debunk Santa Claus to the little kids.

How telling that you compare what you do to lying to children. So you know you're lying, you just think it's okay because they're feel-good lies?

You know what? Make fun all you want. But this stuff is real. You're a fool to mess with it.

He turns and storms out. My last shot of him is both middle fingers held up. His dramatic exit is marred almost immediately by his return moments later, his face now blank as he thrusts a business card into my hand.

For skeptics, call her and she'll make you believe.

Thanks for the tip, Nathan. Probably won't, though. It usually doesn't work when people know ahead of time.

Call her. She will make you believe.

he turns on his heel and strides out I look at the card it just says make believe on one side and on the other is an I and a number the I has a nifty effect where it appears to always be looking at you the card is matte black with simple lettering I tuck it in my pocket a few days later Nathan the medium contacts me via text. The episode has already aired. I'm sure Nathan is pissed about it. No doubt he's getting a lot of emails and calls. He's getting roasted in the comments. So his messaging me is not surprising. Probably to beg me to remove it, offer to bribe me. I've had all kinds of things. His message, when I open it, surprises me.

Forget what I said about the card. Just throw it away, please.

Now, I've always been a contrarian. Had forgotten about the card until that moment. But of course, after his request, I go digging it up. The matte black, the eye, the words make-believe, and the number to call. I call it out of curiosity, making sure to record the call so I'll have material later for an episode if this turns into anything. There's no ringing, just a voice connecting almost immediately.

The address is... Come, if you want to believe.

Corny. Probably not worth the effort of a debunk. But the address isn't too far from my sister's house, and I have to visit her anyway to help her with a few things and talk about my brother-in-law. He's battling cancer. I make a note about it, and the next day, before I head over to see my sister, I swing by the address. It takes a while to find. A small psychic reading shop. More of a nook, really, tucked between a bakery and a bookstore. You have to go down a set of stairs to even find the door, and the room is so small it feels like stepping into a janitor's closet.

The woman inside is neither old nor young. She's somewhere between 30 and 50. An unremarkable bird of a woman with beady dark eyes and hair like a crow's wings. Glossy black with a bluish sheen. Must be dyed. She's sitting in a chair in the corner in a long black gown, stiff as a doll that's been posed. She has only one eye visible, which follows me as I step in and sit down in the chair opposite her. The other eye is shrouded in shadow. Also, the lights in here are very low. It's a nice effect. Hokey, but visually arresting. Props to her for atmosphere. Minus a few points for being so cliché.

Hello, Max.

so nathan obviously did give her the heads up so much for debunking even so i ask her if i can record she cackles a little and motions for me to go ahead so i take out my phone and start recording us both though i don't have much hope for anything from this given she's already been prepped for me by Nathan. Still, why not? I'm told you can make anyone believe?

Sure.

Okay. Make me believe. Her head cocks, raven-like, and she examines me. Her eye drifts to the camera.

Is this really what you want, Max? To be made to believe?

Me and my viewers.

And your viewers. How nice. All right, then. Max the Debunker. I'll make a bargain with you. In five days, if I've made you believe, you publicly announce your belief before you end yourself and your channel. If you still don't believe in five days, nothing happens to you.

the sheer gall of this lunatic i can't help smiling and myself and my channel that's the worst bargain i've ever heard why would i agree to that because you don't believe

you believe you won't believe and you're an arrogant shit who wants clicks and making this bargain will give them to you she makes actually a very good point also she's right

I absolutely do not believe. I say as much to my camera. Okay, crazy lady. Fine. I accept your bargain, but just recording this to note that I have no plans to commit suicide, and if I appear to do so, and this lady has murdered me, I expect her to be arrested. She just looks at me with that flat, black eye. So, how are you going to make me believe?

Tell me the names of three people.

Kenji. My brother-in-law.

He dies on Friday. Loses his battle with cancer. My condolences.

Wow. Okay. This is... I mean, obviously you did your research. It's called a hot reading when a purported psychic will look up information about a subject before the reading and then recite facts about them that seem astonishing to the audience. Nathan told her I was coming, so she obviously looked up my brother-in-law and his condition. My brother-in-law could pass at any time. Friday is very specific, but it's not a bad gamble. I find it in poor taste she throws out his death so casually, though, wagering her whole charade on his ill health.

That one's too easy. Who else?

Sarah. My sister, who is going through it right now with Kenji's illness. The woman shakes her head.

Nothing much happens to her in the next five days except for grieving her husband. Name someone else.

What? No. You said I could name anybody. I named Sarah. You can't make a prediction for her? She sighs and rolls her eyes.

It's your episode, Max. There are plenty of more interesting options. But fine. Your sister Sarah forgets a bag of groceries and has to go back for it inside or two hours. apples, some herbal medicine your brother-in-law requested that she'll never get a chance to deliver to him, and chocolates for you.

This is all so specific. Already, I'm thinking of how it could be staged. Could this woman bribe one of the store workers at the co-op my sister shops at? Or maybe this make-believe woman has a bug in her ear now. Someone's whispering stuff to her, and they've been watching Sarah, and the shopping has already happened. i'm still considering how elaborate this might be or if she's just doing what most of these

scammers do lie i'll pick the third person because you're about to say mateo and yes his wife is cheating on him you'll say it's too easy for me to have guessed you think i have an accomplice listening and feeding me clues so instead let's pick pete in three days he has a heart attack from seeing her seeing who the woman in the chair

her lips curve in a ghastly smile pete the actor there's no woman in any chair i paid him to make

her up he'll call you in three days and he'll tell you he's been seeing her he'll beg you to make her go away he'll warn you he'll plead he's an actor did you hire him he'll say that he knew you'd say that he'll beg you to believe him but you won't

well this last one sounds easy enough to stage anyway though if they can make the stuff happen with my sister I'll be both really impressed and probably filing a lawsuit for stalking as for my brother-in-law it's disgusting they'd even talk about him that way

oh Max take my card I love referrals Refer me to someone else, and maybe I'll make them believe in your place.

Whatever. I step out of the place, ascending the stairs into the bright sun. She makes my skin crawl. Not because she's connected to the occult, but because she's a charlatan who lies without any sense of moral compunction. A parasite feeding on people's superstitions. I've made it my career to expose people like her. These kinds of scammers are the reason my father ended up losing so much money, destitute, and desperately believing that the woman, if she even was a woman, catfishing him, was in love with him. He believed she was planning to elope with him until he succumbed to COVID during the pandemic. Exposing the lies can't bring him back, or undo the harm that was caused to our family. But it might prevent someone else from falling for a similar scheme. When I get home, I review the footage of my encounter with the make-believe woman and decide that next week I'll splice it with some footage of all her predictions not coming true. It'll make a decent short reel, I guess, though not dissimilar from other reels where I've exposed frauds. I save the footage and forget about it. Two days later, on Friday, my brother-in-law's passing coincides with the first prediction. But his death was already foretold by the doctors, and I dismiss the coincidence. For the rest of the day, I am talking to family. I console my sister. I spend the night and check in on her every few hours. She has barely stopped crying and hasn't eaten anything. The next day, I'm still trying to console her when my phone rings. It's from an unsaved number. I don't pick up. But it rings and rings, and she tells me through tears it's fine to please go and answer it, so I do. It is Pete, the actor.

Max, thank God. She said she'll count you as a referral. You have to make her go away.

Who? Annoyance hits like an ice pick in my brain because I already know who. Already suspect.

I can't believe it.

This make-believe lady actually did it. She actually reached out to Pete, paid him whatever she paid him. Not much, probably. He's an amateur actor we found on Instagram. Honestly, one of the reasons we hired him is because he came cheap.

And now he's turned his shtick on me. Yeah, yeah, very funny. Listen, I know who hired you.

She said you'd say that. She said you wouldn't believe me, but you have to, Max. You have to.

Okay, look, this is inappropriate. My brother-in-law just died. I need to take care of family matters.

You have to leave me. Max, you're the only one who can save me. You have to believe before tonight. Call her and tell her you believe.

I hang up the phone, frustrated, and then I silence it as it immediately rings again. My sister looks up from her chair, eyes red, perplexed.

Nobody, just an actor I worked with on a gig

Nothing to worry about I sigh, looking at my silenced phone It's still ringing There are also pictures coming through via text and messages Pictures from the photo shoot All of the empty chair Can't you see her? He keeps texting more empty chair pictures. The man is dedicated, I'll give him that. He's a much better actor than I initially gave him credit for. Probably should have paid him more. I block his number and forget about him. Forget about him, that is, until the next day. I'm helping my sister to put things away around the house. The place is a mess, and everything reminds her of Kenji. As I unpack a tote bag on the counter, I pull out a couple of chocolate bars. I ask her if I can have one.

Yeah, I got those for you.

Oh, really? Thank you. Sure. I pull a box of an herbal supplement out. My heart thumps in my chest. This is only a coincidence, I think. uh what do you want me to do with this herbal concoction huh supplements for it looks like it helps with digestion and gut health

oh i i got that for kenji i i don't know

Oh. I don't want to ask. I don't want to, and I loathe the butterflies in my stomach, the way my throat is dry and constricted. Did you forget the bag? Huh? The herbal medicine? When you were out shopping for him, did you leave the bag?

Um, yeah, actually.

She wipes tears from her eyes.

I've just been so out of it. How did you know I left it?

I don't answer. My heart is hammering now as I go to my phone, search for Pete's number. Try to call, but there's no answer. I turn to my sister. Maybe the cashier kept the bag by accident. Maybe they set it behind the counter so you didn't notice when you walked away. She's too distraught over Kenji to engage with me. Doesn't understand why I care about the bag. Could have been tucked behind the counter, she echoes. I cling to that thought. The make-believe woman. The make-believe woman bribed the cashier to hide the bag and then put items in it that my sister would normally buy. How else would the make-believe woman have known exactly what items would be in there? These scammers, I tell you, blood-sucking. It's insane the lengths they go to. But just in case, just in case, I retreat to the spare room, open my laptop, and check the footage of my recording with the make-believe woman. check the date she told me i had five days tomorrow will be five i have time i have time i have time i repeat to myself wondering why i'm being so uncharacteristically irrational when none of

this is real. I paid Pete. I know he's acting. Why the fuck hasn't he called back? I call again. No answer. I go to YouTube and pull up the debauchery and debunkery video I released about Nathan, the phony medium. My heart settles as I watch it. The medium talking about his craft. This fucking fraudster. He goes on about establishing a psychic connection and how time is all wibbly-wobbly. Pretty sure he cribbed that from some sci-fi show. And as a consequence, he can see snippets from the future. It's all nonsense. I feel the comfort of the familiar, my skepticism sliding back into place. The camera shots of my house, the staged front room, the peeling wallpaper and everything. And there's Pete, sitting on the sofa, pretending. I can't wait for him to get to the part where I call cut and he reveals he's acting the whole time. That's what I need to see, to feel better. Hello, sir. My name is Nathan. I'm a spiritual medium.

Your family reached out to me and asked for my services. Can you tell me some of what you've been experiencing? She's there. Who's there?

Pete the actor keeps staring and says he doesn't know her name. I don't know her name. And then my camera, zooming in on the chair. No. Fuck me. No. I freeze the frame. No, no, what the fuck, no. She's there, staring out at me from the screen, staring through the screen, right at the camera. The woman from the psychic reading shop. The video proceeds as normal, the same as before, exactly as we recorded. my blood is pumping so loud i can barely hear myself think my pulse raging drowning out the dialogue in the video as the medium leans forward and asks what the woman is doing now pete says she's just sitting there the camera pans back to the empty chair but it's not empty the woman is sitting in it the camera returns to nathan the medium as he gets up and begins performing a blessing on the room until suddenly Pete sits up straight on the sofa. She's getting up. She's laughing. My throat constricts. My heart sledgehammers my ribs so hard I think I might go into cardiac arrest. The phone camera remains trained on Pete, on his hammy acting. Only now, instead of looking hammy, he looks genuinely terrified. He really is a better actor than I gave him credit. I hear my own voice chuckling under my breath on the recording, trying not to giggle at what I evidently thought was a great performance by our actor. And then finally, my phone pans back to the chair. I scream aloud in my room by myself and jerk back from my laptop. The woman is standing, lurching toward the camera. Toward me. She's coming.

Stop.

I'm cowering on the floor, gasping, as the woman steps nearer, nearer to the camera, her face swallowing the screen. Cut. Then everything is back to normal. The woman on the video is gone. There's only Nathan, red-faced and ashamed, as Pete and I tease him. I'm Max, host of Debauchery and Debunkery, where we used to take a shot for each lie, but we quickly realized we get drunk way too fast. I slam my hand on the laptop to shut it, but then something occurs to me. If the woman was really there, if I wasn't seeing things, others must have noticed her too. I pull open the laptop again and skim the YouTube comments. all ordinary and my heartbeat settles until i scroll to the most recent comments specifically there's a bunch left by the user pete hams it up it's the handle for our actor and he has commented Over and over. Pete hams it up. I believe. Pete hams it up. I believe. Pete hams it up. I believe. Pete hams it up. I believe. Pete hams it up. I believe. I check Pete's Instagram account, the one we hired him from. His account is gone. Deleted. I call Pete. And while the phone rings, the door bursts open. Max, everything okay? She's come because she heard me screaming over the video. Can you see her? I'm trying not to hyperventilate as I turn my laptop toward her, rewinding the video to just before the cut. Can you see anyone in the chair? What? No, it's just an empty chair. Max, what's going on? But I push past her without answering. I need to get home. Need to get to that staged front room. Max? I slam the door behind me. I try calling Pete again as I pull out of the driveway. His phone just keeps ringing. I call, I call, then drop the phone, swearing as I nearly pancake a pedestrian. I'm so distraught. The pedestrian screams obscenities as I screech by. My phone rings again, and I pick it up wildly, wondering if it's Pete, but it's my sister worried about me. I lie that I'm fine, running to red light and careening along residential streets, and finally screeching into my driveway, and I leap out, rushing up the front steps, through the porch, and into the staged living room area. See the chair? Still empty. Thank God.

Everything's still the same as on the day of Nathan the Medium's visit. Nathan. I need to call Nathan. Nathan, it's Max from debauchery and debunkery. I need you to make her stop. I'll... I pause, stammering over my next words and grit my teeth and make myself say, I'll take down the debunk video. I'll say you were right. Just make her stop.

Do you believe?

Sure, fine. Just make her stop.

If you believe, you must publicly announce your belief before you end yourself and your channel.

What?

The blood in my veins turns to ice as I remember the deal. That absurd deal. If I believe, I end my channel and myself. If I don't believe, nothing happens. So, Max, you'll be fine if you don't believe, says the small, rational voice in my head. If I don't believe. As long as I'm still a skeptic, I'm... But tears start into my eyes. The phone's shaking in my fingers because I'm looking at my texts. and there's a new one from Pete. Hello? This is Jay on my grandfather's phone. He had a heart attack yesterday and passed away. Scrolling up to the previous texts, it's just the picture he sent over and over again of the chair. But now I see her. I fucking see her. And now I can't make myself unsee her. I can't. I can't. And I'm certain that when I finally see her in the flesh again and my five days are over, I'll end my account and myself and... Oh, fuck me. How do I stop it? Please help me. Nathan's voice cackles. Only it doesn't sound like Nathan I sink down to the floor in despair And that's when I find it on the carpet That matte black card of hers Black like the blackest void in the universe Except those words make-believe And the picture of the eye looking at me And the number and I remember she likes referrals I still have a few hours left to find someone else

so i'm making this final video please are you a skeptic you think i'm making this all up that it's just nonsense that i'm a that i'm an actor perfect okay please listen i believe and i need you to look her up i need you to Call her. Call the number. Call her. And no matter how skeptical you are, she'll make you believe. But I beg you to do it soon. Now. Call her now. Now. Now. Now. Now. Now. I promise. She'll make you believe.

We'll be right back.

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 micholsky jeff clement jesse cornett and claudius more. 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 ad free extended episodes each week and lots of bonus content for the dark hours all for one low monthly price on behalf of everyone at the no sleep podcast we thank you for taking the plunge into our dark waters this audio program is copyright 2026 by creative reason Media. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media. No part of this audio program may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. All rights reserved.

bro from the show last night to this drive why is it never chill because this is our life backstage on the road it's loud messy real and that's the best part whole crew no plan just moving good thing nissan builds for that kind of chaos not just test tracks real life scenes late

nights road trips all of it that's why it holds up nissan was ranked number one in initial quality among mainstream brands by jd power yeah you can tell 2026 nissan rogue built for what really

happens for jd power 2025 u.s initial quality study award information visit jdpower.com

slash awards. Awards based on 2025 model year, newer models may be shown. When it does prepare for risk, protect success. Smart risk management from the Hartford. Learn more at the Hartford.com slash risk mitigation policies provided by Hartford fire insurance company and its property and casualty affiliates Hartford, Connecticut.

Identity theft can cost more than you think. Drained investment accounts, stolen tax returns, lost wages, expenses for lawyers. It's a lot. That's why LifeLock is backed by the million dollar protection package, which covers up to $1 million each for stolen funds, fees for experts and lawyers, and out-of-pocket expenses. Don't face the burden of identity theft alone. Protect your future and finances with LifeLock. Join now and save up to 30% your first year at lifelock.com slash iHeart. Terms apply.