Jogger (Narrator of first story) (4:57)

It's not like I wanted to go jogging after midnight, but after my shift schedule was changed, I didn't have a choice. It was either run down the dark, empty suburban streets of my neighborhood or give up on the fitness goals that I was trying so hard to achieve. Besides, I lived in a quiet area and the sort of place where the only thing moving after sunset were the automatic sprinklers and the wind in the well trimmed trees. It was actually sort of peaceful. There was something hypnotic about the glow of the streetlights on the emerald green lawns and the lonely echo of my footsteps on the sidewalk. I hardly ever crossed paths with anyone, and maybe that was why I let my guard down. By the second week, I focused only on my music and my workout. I didn't see the dark figure standing beside the drainage ditch until it was was too late. He faced away from me, rocking back and forth on his heels like a sleepwalker. At first I wondered what could possibly be so fascinating about that nasty sewer down below, but his filthy, dripping clothes gave me the strangest idea. It was almost like he had just crawled out of it, even though it was summer. He wore a hunter's orange hat, a vest, and a thick winter camouflage. The bulkiness of his body looked wrong, somehow, and his out of place outfit made me wonder whether someone was shooting an amateur film in the neighborhood. Maybe this guy was an extra. On the rare occasion that I met another person on the street, I usually waved and smiled to show I meant no harm. This time, however, some instinct held me back. I was veering left across the street when the guy twisted toward me. Not turned, twisted. First his head swiveled backwards, then his body followed suit with a sickening spinal snap. The whole thing was so bizarre that I actually slowed down to stare at him, this bloated, weirdly dressed stranger who moved in ways that shouldn't have been possible. His cap hid most of his face, but the street light still reflected on his yellow toothed grin.

Father (Narrator of third story) (6:59)

Excuse me.

Jogger (Narrator of first story) (7:01)

It took me a second to realize that the low, gravelly voice was talking to me. I wasn't sure what the guy had to say, but I already knew I didn't want any part of it. Forcing a smile and a wave, I resumed my jog on the opposite sidewalk. A little bit faster this time.

David Cummings (7:18)

Hey.

Man trapped in apartment (Narrator of second story) (7:19)

Excuse me.

Jogger (Narrator of first story) (7:21)

The stranger was persistent, but I didn't turn around. I kept my eyes focused on the intersection ahead of me. Like a child closing their eyes during a scary movie. I told myself that if I just didn't look, maybe he would go away. To my horror, I heard running footsteps hammering against the pavement. He was chasing me.

Man trapped in apartment (Narrator of second story) (7:41)

Hey.

Jogger (Narrator of first story) (7:41)

Stop. The shout was ragged, as though my pursuer's scream came through rotten lungs. I sprinted faster, wishing that I'd paid more attention to my surroundings, Wishing that I'd brought a weapon or even a phone. Wishing that I wasn't so very, very far. From the safety of my front door, the rhythm of the footfalls changed. The stranger was charging at me on all fours like a wild animal. I couldn't keep up this pace for much longer. There were no cars at the intersection and the windows of the nearby houses were all dark. I didn't have enough air in my lungs to cry for help, and even if I did, I felt certain that by the time anyone reached me, it would already be too late.

Man trapped in apartment (Narrator of second story) (8:24)

Hey.

David Cummings (8:25)

Stop.

Jogger (Narrator of first story) (8:27)

That awful guttural voice was so close it seemed to be breathing down my neck. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the stranger closing in, his purple tongue lolling, his jaw hanging below it nearly scraped the pavement. His arms stretched toward me, putrid bluish fingers closed around my ankle. His grip was like a shackle, locking me in place in the middle of the empty street. There was nowhere left to run, and up close the smell was unbearable.

Man trapped in apartment (Narrator of second story) (8:57)

Hey, did you know that your shoelace is untied?

David Cummings (9:25)

Let's take a short break. For our sponsors who help us keep our heads above water for for waves of ad free horror content, Join our sleepless universe by going to sleepless.thenosleeppodcast.com jogging, cycling, horror stories. All things that make you sweat. And we need to replace that fluid. I used to think electrolytes were just for athletes or super intense workouts, but Drip Drop has totally changed that. It's become my go to reset button for busy days, brain fog, travel, whatever. Staying hydrated keeps me clear headed and ready for what's next. That's why I love Drip Drop. The doctor developed powder that provides proven fast hydration that helps my body and mind work better. Drip Drop uses science based formulas for rapid hydration so you feel results fast while getting three times the electrolytes of leading sports drinks. Drip Drop is trusted by firefighters, medical professionals and over 90% of top college and pro sports teams because it's engineered to hydrate you faster and more effectively than water alone. Drip Drop also just dropped zero sugar plus a breakthrough formula with an advanced blend of six key electrolytes, 15 essential vitamins and nutrients and no sugar or artificial sweeteners. It's the complete package that truly checks all the boxes. There are 16 original flavors and eight zero sugar plus options that fit seamlessly into my routine. I'm loving their zero Sugar strawberry Kiwi flavor and I know you'll love the taste and benefits of Drip Drop. Right now Drip Drop is offering sleepless listeners 20 off your first order. Go to dripdrop.com and use promo code no sleep. That's dripdrop.com promo code no sleep for 20 off. Stock up now@dripdrop.com and use promo code NO SLEEP. And when it comes to taking care of yourself, you know how much we love indacloud. Indicloud is your fully legal online cannabis dispensary for gummies, exotic flowers, premium pre rolls and zero sugar THC sodas. Which by the way are a clean alcohol free way to unwind without overdoing it. Everything available is federally legal Hemp THC DEA certified lab tested and shipped discreetly to your door. I'm loving their THC soda. One indicloud soda sip session later and my built up stress finally wound down. No rush, no spiral. It was amazing. Just calm. Now I keep their strawberry cream zero sugar THC soda in the fridge because it's always the same relaxed vibe, no alcohol and absolutely none of the why did I do that Energy. With Indicloud there are so many options to take care of you. Gummies for stress relief and balance, Premium Pre rolls for winding down and $70 ounces for keeping the vibe sustainable. March into spring with a calm, relaxed mind. If you're 21 or older, self love is 35% off the entire month at Indecloud Co when you use code nosleep at checkout, that's Indecloud code. No sleep for 35% off all month long shipped discreetly to your door. And don't forget to fill out the quick survey when you order to support this show. As always, enjoy Responsibly and a massive thank you to Indecloud for supporting our show and making this time of year feel a little lighter. Now let's plunge back into the deep waters of horror. You know what the daily grind is like. You wake up far too early, slam some coffee and nutrition into you, then it's out the door and off to toil away for that paycheck. But in this tale shared with us by author Karim Miskel, we meet a man who is doing all that. All except the part where he leaves his apartment. No, he doesn't work from home. He just can't leave his apartment. Performing this tale is Atticus Jackson, so you'd better plan to use up one of your days off because you're trying to find a way out.

Man trapped in apartment (Narrator of second story) (14:12)

The ringing of the alarm clock slices through me like a razor blade. It has to. I have a bad habit of sleeping through anything else. I know most people don't share this schedule, but getting up at noon is starting to feel a lot like getting up at 5am only without the we're all in this together vibe you tend to get from the world in the morning. The benefits of working second shift are dwindling quickly. Can't argue with that paycheck, though. Seconds is where the supervisor position is, and I really need that extra money. Just eight more months. In eight months, my credit card will be paid off. I'll be caught up on all my medical bills, and my college loans will be a thing of the past. Once the financial mistakes of my twenties are washed away, I can go back to first shift like everyone else I know best. Get on it. Then out of bed into the kitchen to guzzle my coffee and wolf down my breakfast sandwich. Then to the bathroom to shit, shower and shave. To scrub my teeth with one brush and run another through my hair. After that, back to the bedroom to step into casual business attire. The dress shirt, pressed pants and polished shoes that marked me as a junior associate. Briefcase in hand, cell phone and wallet in the right pocket, car keys in the left. Then to rush through the apartment to bolt out the door. But the door isn't there. The door I've been walking through for two years is every bit as dull as an apartment door should be. Cheap brass handle, ugly yellow frame, badly painted white wood with panels that made the letter H. All pretty standard. That's not the door I'm looking at now. This is made of some sort of lacquered black wood. The panels are arranged in a diagonal style pointing downward in the middle. The frame is carved into a winding gothic pattern that twists upward to form a skull in the top corners. I stare for a long moment. When my brain finally begins working again, it starts running through possibilities. Wrong apartment. No, my stuff is here. Landlady? No way. Too old to pull it off. Friendly prank? Hell no. None of my friends are this well organized. Never mind who, then how I run through my night. No alcohol, no weed, no pills. The only things I'd put into myself were pizza, root beer, and hours of video game graphics. Let's see what it looks like from the other side. I try to twist the knob, but it won't turn. I drop the briefcase and use both hands. I twist harder and push on the door. Shaking, slamming. Nothing. I run into the living room and beat on the wall. Jamie? Jamie, can you hear me? No answer. Great. I turned my TV up at 8pm and it's too loud. I have a couple of friends over for dinner and she hears everything. But where is she now that I actually need? A shameless busybody. I pull the cell phone from my pocket. No service, but I try to dial anyway. The landlady, the neighbor, my boss, mom. The police, friends, co workers, pizza delivery, Chinese takeout. The guy I hooked up with a few days ago. I even try a few random numbers. Nothing's going through. I just paid the bill the other day and I usually get pretty good signal, but all I'm getting now is dead air. Next I try the landline. There's no dial tone when I lift the receiver and no beeps when I dial. A deep breath to avoid panic. Over to the living room window. I'll open it and scream if I have to. Only I won't. Rather, I can't. The windows are frosted over with some kind of mist. If it's fog, it's thicker than I've ever seen. I can't see anything outside. Cars, bikers, pedestrians. If there's anyone down below, and there has to be, they're all hidden behind this curtain of white vapor. Not even the landlady's beauty shop is visible. On a normal day, I can easily hit the door with a pebble. But now it's nowhere to be seen. Even stranger, I can't hear anything. There are no running or revving engines, no wind or rustling leaves. The gym half a block south. The road construction a couple blocks west. The daycare next door. The girls at the shop. Surely I should be able to hear them chattering away, giggling, arguing, gossiping about this and that. At least I should be hearing the entrance open and Close. The boss lady has a door chime on it, for God's sake. The damn thing annoys the hell out of me, but I'd give anything to hear it ring right now. To make matters worse, the living room windows won't open. I try all three, pushing and pulling with all my strength, but no luck. What the hell is going on? I dart through the hallway to check the other windows, but stop in my tracks. The broom closet. The one in the middle of the hallway. It's changed, too. I take a minute to stare at it. The same diagonal pattern, the same twisting frame design. The same skulls in the corners. This door is locked, too. It won't budge. I look over at the bathroom door. It's normal. Then my bedroom closet, normal. The kitchen pantry door, normal. The living room closet. That one's changed. Like the broom closet in the front door. So what's different? Why have they transformed while the others stayed the same? Think. Think. And then it hits me. I run into the kitchen and slam the pantry door shut. Disembodied voices whisper in from nowhere and everywhere at once. As this door shifts to match the other two, black, twisted with a pair of wicked skulls glaring at me from the top corners. My breath begins to quake. I take hold of the doorknob and twist. To my surprise, it turns. Only one reasonable thing to do. I pluck a butcher knife from the magnetic rack and pull the door open. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. It looks like Victorian London. The stone paved street I'm standing on moves in three directions, each branch stretching into a dense wall of fog. Black lampposts line the sidewalks, blazing a color that I've never seen before and couldn't describe to save my life. They're definitely necessary, though, since there's no sun, moon or stars above. No heavenly light. There are things in the mist. Shadows. Silhouettes shaped like human beings. Arms, legs, heads and bodies in two dimensions, moving with a spectral gate. Like floating imposters who don't need to walk or run but mimic the motions. Are the shadows mocking me?

Jogger (Narrator of first story) (23:55)

No.

Man trapped in apartment (Narrator of second story) (23:56)

They haven't seemed to notice my arrival. They're just scuttling here and there, flickering in and out, going about whatever sinister business employs them in the dark. Hello? Hello? My voice, less than a shout but more than a whisper, echoes into the fog. Heads turn, snap in my direction like a rat caught rummaging through garbage. And like rats, they scurry away. I can hear footsteps clapping against the pavement, chittering scratches in the dark, panicked murmurings in a language I don't dare comprehend. Then, after a full minute of muffled commotion, I'm alone. The dark pedestrians in the haze have abandoned me for whatever safety they could find in this sunless world of theirs.

David Cummings (25:09)

Hello?

Man trapped in apartment (Narrator of second story) (25:11)

I tighten my grip on the knife. Is anybody there? I stand still and unbreathing, listening to my words shrink as the darkness swallows my voice. An answer comes from a far off distance, a low groan that shakes the ground and rattles the lamp posts. I could easily mistake it for the mechanical growl of some enormous engine, but for its rising, falling rhythm, a bouncing cadence I know all too well. Laughter. The ground shakes with the pattern of slow footfalls, each one threatening to take me off my feet. My heart nearly stops. My mind reels at the thought of what nightmarish thing has turned its attention to me. Dread shackles me to the ground, knocks the weapon from my hand, and keeps my eyes wide. Something moves down some distant avenue, making its way toward me. The impossible light plasters a shadow against the eerie white vapor. A writhing, inhuman shape too aberrantly terrible for me to comprehend. Its pace quickens and unlocks the fear that had me chained in place. I scramble into the door, shutting it behind me. I test the knob, relieved to find it locked like the others. Maybe they're only unlocked for a few minutes after the change. That makes as much sense as anything else. It still keeps me trapped in the apartment, though. I need a way out into the living room. I take a hold of the baseball bat that sits in the corner and I swing for the fences. It makes a sharp, ringing sound, like a hammer on steel, but nothing else. I swing again and again and again. I scream savagely as I batter the window with all the power I can muster. I'm a pretty big guy. Strong, too. The glass should have shattered under the force of my first hit, but I may as well be attacking a brick wall. No, a brick wall would chip and scuff with this window. There's nothing. Not a crack, not a mark. No evidence that it's taken any punishment at all. I drop the bat, concentrate on a solution. My hammer. I can use the claw to pry the windows open. My heart sinks as I remember that I keep my tools in the broom closet. My flathead screwdriver. I used it the other day and never put it back. I can hammer it into place beneath the window with my meat tenderizer, try to open it that way. Or my computer. I haven't tried that yet. A post on my news feed or a few DMs. It probably won't work any better than the phone, but I have to try something. There's a loud thump against the closet door. My heart hammers at my chest. Then something shakes it, groping and twisting at the handle, banging and ramming, just as I had when I was trying to leave. Terror drives me down the hall, but to where the banging begins to spread. First to the front door, then the broom closet, then the pantry, each one rocking and barking, hammered in some violent assault from beyond. A yawning groan bores through each doorway, filling my home with horror beyond words. My eyes sting as tears of helpless dread claw their way free. This infernal rage that's found its way to my home won't be kept out much longer. Eventually the doors are going to fall, leaving me open to a fate that sanity won't allow me to imagine. I scramble into my bedroom and slam the door shut. Everything stops. No more banging. No more groaning. The apartment has gone silent. Everything is still. I breathe a sigh of relief. Until I realize my mistake. Phantom whispers creep in from the ether. My bedroom door twists and shifts, becoming like the others. I fall to my knees. Tears stream down my face. I resign myself to the dark fate that awaits me as the doorknob turns.

David Cummings (31:10)

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Father (Narrator of third story) (34:01)

Lydia called out from the kitchen.

Lydia (Mother) (34:03)

Have you brushed his hair?

Father (Narrator of third story) (34:05)

Yes darling and ironed his shirt, cleaned the peanut butter off his face and polished him from head to toe.

Lydia (Mother) (34:12)

Very funny. If we're going to have to pay an extortionate amount for his school photo, I at least want Dylan to look his best.

Father (Narrator of third story) (34:19)

I gave Dylan's hair one last once over with the brush and smiled down at him. Give us one practice smile before you leave for school. Dylan looked up at me and gave me a toothy grin that lit up his small 8 year old face. Lydia walked into the living room where we were standing, looked Dylan up and down and then gave me a nod of approval.

Lydia (Mother) (34:39)

Oh, you look wonderful darling. Are you excited to get your photo taken with the class today?

Father (Narrator of third story) (34:47)

Dylan smiled again and nodded.

Dylan (Son) (34:49)

Yeah, it will be fun. I want to stand next to Robbie.

Father (Narrator of third story) (34:54)

Both Lydia and I looked down at him and then at each other and smiled. Dylan had always had a little bit of trouble making friends with children in his class, but two weeks ago Robbie moved to the school and Dylan and him seemed to just gravitate towards one another. It was the first time that Dylan had seemed to quickly make a friend. This was something that my wife and I were very proud of.

Lydia (Mother) (35:16)

Well, hopefully Ms. Hayne will let you stand next to Robbie for the photo.

Father (Narrator of third story) (35:21)

His social skills weren't the only thing that were improving this school year. Academically, Dylan was also starting to thrive, which was something we both attributed to his teacher. Ms. Hayne was everything you would want in a year three teacher. Caring, kind and most importantly, very good with children. Not just good with them in a likes them when they are being well behaved kind of way, but actually listened to them and showed a certain kind of respect towards them that was sometimes lacking in the world of education. In return, her students were drawn to her and respected her as a teacher and as an authority figure, something else that was sometimes lacking in the education world. Every child in her class loved having her as their educator and responded well to her pedagogy. Dylan always came home excited to share whatever new and exciting thing Ms. Hayne had taught her class that day, which was something that had never occurred in previous years. Guess what? Today Ms. Hayne taught us how to count money. He would say in an overly excited tone. Or Ms. Hayne read us an awesome book today. It was called the Piped Piper. He had proudly exclaimed, obviously mishearing the actual title of the story. And so, due to all these factors, Dylan was chirpy and smiling, excited for the first time to get his school photo taken. Have you got everything for school, Dylan? Your bag? Your pencil case? Dylan nodded.

Dylan (Son) (36:52)

Yes, I've got everything I need.

Lydia (Mother) (36:54)

Have you got your homework? I know you worked hard on it last night.

Father (Narrator of third story) (36:58)

Dylan thought for a moment before quickly running to his room to grab his homework book that he had obviously forgotten. This was above all else, what Ms. Hayne was most renowned for her homework tasks Ms. Hayne was famously or possibly infamously known for the various homework tasks that were assigned to the children every night. I wasn't the biggest believer in homework, especially for younger students, but the tasks that she set were always simple and didn't take any longer than half an hour to complete each night. Besides, Dylan didn't mind doing them, which was surprising. He actually was interested in completing the homework assignments, which often involved asking questions to me or his mother, or researching something that interested him. In the past, Dylan had been tasked with finding out a parent's job and asking three questions about said job, or finding out three fun facts about a favorite animal. It was always simple assignments such as these and they always seemed to relate to something they had been learning in class that day. The previous night's homework that had obviously slipped Dylan's young and forgetful mind was to find out your parents favorite food and then find a recipe on how to make that particular dish. Dylan came running out of his room, homework book in hand, almost forgot the

Dylan (Son) (38:18)

recipe for carbonara and garlic bread. Thanks Mum.

Father (Narrator of third story) (38:22)

Dylan left out the front door, closely followed by Lydia, who was in charge of taking him to school that day. I had to head off to work and so I didn't see either of them again until I got home at around dinner time. When I returned home from the office that night. I entered the kitchen and saw Dylan sitting at the table. He was just staring forwards, not saying a word. Lydia wasn't anywhere to be seen, but I knew she would have been nearby. I pulled up a seat next to Dylan. How was your day today, buddy? Dylan stayed silent and just gave his shoulders a quick shrug. Did you do a big smile for the picture? Dylan sat still, staring forward.

Dylan (Son) (39:04)

The flash was bright. It hurt my eyes.

Father (Narrator of third story) (39:07)

Oh really? Must have been a fancy camera then. Did you at least get to stand next to Robbie? Dylan kept staring forwards and shook his head.

Dylan (Son) (39:16)

He wasn't at school today.

Father (Narrator of third story) (39:18)

Is everything okay? You're not very talkative tonight. Dylan nodded, not moving his eyes from staring straight ahead. Okay, well, if you're sure. Where's your mum? I haven't said hello to her yet. Dylan lifted one arm and pointed towards the kitchen.

Dylan (Son) (39:35)

In there.

Father (Narrator of third story) (39:36)

He spoke softly and not in his usual lively voice. In just those two words he conveyed a level of sadness that I hadn't really heard from him before. I left the table, confused and slightly worried about Dylan's strange behavior. I walked into the kitchen to both give my wife a kiss and to ask her if our son had been acting differently all night. I gave Lydia a quick peck before asking her about Dylan's demeanor. Does Dylan seem any different to you? He seems a bit off. Lydia looked at me. At a glance, her face looked almost calm. But the longer I looked, the more I saw worry cracking through the surface.

Lydia (Mother) (40:15)

He's been quiet ever. Ever since I picked him up from school. He hasn't really said much at all. It's really not like him. Do you think Dylan is okay?

Father (Narrator of third story) (40:26)

Do you think we should talk to him about it? I reached for Lydia's hand. Maybe something happened to him today at school. Lydia held onto my hand and gave it a small squeeze.

Lydia (Mother) (40:38)

Think you should talk to him, honey? He responds well to you.

Father (Narrator of third story) (40:43)

I agreed. And just as I stood up to go back to my son, a banging noise rang throughout the house. It was the sound of Dylan's bedroom door closing. My wife and I briskly walked out of the kitchen and towards his bedroom. The door was firmly closed. I knocked on the wooden door and called out, are you okay, Dylan?

Dylan (Son) (41:04)

Yes, I'm okay.

Lydia (Mother) (41:06)

We should leave him. Let him process whatever it is he needs to process.

Father (Narrator of third story) (41:12)

Okay, but I'll come back to check on him in half an hour. It must have been about 25 minutes before Dylan's door clicked open again. He strolled out into the hallway and towards the kitchen.

Dylan (Son) (41:23)

What's for Dinner.

Father (Narrator of third story) (41:25)

Lydia gave me a look of surprise.

Lydia (Mother) (41:27)

Spaghetti bolognese.

Dylan (Son) (41:29)

Yummy. Give me lots. I'm hungry.

Father (Narrator of third story) (41:34)

All hints of sadness were gone from Dylan's voice, instead replaced with the usual jovial inflections. He climbed into one of the chairs around the kitchen table, expectantly awaiting his dinner with a smile on his face. Are you feeling better now, buddy? You didn't seem yourself before.

Dylan (Son) (41:50)

Yeah, I'm good, dad.

Father (Narrator of third story) (41:52)

What were you doing in your room? Homework?

Dylan (Son) (41:54)

No, not tonight. Ms. Hayne didn't give us any homework today.

Father (Narrator of third story) (41:59)

That was unusual. Every night since Dylan had been in her class, Ms. Hayne had set some sort of homework task for the class. This, paired with the strange behavior Dylan was showcasing, made me feel uneasy. But I thought maybe a change to routine was what had made Dylan feel strange tonight. Oh well, it must be nice not to have any homework to do tonight then. Dylan nodded. I didn't see Dylan the next morning as I had to leave early for work. But when I got home in the evening, he was the first person I saw. Hey buddy, how was school today? I asked him, hoping that yesterday's display of strange behavior was just a one time thing.

Dylan (Son) (42:40)

It was good.

Father (Narrator of third story) (42:42)

It wasn't a sorrowful voice, but not a particularly cheery one either. Did you learn anything interesting?

Dylan (Son) (42:49)

Not really.

Father (Narrator of third story) (42:50)

Did you get any homework today or did you get lucky again?

Dylan (Son) (42:53)

No, I have a homework question tonight.

Father (Narrator of third story) (42:56)

Did you need help answering it, buddy?

Dylan (Son) (42:59)

No, I can do it by myself.

Father (Narrator of third story) (43:01)

Okay. No wor. Before I could finish answering Dylan, he abruptly got down from the table where we were sitting, walked out of the room and towards his bedroom. I heard the door close behind him and my heart sank a little bit. He was showing very similar behavior to the previous night. I told Lydia what had just occurred and we both agreed to leave him again, but we would talk to him about his conduct once he decided to come back out of his room. Obviously we weren't angry or annoyed by this behavior, just concerned because Dylan had never acted like this before. An hour passed before Dylan's bedroom door opened again and he came back out to join us, sitting down on the couch.

Lydia (Mother) (43:45)

Dylan, darling, is everything okay?

Dylan (Son) (43:48)

Yeah, Mum.

Father (Narrator of third story) (43:49)

Why so well?

Lydia (Mother) (43:52)

Your father and I have noticed that you've been acting a little differently when you get home from school lately. You seem a little bit sad. Is something happening at school that is upsetting you?

Dylan (Son) (44:06)

No. I love school.

Lydia (Mother) (44:08)

Are you sure, darling? Because you can talk to us about anything, anything that may be bothering you, no matter how big or small it may be. You can tell us about it.

Dylan (Son) (44:21)

Everything Is okay, Mum? Everything is awesome, actually. I promise.

Father (Narrator of third story) (44:27)

We left it at that. We ate our dinner as a family and Dylan seemed like his usual self once again. He was laughing and making jokes all throughout dinner. You would have never guessed that he had been acting strangely in the previous hour. We all finished dinner and we tidied up the dining room before Dylan went to the lounge to watch some TV with Lydia. As they were parked on the couch, I was doing some odds and ends around the house and so I passed by Dylan's room. I caught a quick glance of his homework book lying on his bed. Curious, I decided to have a quick peek inside the book in case it could give me any insight as to why he had been acting differently. I flicked open the book and had a quick look at some of the pages from the past few nights. They Homework task For our game of Follow the Leader Tomorrow, create a routine for the class to follow. Homework task Ask your parents what their favorite meal is and then find a recipe for that meal. The next page was blank, presumably because this was the day that no homework task was set. I turned to the next page, the page which contained tonight's homework question. I felt a cold shiver run down my spine as I read what was written. Homework task how would you feel if you never saw your family again? Underneath the question, Dylan had written his response.

Dylan (Son) (45:52)

I would be upset at first. I love my mum and dad and I do like to see them. But like you said, Ms. Hayne, I would soon forget about my parents and would be happy without them.

Father (Narrator of third story) (46:06)

I finished reading and just continued to stare at the page. I didn't know what disturbed me more. The homework question that Ms. Hayne had asked the class to answer or the actual answer itself, especially the part that read like you said, Ms. Hayne. After a contemplative moment, I put the book back down on the bed and entered the living room. Dylan, it's time for bed now. Go on, go brush your teeth. Dylan, being surprisingly obedient, got up off the couch and left the room. Once he had gone, I turned to my wife and explained what I had found. The next morning it was my turn to drop Dylan off at school.

Lydia (Mother) (46:48)

Are you sure you want to go talk to her about it?

Father (Narrator of third story) (46:51)

Yes, I'm sure. I need to know what she's saying to our son. What? Is she teaching in her class?

Lydia (Mother) (46:56)

Yeah, I am pretty concerned about it all too dear. Just wanted to make sure that this is the right approach.

Father (Narrator of third story) (47:06)

After a little more back and forth, we both agreed that it was indeed the right approach. Dylan and I drove to school mostly in silence, as any conversation I tried to start with him was greeted with a single word, answer or a shrug. I parked up just outside the school gate and only a mere second or two after the vehicle had stopped, Dylan opened the car door and hopped out. He didn't wait for me to also climb out of the car, but instead walked through the gate and towards the direction of his classroom. I followed. I entered through the gate and walked through the large entrance doors. I hastily moved along the corridor but lost sight of Dylan in the crowd of boisterous children. Almost every group of students I passed by were engaged in some sort of play that would give horses a run for their money. I caught a glimpse into a couple of the classrooms and saw the kids inside running around throwing pencils or engaged in some sort of messy activity, usually to the dismay of the teacher struggling to gain some sort of control of the chaos. The atmosphere changed though the closer I got to Miss Haynes classroom the noise slowly died out and the flurry of children rushing past ceased. There was a sense of order that hadn't been present in the rest of the school. The school bell hadn't rung out yet, commencing the day of educational activities, yet the class was already calm and silent. Just how well behaved the entire class was became apparent when I stepped through the door and entered into their learning space. I saw Dylan was already sitting at his desk and I recognized the young boy sitting next to him as his friend Robbie, who was the only kid quietly tapping a pencil on his desk. The rest of the students were completely still. Ms. Haynes stood at the head of the class, watching over the rows of silent pupils, all with their arms folded atop their desks, sitting up perfectly straight and their head and eyes staring Forward towards her. Ms. Hayne was still young, probably in her early 30s. She had straight black hair that sat just below her shoulders. She was dressed in a white button up shirt and black jeans. A lanyard of keys hung around her neck and a small name badge was pinned to her top. Excuse me, I called out from the doorway of the classroom. Can I please have a word with you? Ms. Haine's gaze turned from the rows of subdued children and met my own. Her stare felt almost menacing for a second before a sweet smile broke through her cold expression.

Ms. Hayne (Teacher) (49:41)

Of course I will be out with you in a second.

Father (Narrator of third story) (49:45)

I stepped away from the classroom door and waited in the hallway for Ms. Hayne to join me. I could hear her talking softly to her class, but I couldn't quite make out what she was saying. I also saw her write something on the whiteboard that she quickly erased, but I couldn't make out what she had written. Then I heard her footsteps walk towards the classroom door.

Ms. Hayne (Teacher) (50:05)

You wanted to see me?

Father (Narrator of third story) (50:07)

Yes, I did. I looked down at the name badge that was pinned to her top. Melissa.

Ms. Hayne (Teacher) (50:13)

Please call me Mel.

Father (Narrator of third story) (50:14)

Okay, Mel. I came to see you before class because I have a few concerns about Dylan's recent behavior.

Ms. Hayne (Teacher) (50:21)

Oh really? What behavior are we talking about?

Father (Narrator of third story) (50:26)

The past few days after school he has seemed a bit different. Not quite himself actually. Quiet and not wanting to talk to his mum or me. Has he been acting any differently at school?

Ms. Hayne (Teacher) (50:39)

No. I haven't noticed anything different about the way Dylan has been acting. He's always been bright and bubbly while at school. Dylan has come a long way since the start of the year. Out of my 27 students, he was always the quietest one. He was showing the exact behavior you're talking about now, but only at the beginning of the year. He was withdrawn and quiet, but he's really come out of his shell and really become one of the class.

Father (Narrator of third story) (51:04)

Ms. Hayne finished speaking and smiled at me in a way that suggested my worries should now be alleviated. I also have another concern. This one involves you, or more specifically, the homework task you set last night.

Ms. Hayne (Teacher) (51:19)

Oh really? What about it?

Father (Narrator of third story) (51:23)

How is it acceptable to ask a bunch of 8 and 9 year olds how they would feel if they never saw their family again? She thought for a moment before providing an answer.

Ms. Hayne (Teacher) (51:32)

I know it is a strange question to ask and as a parent it would be alarming to read, but I promise I can explain.

Father (Narrator of third story) (51:40)

Please do.

Ms. Hayne (Teacher) (51:41)

We were discussing families and how family units can vary and come in various forms. One of the students mentioned they knew someone whose parents had unfortunately passed away, which led to a discussion about what happened to the children in that scenario. It was a rather lengthy discussion, but the students seemed to empathise with the idea that some kids would never see their parents again. So that's what led to that particular homework question.

Father (Narrator of third story) (52:08)

I'm not sure it is still an appropriate topic for third years or an appropriate question to ask for their homework. I do have one more concern though. In Dylan's answer. He said that he would quickly forget his parents and be okay without them. He also wrote that this is something that you had said. How is it okay to say something like that to impressionable young people? Her eyes widened just a fraction, possibly from surprise. Surprise about what Dylan had written, or surprised that I had read it and come to question her I wasn't quite sure which.

Ms. Hayne (Teacher) (52:42)

I must have said something to that effect just in passing to demonstrate people's ability to move on and heal from any kind of loss. I apologize that this is the part that Dylan chose to focus on.

Father (Narrator of third story) (52:54)

I wasn't really sure that this was a valid excuse, but she did sound quite genuine in her response. I still wasn't impressed with what she had been teaching her class, but maybe she deserved the benefit of the doubt.

Ms. Hayne (Teacher) (53:08)

I do apologize for this, but I can assure you that no homework of that nature will be set again. In fact, tonight's homework is completely different. Don't worry, I think you're going to love this task.

Father (Narrator of third story) (53:20)

She said this with a cheeky smile, and I swear her eye almost gave me a wink.

Ms. Hayne (Teacher) (53:25)

I hope this talk has helped put your mind at ease a bit, but you must excuse me. I better get back to my class now. Thank you for coming in.

Father (Narrator of third story) (53:33)

Ms. Hayne didn't even give me a chance to respond to this before she briskly turned around and strode back into the classroom. I caught a quick peek through the door at numerous heads turned around towards the doorway, all looking directly at their teacher. Walk back in. All of the pupils were intently following her with their eyes as she walked back to the front of the classroom. The school bell rang out, which marked the end of another school day, probably to the delight of everyone in sight. I'd finished work early in order to pick Dylan up from school. Thoughts about Ms. Haines, answers to my questions had been swirling around my head all day. And the students odd behavior, the perfect obedience, the silence in the classroom. None of it was normal for a group of young children. Well, it certainly wasn't when I was in school. I was waiting just outside the school gate, watching to see Dylan emerge from the building. Only a few moments after the bell had rung out, a large number of students came bursting through the door like a stampede of animals escaping from their enclosure. Students bustled out the school gate as quickly as they could, but I couldn't see any sign of Dylan. In fact, I didn't see anyone that I recognized from his class. I saw children of all ages excitedly exiting the school building and running across the yard to the gate. I was just starting to get a bit concerned about Dylan's whereabouts when he emerged from the school with the rest of his classmates. They walked out of the building in two perfectly straight lines. Unlike the rest of the pupils who rushed out in a chaotic frenzy, Dylan and his class were marching out of the school in perfect unison. They strode out of the main doorway and across the schoolyard in military precision. As the two lines of students reached the gate, they slowly separated as they individually went to greet their parents, who were expectantly waiting for them. Dylan approached me. Hello. How are you? Did you have a good day at school? I asked him, still confused by what I had just seen.

Lydia (Mother) (55:41)

Good.

Father (Narrator of third story) (55:42)

Did your class practice how to walk in lines today?

Dylan (Son) (55:45)

No.

Father (Narrator of third story) (55:46)

That was the end of the conversation. I ushered Dylan towards the car and opened the back door so that he could get in. I watched him strap himself in, and as I was closing the door, I caught a glimpse of Robbie leaving the school building, walking alone. The ride was mostly silent until we were just about to pull into the driveway. That's when Dylan piped up, guess what, dad? He spoke in an excited voice that had been desperately missed the past few days. What's that, buddy?

Dylan (Son) (56:17)

You're gonna love my home homework tonight.

Father (Narrator of third story) (56:19)

Oh, am I? What do you have to do for homework tonight? I deeply hoped that Ms. Hayne had taken our conversation seriously and had set a much more appropriate task.

Dylan (Son) (56:31)

It's a surprise, but I think I need Mum's help with it, not yours.

Father (Narrator of third story) (56:38)

We pulled into the driveway and Dylan excitedly left the car, calling out for his mother. As he entered our house, he seemed to be acting a lot more like himself. But something about his behavior, both whilst at school and when he was leaving it was still odd. And what I had discovered in his homework book still made me feel uneasy. But I took some solace from seeing Dylan act like his usual self. I followed him inside, but Dylan had already found Lydia and was eagerly discussing his homework. She looked over at me with a smile that was an indication of relief. She was about to speak when Dylan piped up first.

Jogger (Narrator of first story) (57:18)

Shh.

Dylan (Son) (57:19)

Mom, don't tell him what we are planning, okay?

Lydia (Mother) (57:23)

I promise I won't tell your father, but we better start cracking on with it. We don't have long to get it all done.

Father (Narrator of third story) (57:30)

Dylan ran off to the kitchen and Lydia followed, but she stopped to give me a quick kiss.

Lydia (Mother) (57:37)

He seems a lot more like himself, doesn't he? Did your talk with Ms. Hayne go well?

Father (Narrator of third story) (57:42)

I told her about everything that had occurred while I was at the school and how my worries weren't completely diminished. She listened intently, taking in every word that I spoke. When I finished talking, worry was starting to work its way across her face again.

Lydia (Mother) (57:58)

Well, he seems quite thrilled with tonight's homework, and so maybe everything will be normal again.

Dylan (Son) (58:04)

Now hurry up, Mom. We need to get started.

Lydia (Mother) (58:09)

I better get in there. Seems like we might have an eager little chef in the family.

Father (Narrator of third story) (58:14)

Lydia gave me a wink, a hint as to what the homework assignment might be, and a reassuring smile as she left. The next hour or so consisted of listening to the noisy commotion of an eight year old crashing around the kitchen and the frantic corrections from the adults supervising. But once everything was finished, I saw Dylan pushing his mum out into the dining room where I was waiting for them.

Dylan (Son) (58:40)

Go. Go wait out there, Mum. I need to put the finishing touches on it and then I want to serve it to you and dad.

Father (Narrator of third story) (58:47)

Dylan ushered Lydia towards the table. She sat down next to me and we both eagerly awaited the arrival of our chef to serve us whatever dish he had created. Dylan emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later holding two bowls of what I instantly recognized as carbonara. It smelled delicious and looked just as good as it smelt. Dylan placed a bowl in front of both me and Lydia, then returned to the kitchen. I heard some clattering noises just out of my eyeline. And then he brought out a plate of golden brown garlic bread.

Dylan (Son) (59:20)

Dinner is served.

Father (Narrator of third story) (59:23)

He placed the plate in between us both. Wow, Dylan, this looks amazing. Is this your homework task? I was genuinely amazed by what he had cooked up. Obviously with a bit of help from his mother, he nodded his head vigorously.

Dylan (Son) (59:39)

Uh huh.

Father (Narrator of third story) (59:40)

You had to cook us our favorite meal. Dylan continued to nod. Maybe Ms. Hayne was right. I would really enjoy tonight's homework activity. And even better, Dylan was acting like his usual happy self once again. And to top it all off, the carbonara was delicious. Both Lydia and I scoffed down our pasta and garlic bread as Dylan eagerly watched us both eat. Do you want some, Dylan? The chef can eat his own creation.

Dylan (Son) (60:09)

No thanks. I made it especially for you two.

Father (Narrator of third story) (60:13)

We both finished eating our meal and Dylan continued to stare at the both of us, a large smile plastered across his face as he watched on.

Dylan (Son) (60:21)

So, did you enjoy my homework?

Father (Narrator of third story) (60:23)

His smile faded slightly.

Lydia (Mother) (60:26)

Yes, we both loved it, didn't we darling?

Father (Narrator of third story) (60:30)

I pinched my index finger and thumb together and gave them a quick kiss, giving the universal signal of a delicious meal.

Dylan (Son) (60:37)

Well, that is only part of the task.

Father (Narrator of third story) (60:41)

Oh, is there dessert too?

Dylan (Son) (60:44)

No. Ms. Haynes sent the class a special homework assignment for tonight. One that wasn't supposed to be completed until next week. But somebody's parents just couldn't leave miss Hayne alone.

Father (Narrator of third story) (60:57)

He glared directly at me. What are you talking about, Dylan? What do you mean?

Dylan (Son) (61:02)

Ms. Haynes said that it now has to be tonight. Even though we aren't all ready for the task, it has to be tonight.

Father (Narrator of third story) (61:11)

As my heart dropped into the pit of my stomach, my vision also started to blur just slightly and my head was beginning to spin. I looked at Lydia and just from the expression on her face, I could tell that she was experiencing the same nauseating feeling that I was. As I turned back to look at Dylan, I hazily saw that he was holding on to something. I tried to focus my eyes on what it was. I managed to focus for a second. It was his homework book. He thrust it up towards my face. I squinted to read what was written on the page. Even in my disoriented state, I managed to read it. Homework task Step one Cook your parents favorite meal. Step two Mix a small amount of the white powder I gave you into their foos. The last thing I saw before I blacked out was Lydia falling off her chair and Dylan turning around and walking over towards the kitchen. I briefly saw a dozen or so silhouettes standing in the kitchen. There was one large figure with smaller figures standing next to them. It looked as if they were all linking hands. Dylan reached out and held the hand of the silhouette at the end of the line. Then I saw.

Man trapped in apartment (Narrator of second story) (62:27)

No.

Father (Narrator of third story) (62:28)

Nothing but black. You would think that waking up from a deep darkness, taking a moment to remember exactly what happened, then having it all flooding back to you, would be the most distressing thing that could have occurred. But you would be wrong. What was even more disturbing than that was the scream that Lydia let out as she too awoke and realized the what exactly had happened? And then worse again, was discovering that Dylan wasn't the only student to go missing that night. Homework task Answer the following equation. 26 students plus 43 drugged parents equals. That's right. The answer is an entire class of children vanished into the night. Now find the common denominator in the previous sum. If you answered one teacher, then you are correct. The common denominator is Ms. Hay. Police were obviously called straight away and it quickly became clear to the authorities that after multiple phone calls, this was a large mass abduction. At first it was assumed that everyone in the class had been taken. But that was quickly disproven when Robbie turned up to school the next morning. He was the only child in the class that hadn't disappeared. Obviously, Robbie was questioned extensively about what had happened, about whether he knew anything about it or if he was involved in the planning of it. Robbie denied having any knowledge about what was going to occur. But he did reveal to police that school had been quite strange in the days leading up to the vanishing. Robbie's story related that everything had been normal at school, learning about the usual subjects, having the usual lessons, and playing with his friends at break time. Then, in the few days before everyone was taken, he told police that his friends had become very quiet and that Ms. Hayne had stopped teaching lessons in front of the class, but instead would go around to each student and whisper into their ear, all except Robbie. Ms. Hayne would also write on the whiteboard in strange symbols that Robbie couldn't understand, but the other pupils would copy them into their workbooks. Then, according to Robbie, the last thing Ms. Haynes said when the bell rang was, I'll see you all tonight. Of course, all parents of the missing children worked extensively with police, providing any details that could shed some light on what could have happened to them. But from all the interviews and recounts of what happened that night, one question could not be answered. Where had they gone? Four agonizing months passed without any more clues of what had happened to our children. They had just vanished with one figure at the center of it all. Ms. Hayne. It was after those four months, at around the end of the school term, that there was a development in the case. Lydia had gone outside, something that was rare for her these days, and checked the letterbox where she found a large envelope inside. There was no stamp on the letter, only mine and Lydia's name etched onto the envelope. It was handwritten. Lydia rushed the letter back inside and frantically opened it. I watched her do this and saw her take a glance of what was inside before dropping the letter and envelope. Both hands then covered her mouth. I rushed over to her and picked the contents of the envelope off the floor. I gasped as I looked at it too. I lifted up two pieces of paper, one with writing on it and the other a photograph. I read what was written on the first piece of paper and saw that it was titled Dylan's report card. Underneath the heading was a list of attributes and a graded score next to it. Able to follow directions. A listens to instructions. A ability to work with others towards a greater objective. A able to make sacrifices, A willing to betray loved ones and able to disappear without any hope of being found. A Underneath the list of Dylan's grades was a quick summary about Dylan, handwritten by Ms. Hayne.

Ms. Hayne (Teacher) (66:51)

Dylan is a model follower. His ability to obey commands and do what is right is exempt from. He has a positive attitude and never questions anything that is asked of him. He has a very bright future ahead of him.

Father (Narrator of third story) (67:05)

My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach as I read each line. An overwhelming despair hit my body with each word that I read. With trembling hands, I placed the report card down on the kitchen bench and fearfully picked up the photograph. The photo is was the class picture that was taken all those months ago. I had completely forgotten all about it and in spite of all that had occurred, we had never received the picture. But here it was inside this strange envelope. Three rows of children all looking towards the camera, with Ms. Haynes sitting in the dead center. A large smile was spread out across her face as she stared down the barrel of the camera. The children who were also staring directly into the lens, all had the same blank expression on their faces. But the strangest thing was all of the eyes, each and every one of the students eyes as well as Ms. Haynes, were shining a bright white.

David Cummings (68:14)

It. 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 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 Mikulski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornett, and Claudius Moore. Our ED editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McInally, Ollie A. White, and Kristen Samido. 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 copyright 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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