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. Have you heard that old joke where one person says, Do you realize the biggest problems with our society are ignorance and apathy? And the other person responds, I don't know, and I don't care. Ignorance and apathy. I don't know, and I don't care. And I understand how old that joke is, because ignorance and apathy are no longer problems in today's world, right? Right? We all know pretty much everything these days, and we only care about the most important issues. So, problem solved. But in the world of horror, ignorance can be the crux of a spooky tale. A person says, this house isn't haunted. Ah, but it is. There's no monster under the bed. Ah, you'd be surprised. And now combine that ignorance with someone else who knows the dangers exist, who try to warn the others only to be met with apathy. Now you have tales which are so well illustrated on our episode this week. We'll meet people who simply can't accept that there's something wrong, that dangers lurk around the corner for them. And when someone else tries to warn them to no effect,

well, as the saying goes, that's on you, dude. And if there's one thing I know about No Sleep Podcast listeners, it's that you folks are not ignorant or apathetic. And that's why I want to remind you about our very own Atticus Jackson. You'll recall at the start of our Sleepless Decompositions Volume 22 episode back in January that Atticus shared his struggles with the medical condition known as hydrodinitis Sapirativa, HS for short. It's a debilitating skin condition that brings nothing but misery to those who suffer from it. Atticus has an ongoing GoFundMe campaign and is still hoping for support to handle the crushing medical bills that are associated with this disease. Please check the link in the show notes to learn more about the campaign, and if you're able, please give generously to Atticus and his family. We want that dude to be a big part of this show for a long time to come. Thanks, everyone. So, look, don't bury your head in the sand. There are dangers out there. You'd be wise to heed the warnings, especially if the warnings are about things lurking beneath the dark waters. Now it's time to plunge into the horror of our sleepless tales.

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In our first tale, we meet a family who have been thrust into a sudden emergency situation. They don't know what's going on. All they've been told is to flee the city and get to a secluded location. But in this tale, shared with us by author John Andrew Henderson, it's the father who issued the dire warning to his family, and considering where he works, it's smart that they listen to him. Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas, Lindsay Russo, Mary Murphy, Kyle Akers, Graham Rowett, Nicole Goodnight, Dan Zappula, and Jesse Cornett. So sometimes you shouldn't stop to think. When told to run, you run. All the way to Lake Fame.

In physics, the observation of quantum phenomena is known to change their measurements. The idea that we can affect reality in this mysterious way is known as the observer effect. It was early on the 14th of November when Mom burst into my room and shook me awake. What's going on? I glanced at the clock and tried to pull the covers over my head. It's six in the morning. Mom picked up my portable TV and launched it through the window. A stiff wind whipped at the curtains. Downstairs, in the car, now. Okay, okay. My heart was thumping. What have I done? Let me get dressed. No time. She pulled me out of bed and hustled me down the stairs. My sister Donna and my younger brother Aiden were already in the back seat of our convertible. The top was down and the engine running, a plume of smoke drifting up from the exhaust. On the other side of the drive was our neighbor, Mr. Voss. With him, his wife and his daughter, Ruby. She was too little for me to play with, but Mr. Voss was a friend of my dad's because they worked together. I saw with the start that his wife had a rifle slung over one shoulder. Mr. Voss pointed and Ruby obediently climbed into the back of our car, squeezing between Aiden and Donna. Mr. Voss was a bike nut and his Harley-Davidson was parked in the driveway, two full saddlebacks draped over the back.

We have to go, Deidre!

He's not here!

There were tears in my mother's eyes.

I can't leave!

Bill told us we shouldn't wait. You understand he isn't coming, don't you?

Bill was my father.

Behave yourself, Ruby.

Mr. Voss straddled the bike and his wife climbed on behind, arms around his waist.

Look after my girl, Deidre.

I will. Mom motioned to me. Get in the front. Where's Dad? Get in the car! Aiden flinched, and Donna began to cry. We lived on the outskirts of town, so it wasn't long before we were in the country. Mom turned west off the highway. driving at breakneck speed until the last few towns faded away. Mr. Voss' Harley remained behind us the whole time, his pace always matching ours. I'm still in my pajamas and it's freezing. Can't we put the roof up? It stays down. Mom shot around a tight corner and Donna whimpered in terror.

There's a bag of clothes on the floor and some blankets. You'll have to change on the go.

Her phone rang and she jabbed at the answer button.

It's me again, Deirdre.

Bill, we should have waited. I'm so sorry.

I'm the one who's sorry. I didn't mean for things to turn out like this.

The children are listening.

Good. They need to hear.

Donna broke the door. again. Dad, what's happening? Why is everyone acting so scary? Listen, kids, your mother is

going to drive until she is as far from civilization as she can get. Aiden looked up, wide-eyed. Is it a war? Is there a bomb? Please stay quiet. Your lives depend on it, and I don't have much

time. I clenched my fists. What did he mean that our lives depended on it? Donna was crying again.

Find somewhere remote. Get out of the car and stay outside. Do you understand? Stay out of enclosed spaces. Don't go inside. It's the middle of winter, Dad. I'm heading for the boys camp at

Like fame, Bill. Mom was crying as much as Donna.

It's deserted in winter, but there's running water in a locked storeroom with supplies.

Yes, but you can't go into any confined places. If you do...

The line went dead. Bill! Bill! There was no answer. Tell your father you love him. He's been cut off, Mom. Tell him anyway! We love you, Dad. We drove in silence for what seemed like hours, huddled under blankets, too cold and afraid to speak.

We're almost there.

My mother wiped the tears away and sat up straighter. This is where your dad and I first met as teenagers. We were camp counselors. My mother had never mentioned that before. What did he mean to stay outside? I don't know, honey. I only know something terrible has happened. We parked by the shore of Lake Fame. Mr. and Mrs. Voss stopped right behind us. Ruby jumped out of our vehicle and hugged them both. As Mom said, it was a summer camp, dotted with log cabins and completely deserted at this time of year. Or so we thought. Then we heard the chug-chug of a powerful engine. After a few minutes, an old tractor towing some complicated apparatus made of circular blades and steel arms drove into view. On top perched an elderly man in an overcoat, sporting thick glasses and a fur hat. Mrs. Boss quickly hid the rifle behind her husband's bike.

Ah, morning!

The stranger waved.

I'm the caretaker around here. It was more in the fields when I saw you come past and head up the driveway.

He gave an awkward grimace.

The problem is, we're closed for the winter. You folks lost... Nothing like that.

Mr. Voss jerked his thumb at the convertible.

Bit of car trouble is all. It's been a long journey, and I wondered if we might take a walk around and stretch our legs.

Well, this is private property, but who's gonna know, eh?

The caretaker winked at us, climbing down from the tractor.

Well, have a stroll, and I'll go to the reception building and call you a tow truck. It'd take a couple hours to get out here anyhow.

He turned and marched off between the cabins. Mom waited until he was out of sight, then shot Mr. Voss a panicked look. We can't just let him go.

How do you propose stopping the guy? Shoot him? We could tie him up at gunpoint. What if Bill is wrong? How much trouble would we be... Oh, hell. Bill is never wrong.

Mrs. Voss handed her husband the rifle, and he sprinted after the caretaker. A couple of minutes later, we heard a shot being fired, and everyone ran in the direction of the sound. Mr. Voss was sitting on a tree stump, face ashen.

I caught up with him just as he went into the reception building and shut the door. But as soon as he did, it changed.

Oh God, this can't be happening. I imagine the reception building had been constructed of wood, like all the other cabins. Now it was some sort of synthetic, seamless lump. What seemed to be vinyl stickers had suddenly replaced the windows and doors. It looked exactly like a giant plastic toy. I don't know how else to describe it. Painted onto one window, as if he were inside, was a 2D image of the camp caretaker, mouth open in a silent scream. It was obscene.

Ruby and Aiden clutched at each other. Mrs. Voss turned and threw up.

Fetch branches from the forest.

Our mother pointed to the trees ringing the lake.

We need to keep a fire burning permanently.

Keep an eye out for anything useful, like axes or rope. But don't go into any of the buildings.

Like we needed to be told that.

And now you kids have a million questions. Mom clasped Aiden to her chest and stroked on his cheek. And we'll answer them the best we can tonight. Right now, we have to make sure we don't die of exposure when darkness falls.

By evening, we had a huge pile of wood. Mom built a roaring fire and we sat around it, draped in blankets. The temperature was just above freezing, so one side of me tingled with the heat and the other with cold.

You know your dad is a government researcher and he's not allowed to talk about his work.

Mom hugged her knees.

I've always respected that, especially when it got us a nice house, a big convertible, and vacations whenever we wanted. Her face was a picture of misery.

In other words, I didn't ask for details. All eyes swung around to Mr. Voss.

Bill's area of expertise is quantum physics, but his research is top secret and well above my clearance level.

Mr. Voss tossed another log on the fire.

He let slip once that he was working on expanding the observer effect.

I knew what that was. The idea that you could change tiny quantum particles just by observing them. And quantum particles were the building blocks of the whole universe.

He said that, in theory, we might be able to change the very nature of reality. Mr. Voss looked lost. I said that sounded pretty dangerous. Then he clammed up.

Your father called me last night. Told me to load up the car with canned food and warm clothes, then be ready to leave at dawn if I hadn't heard from him before that. To drive as far as I could into the wilderness.

Reflections from the flames flickered across Mom's face.

He absolutely insisted that we stay outside. I wasn't even to put the top up on the convertible.

She hugged her blanket tighter and stared longingly at the cabins a few hundred meters away.

Then he suddenly hung up. I could tell he wasn't supposed to be speaking to me.

I got a near-identical call.

Mr. Voss wiped sweat from his forehead.

Bill said something had gone wrong with an experiment. That it was his fault and he'd try to shut it down.

He shuddered.

Now I know why he told us not to go inside. We all saw what happened to the caretaker. I just don't know why. Bill was the genius, not me.

Do you think Dad is dead? Throw some more wood on the fire.

The next day, we put the things we found lying around to good use. Mrs. Voss discovered some old brooms and wrapped the handles together using strips of surgical tape from our first aid kit. We broke the lock on the storerooms and were able to reach some more canned goods, towels, a tent, and empty plastic containers that we filled from a stream that ran into the lake. Yet the cold was ever-present. Then it rained on and off for three days. We tried our best, but the odds were against us. We lost the Voss family at the end of the first week. The sleeping bags were no real protection for night after night on the frosty ground in ice-cold air. Ruby developed a severe cough, which turned into flu, then pneumonia. My daughter and I are going to stay in the tent. I have to get some warm air in her lungs. The tent is enclosed. It's outside, isn't it? Just a bit of canvas? Mrs. Voss stroked her daughter's hair and smiled wanly at her husband. You stay out here, honey. But I need to take that chance.

Don't be silly.

Mr. Voss glanced at Ruby, hunched over the fire, face waxy and sheened with sweat.

We do this together.

They erected the tent and waited until we were asleep before they crawled inside. I don't know if they were just delaying the inevitable or wanted to spare us. The following morning, it was one solid piece of plastic. Like the roof of a giant doll's house, the entrance resembled a black sticker, and the imprint of one small hand sullied the left side. Aiden hammered on it until his fists were bruised.

Dad did this. Killed his best friend. I couldn't help but agree.

Two weeks passed without a single person coming our way. No surprise there, as I imagine there wasn't anyone left. After all, in times of panic, a population always seeks shelter. The one thing that would doom them. We tried to keep some semblance of normality. Yet it was difficult. Mom pretended everything was okay, and it was all some kind of grand adventure. But it rang false, and the dark circles under her eyes grew deeper each day. Donna was increasingly nervous, jumping at shadows, convinced some greater hardship was just around the corner. I gathered wood and picked berries. Aiden spent hours staring into space. Then one night, he waited until we were asleep and crept into one of the cabins. He didn't even open the windows, just left the door wedged ajar. In the morning, he walked out, unharmed. Mom grabbed him, and at first I didn't know whether she was going to kiss him or slap him across the face. Why? Why did you risk your life?

We were going to die of exposure. I had to take the chance.

Bill said we couldn't go inside. He sounded so sure. Aiden stuck out his chin.

If our father was right about everything, we wouldn't be in this mess.

My mother looked stunned, but Don it clapped her hands in relief. That day was the best of our lives. We got right into the storeroom and found more canned food and drums of fuel. There were rods and reels, which meant we'd be able to catch fish and archery equipment so we could hunt. We also gained access to the generator room and got it working. Now we had light and hot water. Mom declared we would live in the manse, a large colonial building set aside for summer staff. Go get your brother. It's only fair he should pick the best bedroom. I found Aiden sitting on the shore of the lake and made myself comfortable on a rock beside him. Mom and Donna were sweet, but Aiden and I inherited the brains of our family, and he was the only one I could really talk to. Cool move saving the family like that. I put an arm around him. How did you figure out the cabins were safe?

You agree dad somehow changed reality, yeah?

He swept his hand in an arc.

Created whatever this is?

I do. The result of his top secret project going wrong would be my bet.

I think I know how it went wrong.

Do tell. I shuffled around to get more comfortable.

He was only supposed to change things by observing. But I figure his subconscious warped the results somehow.

Aiden looked sideways at me.

Think about it, sis. What was Dad's greatest obsession?

His work. No hesitation there.

I'm talking outside of work.

That was a no-brainer, too. Dad had an expansive workshop in the grounds out back of our house. Aircraft of every sort hung on wires from the roof, while each shelf was crammed with miniature cars, tanks, and buildings. He loved making models. Aidan nodded.

Plastic models. And what scared him most?

He was claustrophobic. Another obvious one. Dad had a terror of confined spaces and couldn't even be in a car. That's why we had to buy a convertible. He'd totally freak out in a tent. And yet, he could happily enter any room, cupboard, restaurant, or secret government facility as long as a door or window was open. Aiden grinned.

I knew you'd work it out too. Warning us to stay outside was just Dad being over-anxious. Mom always joked that he was completely neurotic.

Or he didn't want to take the chance we might ruin his nice little experiment by dying.

That's a bit harsh.

My brother looked shocked, but I could tell he had been thinking along the same lines. Either way, you've established something vital to our survival. In whatever strange new existence this is, inside and confined are not quite the same. The same thing.

Dad was being too cautious. If a space is not totally enclosed, it's safe.

Which means I can finally have a hot shower. I kissed his cheek. Making you my favorite person of all time.

I may have already told Mom she could have one.

He got up and pulled me to my feet.

She was starting to smell pretty bad.

I'm next then. We were halfway to the manse when we heard Donna shrieking. I broke into a run, Aiden right behind. We burst in and followed the sound. Our sister was in the bathroom.

I saw a light and felt Mom in the shower, but it's enclosed.

I clapped a hand to my mouth. The shower was one solid block of resin, my mother's silhouette etched on the side, pushing desperately against her confines, a literal shadow of who she once was. I clutched at the sink behind me for support, head bowed, too numb to take it in.

No, no, no. Aiden pointed above the macabre scene. It's not enclosed. There's a gap between the glass and the roof.

I didn't see it. It was covered in clouds of steam. What did you say?

My head jerked up.

I didn't see it. What does it matter?

I don't understand.

Aiden pressed his hands forlornly against the plastic. Sorrow and confusion etched across his face.

It should have been safe.

Nothing here is safe. Everything is a trap waiting to be sprung. We're trapped in our father's insane experiment. Trapped in this stupid existence. No matter what we do, we're doomed.

She sank to the floor, clutching her hair.

We're all gonna die here. We're gonna die one by one.

Aiden went to comfort her, but I grabbed his arm. We have to go, now.

She's having a panic attack.

He pushed me away. What the hell is wrong with you? Donna was curled in a ball, rocking back and forwards, still repeating the same phrase.

We're all gonna die here. We're all gonna die here.

I began to feel dizzy. Leaving Aiden crouched beside her. I staggered down the stairs and into the crisp morning air. Then I shut the door. The house smoothed out and transformed into synthetic material, cutting Donna and Aiden off mid-cry. I moved into the cabin closest to the lake. The view is beautiful, and none of the windows face the plastic monstrosity that was once the manse. I'm not proud of what I've done. If I had figured out the truth sooner, my brother and sister might still be alive. Too late, I realized Aiden was only half right. This reality may have been shaped by Dad's fears and imaginings, but it can be changed by ours. Aiden survived in the cabin because he was sure he would. The Voss family died because they didn't really believe a tent counted as outside. When Donna failed to notice the gap over the shower screen, she was certain the shower would turn plastic. So it did. Then she became convinced we were all going to die. I had to shut her up or that would have come true as well. Aiden just got caught in the crossfire. With plenty of time on my hands, my thoughts have turned from what did Dad do to why did he do it? and I realized something disturbing. Try as I might, I don't remember my father playing with us, taking us to the park or reading us a story. In fact, I don't really remember him at all. So how do I know what he was like? I can only come to one conclusion. Another one of my father's many fears had managed to wriggle into the fabric of this existence. The knowledge that, as a neurotic, immoral, work-obsessed, model-building claustrophobe, he was never going to have a loyal best friend, a beautiful wife, and healthy children. So in the reality he created, it happened. We weren't his family. We were simply products of his pathetic attempts to be loved. Well, that's another part of his experiment that hasn't gone the way he expected. If my father could alter reality, so can I. From now on, I'm going to shape this world in any way I desire. He wanted to play God, Dad? You just created one.

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And when it comes to the planet's health, it's the things going on in the oceans that can signal the most pressing dangers. And in this tale, shared with us by author Shannon Weston from her novel published by Radical Bookshop. Check the show notes for more details. We meet two marine biologists who are studying what's happening to marine life in the Pacific, and what they learn signals deep trouble. Performing this tale are Kristen DiMercurio and Reagan Tacker. So the warning might be coded in a special way. If you study Seek Help, Seek Help.

We don't really know what's in the ocean. At its strongest, sunlight penetrates to a depth of approximately 1,000 meters. However, your average sunny day pierces about 200. Below that, there's no visible light. No natural light. Really, most of the ocean is plunged in perpetual darkness, largely unexplored by humans at night the shadows seem particularly sentient heavy to me it almost feels like the lux count is in the negative the only things that keep it at bay are the floodlights and the flashlights

and the other artificial methods humans have developed in order to allow light to shine where it shouldn't. They push away the mystery because the unknown makes them scared. Most people hate what they don't understand. They revile it, reject it, and try to destroy it. Not me. There's a lot of things I don't know. It's the reason I get out of bed in the morning. My name is Cecilia Woodward. I'm a researcher stationed at the central Oregon coast, focusing primarily on the area around Cape Perpetua. Take a child to an aquarium, and they leave thinking about marine mammals bigger than cruise ships, or glossy striped fish undulating against the artificial current, or the entire neighborhoods of creatures stuffed into the tiniest rocky cracks. They tuck themselves into bed, thinking about the ocean differently, understanding that there's life in every crashing wave onto the shore, or every lap of salt water against an uncovered ankle. They go from wading barefoot in the water, shrieking, Ew, what just touched my foot? to feeling the same sensation and asking, Oh, what just touched my foot? Ignited curiosity. The innate desire to understand. Or I'm just projecting. I've always liked jellyfish. I liked that they were graceful and danced in a way that I couldn't predict. that they were gelatinous and venomous. That fascination essentially drove my entire academic career, culminating in my thesis on the blasphemy formation in cnidarians. In layman's terms, regeneration in jellyfish. But marine biology is an extremely competitive academic field. There are thousands of people competing for hundreds of jobs. An ever-thinning pool of opportunities negatively impacted by governments denying the existence of global warming by plugging their ears with their fingers, shouting la la la, and funneling that cut funding directly into an offshore bank account. The world is funny like that. I spent the first eight years of my postgraduate career researching estuaries, specifically centered around the survival rates of Pacific salmon, and led a program that restored a tidal wetland critical to their survival. There were no jellyfish, but I did receive regional coverage for my work. My positive impact on the native salmon population led to an eventual transfer to the Tidepool Program. I call myself an oceanic astronomer. Why? My life revolves around sea stars. That line hasn't really worked on dating apps, even though I think it's pretty romantic. I think it confuses people. Might be for the best anyway. I come across better in person. Besides, there's not a lot of service at the coast.

It doesn't matter if I'm down on the sands or inside the state-funded shoebox of a cabin provided for researchers. My phone is in a constant state of LTE, and my plan has garbage rates for roaming that I can't really afford. It's okay. I'm fine being single. I never really got used to the blank stares people give me when I tell them that I study sea star wasting disease. The mood continues to decline when I go on a rant about how rampant it is, how it's plaguing the Pacific Ocean from Alaska down to California. They're a vital keystone predator, and in a decade, over 5 billion sea stars have been lost to the disease. Over 5 billion. In some species, that is over 90% of their population. More people should be worried about it. No, they just look at me like they're trying to figure out what to say in order to take off my bra later. It never goes anywhere. Even if I wanted it to. They don't want to take me home. And hotel walls are thin. I can't bring them back to the cabin either. I share the space with another researcher. Hey, Seal, have you seen my binoculars? Within five hours of moving into the cabin, Adam called me Seal. I've always been known as Cecilia. All four syllables. Sweetheart names were given to me by my family in an attempt to soften me. Nicknames like Cece or Leah or Cecil or Snooty Magoots, courtesy of my eldest brother. But they all fit me like a bad haircut, highlighting the most unflattering angles of me. They make me misshapen and lumpy and uneven, which always bothered me because my looks have always been one of the better parts of me. It wasn't like he didn't know my full name. As he shook my hand post-introductions and said, A pleasure to meet you, Cecilia. But that didn't stop him from altering me, changing me. I laughed at it. I don't laugh at a lot of things.

Adam's a P&W transplant from one of the Carolinas. His southern accent draws words out and curls them along the edges, his cadence dipping and flowing like one of the mountain roads that leads to the coast. His hair's the color of burned toast. He has a Bigfoot sticker on the back of his Subaru Forester that proudly proclaims, I believe. He has a tattoo of a lobster holding a wine glass on the side of his ribcage. His cargo pants have more pockets than functionality. He's generally neat and tidy and spends his evenings filling out kakuro boards. I'm not sure. Have you checked the kitchen counter to the left of the microwave?

Here they are. You're a genius.

He brings them to the doorway to my room, large enough for a twin bed, a desk, and little else, and waves the binoculars as evidence of his discovery. Adam smiles broadly, like I truly made his day. I'm obsessed with him. Spruce trees and ferns surround the path. After the morning rain, the trail is so muddy that our boots squelch as we walk. The difficult weather acts as a warding system to the casual beachcomber, granting researchers some much-needed privacy during low tide. Our areas of research differ. I study the ochre sea star and the bacteria swiftly eradicating their numbers. He studies the Pacific's disappearing kelp forests.

The boom in purple sea urchin populations and the decline of bull kelp are related. Urchins will eat anything, and it's kind of impressive. I once read a report where a group of scientists tried to starve out a control group of urchins in order to restart their physiology and better understand their dietary demands. They can live several months without much, or any food. So, they entered into torpor states and became essentially hollow. And then, they just started eating the side of the tank. Literal plexiglass. They're just little asshole zombies sitting around waiting for food to show up so they can eat it. Anyway, I contacted Phyllis down in Port Orford. You know her?

I nod.

Yeah, she's reported that the efforts to reinstate kelp down there have failed. The reef's basically barren now. A ton of ochres, though. Have you been?

He does that a lot. He turns the conversation back at me, pinning me with his large, dark eyes from behind his thick glasses. I don't think he caught me staring at him. He spilled some coffee on his orange sweater that morning, and he still faintly wafts with the scent of that. That and toothpaste. Not in a long time. My family used to go camping around Bullard's Beach. Back then, you could just show up and explore. Too many out-of-staters to worry about now. I shift my backpack on my shoulders, laden with equipment and a thermos full of hot tomato soup. He looks a little guilty. His eyes dart around the path ahead of us. And I realize he took my comment personally. Not including you, of course.

No, I mean, I'm not...

You've earned your position here. You're doing valuable research.

Right. Well, thanks. I'm trying.

As the forest abruptly stops and opens to the pale sands and dark rocks of the coast, he gives me a small wave, his hand clutched around his two-way radio.

I'll keep you updated, Seal. Check in with you in a few hours.

Sounds good. He walks one direction. I walk the other. A low fog obfuscates the shoreline. Adam disappears, leaving only me and the sea. There's something patently unwelcoming about Cape Perpetua that goes beyond the dangers of craggy chasms and basalt flows. The fissures of volcanic rock make the waves frothy and violent, crashing the tides against the shore in a chaotic churn. On a cloudy day, the ocean is gray enough to vanish into the horizon, making the interjection of black rock and restless waters seem lonely and isolated. Cold, even at the height of summer. My research station is tucked into a cave. It looks like a simple outcropping to the naked eye, allowing me to conduct my research without the curious snooping or clomping feet of tourists. From my rudimentary assessment, my cave seems to lead to a robust system of tunnels that thread beneath the surrounding coastline. However, I haven't explored it. I'm a marine biologist, not a cave diver nor spelunker, and I feel that me squeezing my ass through a crack in the wall would do nothing to further the understanding of cave ecosystems. Additionally, the thought makes me queasy. A partial collapse of the cave's ceiling allows a steady stream of light to illuminate my tide pool. It's deep, directly in the center of it. A dark pit of water. It appears to be a sinkhole of some kind. My steps are careful atop the thick blanket of mussels and snails, and I sigh in relief when I see my makeshift desk of driftwood and rocks intact. The basin of water is populated with common intertidal life. Barnacles, sea lettuce, green-tipped anemones, loose strands of kelp. There are a few urchin corpses lying around, a hearty meal for some variety of marine creature, and I almost take a picture to show Adam the carnage. I don't, though. At the end of the day, I'm not here for him. I'm here for my starfish. Clusters of sea stars dot the tide pool. They're a kaleidoscope of purple and orange layered atop each other in heaps of limbs. I watch them carefully in order to observe signs of sea star wasting disease. Once infected, sea stars suffer from abnormally twisted arms, deflation of limbs, white lesions, arm loss, and body disintegration. They die over the course of days, most commonly a week. While the search for a cause and a cure remains ongoing, there's evidence that suggests the wasting disease is an infection that leads to an inability to absorb adequate oxygen, leading ultimately to suffocation. While sea stars cannot infect each other, the bacteria can contaminate clusters quickly. and as infected stars decay, the corpses exacerbate the rot

by providing organic matter for the bacteria to flourish. I imagine my expertise in blastoma formation is part of the reason why I'm assigned to research this disease. However, there have been no indicators that the decay can be reversed once the sea star has been contaminated. Despite the capabilities of limb regeneration in a healthy sea star, they simply wither and die. I take multiple samples of the water in the tide pool, measuring the chemical composition of the samples. I narrate my process aloud, much in the way a lonely spinster recites poems to her houseplants. Quickly, I fall into a state of cohabitation with the briny pool. The waves crash and echo within the cave. It's almost meditative. The two-way radio crackles to life, slicing through the cave with a high-pitched electronic squeal.

Syl, Syl, are you there?

I'm here, Adam.

Hey, I found something weird on the beach. It's a lot of, well...

He does this sometimes, walking next to his point instead of getting right to it. My voice gains an edge of impatience. What is it?

I've never seen anything like it before. Adam? Will you come here? That's something you have to see. I'm about a 20-minute walk north of the path termination.

I hesitate. There's something in his voice that I can't easily detect. Please? I'm midway through my trek to Adam when I realize it was fear. The tide brings all sorts of gifts to shore. Pretty shells and bountiful agates, dislodged kelp and flattened bodies of crystal jellyfish driftwood. It isn't uncommon to find bones, either. They've been picked clean by hungry critters and smoothed by particulates of sand and salt, bleached by the sun and left to the whims of the waves. I see Adam's silhouette, staring down at the sands between him and the ocean. The sun has cut through the fog in some areas, blanching the remaining fog into painful white. He isn't smiling. He's running a hand along his jaw, his index finger pressing into the scar beneath his left ear that he received from a cleat to his neck when he was 12. A nervous habit. At his feet are bones, dozens of them, starting at the tip of his boot and extending upwards. Walking around him, I follow the path and assess the collection. A cursory glance spots the easy curve of ribs, the knob of spines, and ring-sized joints. Some of the bones are massive, as long as my arm. There are no skulls. Slinging my backpack to my stomach, I root around the interior pocket for a pair of work gloves. Adam watches me, expressionlessly, as I kneel down to the bones and inspect them. The air thrums as the ocean surges against the shore. I feel the vibrations of its power in my jaw. I thought you grew up hunting, Adam. Don't tell me that you're squeamish. I try to dust off the knowledge I have about mammalian bones, but it's not my area of expertise. I handle the skeletal remains with the abject fascination of an uncultured rube visiting the Guggenheim. Adam clears his throat, shifting awkwardly on his feet.

I mean, I've done my fair share of deer processing. This ain't the... that, though. I've been on thousands of beach walks, and I've never seen a concentration of

bones like this. The bone in my hand feels heavy. Most of the bones that wash up on shore are as light as air, hollowed out by the ocean and predators. It's crabbing season. A boat probably cast out some pieces of meat as a form of chum. Using mammal meat to go fishing? His voice hitches up at the end of his question, uncomfortable and disbelieving in a singular swoop. Meat is meat, Adam. I toss the bone back and stand, tucking my gloves into my pant pocket. And the ocean's hungry. I say it with enough condescension that it closes off the discussion for other theories. He knows that I'm right. That there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for the bones. And drops the subject like he drops his arms from protectively covering his chest.

Pratt.

Was that it? It's a little harsher than I mean. He flinches before shaking his head.

No, uh, there's something else.

Beckoning me closer, he leads me to the waterline between the bones and the ocean. He points down to the sand, where I see faded triangles of purple and orange. I swallow a gasp as my knees meet the wet sand. Intermingled with the skeletal remains are pieces of starfish. lost limbs that are dead and pale, and one of the first indicators of a resurgence of the wasting disease. I look south to my cave, to my sea stars, and feel the pit of my stomach harden with dread. Three days later, Adam finds another abnormally large pile of bones on the beach, another four days after that. Every discovery makes him more skittish, but he hasn't called anyone at the state office to inform them of the anomalies. I think he's waiting to form a credible theory before phoning it in. He has a reference book on animal physiology on his desk, interspersed with several bookmarks, another about human anatomy. In the evenings, he's unusually glued to his laptop. Once when he went to the bathroom, I looked at the screen and saw several windows up for local missing people. He hasn't talked to me about any of his ideas. It bothers me, but I'll give him time to come around. I don't like to pry. Adam's in the kitchen, roasting squash and onions for a blender soup. The doors open for ventilation. I stare at the ocean through the entrance, enjoying the last vestiges of sunlight in the center of the horizon. The cabin smells a little stale from the takeout burger I brought back from the local pub. Oh, fuck. Adam jumps back from the refrigerator, his hand finding his face and pressing his glasses back into the bridge of his nose.

Jesus, Seal.

What is it?

Seal, I didn't know you brought samples back.

Clear plastic bags filled with bones, sand, water samples, and pieces of sea stars. I found the skull of a harbor seal with some viscera still attached. I filled the bottom of the fridge with them, tied off and labeled with the date. I didn't tell him because if he wanted to keep the details of his research from me, I would do the same to him. Yes, I did move all of his groceries to an upper shelf in order to make room for my bags. That part was pettiness, though. And not in the name of science. Of course I did, Adam. I'm conducting research to see if there's any correlation between the remains and the diseased sea stars. He's propped his hands on the counter, hanging his head between his shoulders. I don't understand why he's so unnerved.

Yeah, okay. Do you have to keep the research in her fridge? It's just, I'm not all that comfortable. Where else would I keep it, Adam? I beg your pardon?

He looks at me. I meet his gaze. Where else would I keep my research? He takes a moment to work through the thought I interrupted. He doesn't want to be rude because he wasn't raised that way. Never once has he raised his voice at me or vocalized a disagreement or called me a bitch. Instead, he inhales deeply and leans against the fridge to look at me.

I understand that. You need a controlled environment in order to assess your findings. Maybe, if it's possible, could we put the bags in the freezer between your research sessions? Just to, you know, keep it away from the food. If that doesn't work, I'll pitch in for a mini-fridge. Something we can keep tucked in a corner or something like that. Just to keep it separate.

it's silly that he finds it so disgusting because the bags are closed and the contents are dead but my mind keeps getting stuck on the places he used we like we are a collective and because we are a collective i need to be more understanding of the things that make

make him uncomfortable. You know what? Don't worry about it. I'll find a different place to store my samples. He visibly perks up. Are you sure? Of course. I'll take care of them. Thanks, Seal. You're the best. I should have asked for permission to store my samples there, but I didn't. I like seeing what I can get away with, because I like knowing how to get the upper hand on the people of my life. I jot down additional notes in the diary cradled between my knees, and smile when he offers me a mug half full with the soup he made, recognizing it as an additional peace offering. I compare him to a jellyfish in my journal. Beautiful. Spineless. Adam goes to bed early, closing the door behind his goodnight. I wait until he turns off his light to move, quietly navigating through the cabin as I pack my bag and put my samples in a small, hard-sided thermocooler. I take my research back to my cave. The darkness is particularly prominent at night. The water rushes, the rocks drip. There is never a moment that I know what's behind me. My desk is filled with an increasing amount of material that I haul in and out of the cave. Pipettes, test tubes, a pair of gas-fueled burners, scalpels, journals, containers of iodine complex and disinfectants. My goggles have a high-powered LED light that eases my eye strain as I look through the magnifying glasses and into my microscope. Conclusive findings remain elusive. However, I have determined a few interesting things. The bacteria associated with sea star wasting disease react negatively to aquarium reef cleaner. This could aid in the containment of the bacteria within aquariums. However, a realistic and cost-efficient method of introduction to the ocean remains unlikely. Additionally, there needs to be further research into the potential harm against other species. Two, while salinity levels remain consistent between samples, I have noticed an increase in calcium and phosphate. Seawater is a complex mixture of water, salt, and smaller amounts of dissolved inorganic and organic material. However, My samples have levels that are atypically high. Three, on a whim, I test for the presence of protein using a Biorette test, and it returns a positive result. I can't help but think of the animal carcass I found when I walked in. A partially eaten sea lion. Adolescent, I think. I was able to push it into the deepest part of the tide pool without much difficulty. Regardless, the areas where it was still fleshy were rubbery and cold. The remaining parts of the mammal were eaten clean, down to the white bone. I stay there for hours, feverishly working to understand the spread of the oceanic bacteria.

I am already mourning the moment that my lovely specimens become infected. While there is no singular cause for their deaths, my mind turns to yachts and private planes, Unfiltered industrial smoke eroding the ozone. The world is getting warmer, and the ocean suffers for it. I hate apologies, but I atone to them. I'm so sorry. It becomes a nightly routine. On day eight, I find white lesions on one of my sea stars. Did you go out last night, Seal? His puzzle book is split along the spine from where he keeps it bent. He does all of his work in pen. I did. I went to the bar. You should come sometime. Adam's eyes look at the fridge. He's eating a peach-flavored yogurt and wondering where my specimens went, but doesn't ask the question. Every morning he looks at the fridge. Every morning he fails to ask the question. I don't drink. The comment bothers me, because it makes me feel like he's saying that I do. That I drink more than I should. even though that isn't what he said and I didn't even go to the bar last night but my eyes are bloodshot from staring at my journal and research using only flashlights and lanterns I have heavy bags beneath my eyes I look like my knight was preoccupied but not with what he's imagining his phone rings Adam has a flaw he's extremely committed to his girlfriend fiancé, actually But I never believe that a man has a fiancé unless I meet them personally Just like I never believe in their wives unless I see their wedding pictures Out of sight, out of mind It allows me to build a fantasy around them I've never been that creative, so I generally don't mind When the fantasy concludes in the seat of a pickup parked in a thicket But seeing...

Seeing him first thing in the morning has expanded my roster of fantasies. Adam, with his dark blue sweatpants from his alma mater. Adam with his chaotic bedhead. Adam with his addiction to disgustingly sweetened coffee. Tink, tink, tinking his spoon inside of the mug until the sugar is fully dissolved. Being able to watch him so closely makes me wonder what it would be like to see that every morning. The reality I construct around him is comfortable. But he calls her every few days. His voice trills with unnerving positivity and effervescence whenever they manage to connect, twisting his body into peculiar angles on the back porch as he fights valiantly to keep his cell signal. I listen to every conversation through a crack in my bedroom window. She's with Doctors Without Borders, stationed in Ukraine. She tells him horror stories and asks him to tell her silly jokes. He tells her kelp facts and wishes she was there to eat halibut with him. The distance has to be difficult for them, but they seem dedicated and build their future lives in little pieces whenever they talk. At the end of the call, they say I love you no less than 17 times before hanging up. Eventually, I'd like to sit Adam down and explain that our research is inextricably linked. Seastar wasting disease has essentially destroyed the Pacific's population of sunflower stars, which were a key force in driving away the overpopulation of purple sea urchins, which now decimate his precious kelp forests. It's connected. We're connected.

Are you sure you don't want to come with me to Lincoln City, change the scenery for a couple of days?

Adam packs his car. He's wearing sunglasses because today is light gray instead of dark gray. What would I possibly do at a conference about parasitology?

Meet some folks. Network. Network? It's good to get away from work sometimes, that's all.

Thanks, but no. He takes the hint, reminding me to get some sleep before driving off. It doesn't take long for me to help myself to his things. I defrost one of his frozen soups in the microwave and eat it in the middle of his room, looking at his research and paperwork. The blanket he kept folded at the edge of his bed, crocheted by his grandmother. He took his laptop. I take his dog-eared anatomy books. A blue beanie and a picture of him and his fiancée in the redwoods. I go to his side of the beach. I find a large gnarle of bull kelp that smells like salt and rot. I drag the mast to my cave. As I separate the bones into different piles, I consult his notes. Adam has done most of the research for me, identifying the differences between the bones. A deer humerus, a fused ulna and radius. An elk femur. Human vertebrae and ribs. It takes time to unravel the knotted bull kelp. As I get closer to the center, the objects become stranger. A human hand. A matted nest of hair. A tennis shoe with a partially eaten foot inside of it. There are teeth marks along the ankle bone. There are teeth marks along many of the bones, actually. After bringing them to my mouth, I determine that the maw is significantly larger than mine. The arc of teeth broad and wide. They are pointed where mine are blunt. Yet there's evidence of scraping and gnawing. I draw a diagram for what I believe it looks like based on the indications, but I can't accurately match them to the diagrams of local mammals or oceanic predators. I return to the kelp, removing layer after layer until the core is uncovered. A pristine, white spinal column, growing from the stipe. I follow it to the holdfast and gasp at the beginnings of a pelvis. They are clean, paler than bleached teeth. Turning the discovery in my hand, the water behind me rolls violently within the sinkhole. Never should anyone turn their back to the sea, yet I know instinctively that it wouldn't hurt me. Not when I am so close to understanding it. Carefully cradling the bull kelp in my arms, I feed it back into the water. It floats to the center of the tide pool, where the water is so deep that it's black. A whirlpool develops, drawing it down, down, down until the water froths and a thick layer of foam develops on top. It isn't unusual for an animal to feed more when it's healing. The thought occurs to me, and it doesn't leave my brain as the water bubbles and roils like someone turned on the jets in a hot tub. Curious, I untie the sneaker and wiggle the...

foot out of it. The hand is next. The phalanges resurface as austeal buoys. I think of digestion, regeneration, the intake and outtake of energy and power, torpor states and ravenous hunger, sea stars, jellyfish, and limbs washed ashore. The nearest butcher shop is tucked into a sad-looking converted auto garage. I buy several flanks of beef and ham, the thick fillets of fish. The man behind the counter eyes me warily as I stack my purchases inside of my backpack, then leave without a word. The tide pool devours it all, without compunction nor hesitation, a turbulent mass of splashing water and foam leaving nothing but pure white bones when it's finished. I don't see what's beneath the water, or the spire of liquid that forms when it gets a particularly good bite, but I handle the aftermath. I bring the T-shaped lumbar vertebrae to my mouth and gnaw at the same location of their mastication. I feel connected to it. My tide pool is healing. There are more anemones than ever. There are snails and hermit crabs as colorful as a crayon box. Limpets and chitons and little fish have returned to breed and feed and swim. It is revitalizing. Beyond that, my stars, my lovely, perfect little ochres, are showing signs of regeneration, recovering their vibrancy and showing signs of regrowth. It responds to me now. There is a peculiar hum that reverberates as long as I'm sitting at my desk or skimming my fingers in the water of the pool or narrating my findings or rolling the body of a lost dog into the depths. Something in the ocean is feeding. Something in the ocean is growing. I don't feel guilt about their meals. Meat is meat. I need to keep feeding it. I find Adam in the kitchen, staring at the interior of the fridge. Hey, Seal, are you, uh, doing a keto diet or something? It's filled with white paper-wrapped meat. Every shelf. I disposed of the groceries he had in order to make room for more, because my tide pool is always hungry. Welcome back, Adam. Thanks. Hey. He pauses, focusing on the hat I'm wearing. It's his. So is the sweater. Um, yeah. Hey. I see a bead of sweat form at his temple. He's incredibly handsome. Even if he's wearing his engagement ring and it's so shiny that it picks up the overhead light. I found something interesting on the beach. I think it'll help with your research, too. You want to see it? His initial suspicion flits away to something more malleable, more vulnerable.

Uh, yeah, sure. He's oddly quiet as we walk to the beach. I'm used to him prattling on about all kinds of things inconsequential to my life and my research. filling my short-term memory with his voice. He's a shadow behind me as we walk along the shore, curling him along the cliff and into the cave. What the fuck is this? He might be talking about the sleeping arrangements I've made next to the belly of my beast. Or he's spied the vast collection of bones along the wall. The blanket his grandmother crocheted him is a crumpled heap on my camper chair. It is interesting to see his face flicker between confusion and anger. Adam watches me splay my backpack open to reveal a collection of raw meat. Not all of it is from the butcher. He looks like he might vomit as I wriggle a dead cat from the black bag. My greatest discovery, Adam. Watch. I toss the dead pet into the pool and smile as the furry body disappears in a spout of water. After it feeds, the ocean recovers. I know it sounds impossible, but I have the results. The initial findings of sea star wasting syndrome bacteria have subsided completely. But beyond that, it is returning to a state of health and growth that hasn't been seen in nearly a century. Long before human interference negatively impacted the biosphere. I just need to keep it fed. If we can transfer the effects within this pool to the greater Pacific, we can return the coast to a burdened ecosystem. him his brain hasn't fully processed all of the information he's receiving but he'll praise my findings i always knew he'd be the one to understand me oh shit he wipes his sweating hands against his pants you're crazy jesus christ seal you're actually insane the waves gently lap up the desecrated body of the cat the beast has always been gentle to me The

beast is gentle to those that deserve it. I'm not wrong. I'm never wrong. He just needs more time to understand me. I've given it all sorts of food. Deer, elk, beef, pork, fish, dogs, cats. He's staring at the cat skeleton. And not me. That too feels like a level of disrespect that he hasn't shown me before. There's one thing I haven't tried yet, though. What? Live food. His hands, strong from fieldwork, broad and beautiful and calloused, grab for me after I push him. The tide pool roars to life, covering his screams and eating his final words as it lifts him apart. As the water crashes into the craggy rocks and bits of wool float to the surface. He calls me brilliant. And he's right. The tide pool is dyed red The foam is pink I fish his glasses out of the water And wear them tucked into my collar I take a sample of the water It speaks in Adam's voice He's still here with me Rolling through the base of my skull Until it feels fuzzy and warm When he's full He hums songs from the top 40 list When he's angry, he growls. It sounds like a dog or a cat or whatever else I've rolled into his stomach. He's often angry. Sometimes I hear Adam screaming in agony. I've looked for his remains just to keep them safe. But they've never resurfaced. A forest of kelp is growing in the center of the pool. When the sun is at its brightest, I can see the white punctuations of bones. I imagined fingers, shoulders, Adam's smile. He will love me. Because I've doted and fed him and tell him everything I'm thinking. I can be patient. He'll come out of the ocean when he's ready. Fully grown and hungry. And I'll finally show the world the culmination of my research.

Thank you.

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 Semido. 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.

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