Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - I Own a Remote Cabin Outside Area 51. Big Mistake...

Episode Date: July 6, 2026

A washed-up Vegas hustler thinks he’s found the perfect tourist trap when he wins a remote cabin just outside Area 51—but the crews keep quitting, the walls keep making noises, and something is moving beneath the floor. When a pizza delivery kid is dragged into the basement by clawed gray hands, Billy “Big Brass” Williams realizes his alien-themed rental might be sitting on top of the real thing. Huge thanks to our sponsors: BetterHelp: Sign up now and get 10% off at ⁠betterhelp.com/dns⁠. Shopify: You don’t need anyone’s approval to make a living. Build your own business with a free trial at shopify.com/dns Author:  Jake Bible Check out Jake's latest collection of stories, They All Bleed: Ten NoSleep Stories, Volume Two https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0G96H432Y * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #creepypasta #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

If you're into horror with a heavy dose of sci-fi, classified experiments, and things humanity was never meant to understand, check out my other podcast, the SCP experience. Each episode pulls you into the hidden world of the SCP Foundation, where dangerous anomalies are studied, contained, and sometimes unleashed. These aren't just scary stories. They're classified nightmares. Click here to listen now or search for the SCP experience wherever you get your podcasts. I watch as the second work crew drives away, the foreman's middle finger sticking out of the work truck's driver's side window. The dust plume the truck makes lifts high into the Nevada air, then is carried away by the desert wind. Part of me expects the foreman to change his mind and come back. He doesn't, and the truck becomes a dot on the horizon, then is lost behind one of the mountain ranges.

I can't remember the names of the mountains. There are like three or four or whatever ranges in this area alone, but the mountains don't matter. It's what close by to them that does. Area 51. A goddamn gold mine of tourism. And I'm going to cash in on that gold, just as soon as I can get a damn crew to stay on the job

and help me renovate the cabin I bought. Well, the cabin that I won is more accurate. This close to Vegas, and you see all kinds of, of sketchy deals and schemes when it comes to Area 51. But I got lucky and actually managed to get myself the deed to a cabin just outside the restricted zone. If I squint, I can see chain link fencing. Or it's a heat mirage.

I don't know. I see something out there. What I don't see when I turn and stare at my cabin are workers fixing the damn place up. I need this cabin in rentable condition. ASA goddamn P. pulling out my phone, I'd dial a number that I shouldn't. If it isn't Billy Big Brass Williams, talk about him last from the past. How's things, Beebe?

Tuts. Good to hear your voice. Yeah. If it's so good, then why haven't you called me? What's it been? A year? Two years? It's been three years and 16 days. He knows that. We both know that. You bury a body with a son of a bitch like Tud. Kapaldi and you remember the date kind of need a little help toots that's so big brass himself needs a favor from little old toots no tutz not a favor you owe me remember there's silence on the line for a moment I step inside my cabin for a

little break from the desert sun and wait him out once it's done I know how markers work to its and yeah I want to call it in Toots laughs. Brass hasn't lost his brass. Now has he? You're gonna help or not, Toots. It's trouble, Majesty. A scorpion crawls across the cabin's half-sanded wood floor.

I could crush it under my boot, but what's the point? I bought a cabin just on the outskirts of Area 51. It needs some serious renovation done, and I can't keep a crew working here. Yeah, that one. Is that a military base? You bought a cabin next to a car. goddamn government facility? What were you thinking? I bet the crews were shitting bricks waiting for ice to come along and kick them back to Guadalajara or wherever they came from. I ignore his casual

racism. If you didn't ignore casual racism around these parts, you'd never get anything done. It wasn't ice they were worried about. It was something else. Listen, I'm strapped. I own this damn cabin and I need to fix it up so I can rent it out. Toots laughs again. I'll charge a ridiculous amount of money to a bunch of UFO nerds and weirdos. That it, huh, Beebe? You're going to take some sci-fi suckers for a ride? No one's getting taken for a ride, Toots.

But yeah, I'll charge a premium for the close proximity to the base. He must have put his hand over his phone because all I hear is muffled blabbing for a few seconds. To six a.m. sharp work for you. Perfect, Toots. I appreciate it. We're squared. We'll be square when the renovations are done on my cabin, Toots. Not a moment sooner. I hang up on him so I can have the last word.

It's a risky move, hanging up on a guy like Toots, but I didn't get the nickname because I have big brass, eyelashes. And I know Tuts, he'll appreciate the flex. The Scorpion continues its journey across the wood floor. I ignore it and walk over to the huge cooler I had provided for the workers. kicking open the lid, I einy, I meany than I'm miney, and grab a cold IPA instead of a Pilsner. I pulled the tab and cracked the can can't the can't aluminum to my lips so I can drain half the beer in one swallow. I burp and angle the can at the scorpion.

Cheers, you little shit. I start to walk out onto the half-finished porch, but pause as I hear a slight tapping. Not again. Downing the beer, I grab another. Pop it open, then start my never-ending search for the noise. More noises, if I'm being honest. Tapping, moaning, hissing. And what the first crew described as chittering, whatever the hell chittering is.

I mean, I know the definition. I looked it up on my phone. It means to Twitter, which doesn't have a meaning apparently. At least not on the free dictionary app on my phone. Okay, so, no. I have no idea what chittering means. But it's messed up enough that two crews packed their shit and said they wouldn't be back. Sipping my second beer, I hunt for the source of the tapping, bending low so my ear is close to the floor.

Walking the entire length of the cabin, I hear nothing. I moved to the kitchen. Still nothing. There's a clang from the bathroom and I hurry in there. The showerhead is shaking back and forth like something struck it. I climb into the bathtub and put my head against the cracked and stained tile. Nothing. I chuckled to myself as I walked back into the main room. I tossed the empty can into the corner with the first and fetch a third beer.

Then I walk outside and dial the delivery number. Yeah, need a couple pizzas delivered. The junkie or recent parolee working the restaurant's phone takes my order. Then laughs at me when I tell him the address. He stops laughing when I mention the tip. Pizza will be here in an hour. Half of that is the driving time alone. Taking it slow with a third beer,

I walk around the outside of the cabin, studying the foundation, the siding, the eaves, all of it for the millionth time. It ain't a half-bad cabin. Old, built in like the 80s or something. But the thing has decent bones. Shit, it's even got a basement. I'm thinking of turning that into a rec room or man cave with all alien-themed shit. Crouching by the single window that looks into the basement, I wiped the grime and dust away and peer through the glass. I haven't actually been down there. The first war crew said the stairs aren't stable,

and I am not breaking my neck for a basement. You seen one, you seen them. What the shit was that? I stumbled back, my beer slipping from my hand and splatting on the desert dirt. I barely notice as the always parched ground drinks up the IPA. My eyes are locked onto the basement window.

There was a face in that window. I swear to God Mary and the devil that I saw a damn face. I hurry to my car and throw open the passenger side door, my hand, going to the glove box, and the 45 I keep handy. Okay, someone is down there, some squatter or something. And that's the last thing I need is a squatter. Human cockroaches that are just as hard to get rid of as the real thing. Yeah, well, we'll see about that.

Can't exactly be a squatter if there's no damn body. And if it's one thing I'm good at, it's making bodies disappear out here in the desert. This squatter messed with the wrong guy today. A few years ago, we decided to launch No Sleep Coffee. We already had the audience and the concept, but we needed an easy way for people to purchase our products. That's why we went with Shopify. What surprised me the most was how straightforward it was to create the storefront

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With Shopify, nothing stands between your idea and a real business. So go make it one. Start your free trial at Shopify.com slash DNS. Start your free trial at shopify.com slash dns. As the sun begins to set behind the mountains, whatever their damn name is, I climb the porch and let my 45 lead the way. Hey, asshole, I'll give you five seconds to get the hell out of my basement. I racked the slide on the 45, even though I already have a round chambered. Everyone recognizes the chick-chick sound of a pistol being racked and what it means.

Catching the ejected round out of the air, I tuck it into my pocket and walk towards the basement door. You hear me down there? I'm going to count to five, and you're going to climb your ass out of my basement! Easing the basement door open, I wince at the squeaking hinges. Not that it matters.

The guy knows I'm coming for him. Still, there's something creepy about squeaky hinges. I pause at the top of the rickety stairs. It's all darkness and shadows down there, And there's a smell. It's not exactly damp or mildewy. It's more just wet. It's the smell of slick.

Like the way a bunch of rattlers in a cave smell, all tangled up in a squirming knot. The thought of snakes makes me frown. It triggers an image in my mind. The face in the basement window. It doesn't look snake-like, but it looked reptilian. Maybe. It all happened so fast.

But as I think about it, I wonder if the eyes I saw might have been a little too big. And as I keep thinking about it, maybe the head the eyes were in was a little too big also. Which is stupid. What does that even mean? Too big. Too big for what? I don't answer my own question.

Instead, I place a foot on the top step. Hey, your five seconds are up, asshole. If you thought I was going to count out loud for you, then you're a special kind of idiot. Now get your stupid ass up here before I come down there. and shoot it off. There's a scraping noise followed by a... Oh shit. Is that what chittering sounds like?

I take my foot off the first step and back away until my ass hits the kitchen counter. The 45 is aimed directly at the basement door. Listen up, Dickhead. I don't know what freaky shit you're doing down there, but it stops now! I pop the magazine from the pistol and slide the ejected round into it,

making sure I am fully loaded. Then I wait, and wait, and wait some more. No new noises. and definitely no squatter coming up the stairs. I get bored and fetch a beer, keeping my eye trained on the basement door. And even though I'm standing up and leaning against the kitchen counter, I start to nod off.

There's something about the desert that just lulls you. My head snaps up and I shove the pistol at the open door. What was that? Was that a footstep on the stairs? Knock, knock, knock. Oh, wait. That's the front door. Hello? Anyone in there? Oh shit. Pizza's here. Um, yeah. Coming!

I start toward the door, but notice my 45. Tucking it into my waistband, I pull my shirt down over it, then hurry to the front door, almost yanking it off its hinges when I opened it. Hey, you made great time. You can really fly on these old highways. I was going 90 most of the way. Good for you. That shows initiative.

I reach for the pizzas, but he doesn't give them to me. Hey, I hate to ask, but can I use your bathroom? I ain't going to make it back to the restaurant, and I don't want to piss in the desert. I heard once that a guy got his dick bit by a rattlesnake. That's so. I look over my shoulder and see the open basement door. Totally understand if you don't want a stranger using your pisser man. I look back at the kid and smile.

With the 45 in my waistband, I'm not worried about some delivery guy. Nah, come on in. Just watch yourself. I'm having some construction done. Cool. I move aside and gesture to the kitchen. Set the pizzas in there. Bathroom is down the hall. First door on the right. Thanks. The kid walks inside and heads straight for the kitchen. He pulls the pizzas out of the warming bag and sets them on the counter. Then he looks around, confused.

Where am I going? Is this the hall? He steps to the open basement door and peers inside. Nope, not there. Where did you? Too thin, clawed hands grab his ankles and yank, pulling him off his feet. He falls backwards, and his head slams onto the wooden floor as his legs are pulled through the basement door. What the hell?

He's lost from sight before I can even take a step toward him. I have the 45 out, and I rush to the basement door, but the kid is gone. I hear him shouting as he is pulled downstairs. His head must have hit every damn step along the way. There's a final loud thunk, and his shouting stops. Hey, kid, you good? There's no response. God damn it.

I place a foot on the top step. It creaks loudly. I lean forward, one hand holding tightly to the doorframe, the other aiming the 45 below. Kid? Hello? The chittering starts up again, and down in the shadows. I see something move quickly. The distinct sound of a body being dragged across dirt echoes up to me.

That's a sound I know well. I place my other foot on the top step. Pause, then move to the second. Hello? Scratching and shittering and scraping is what I hear in return. I should cut my losses and board up the basement, then wait for Tuts' crew to arrive in the morning. Except the restaurant knows where they sent their delivery driver.

Someone's going to come looking, and I'd better have shit under control by then. I moved to the third step, then the fourth. Kid, can you hear me? The fifth step, the sixth. If you're hurt, just give me a moan, okay? Seventh step, eighth step. There's a moan in reply, followed by wet, smacking noises.

The kid screams, and I turn my ass around and run up the stairs. Or try to. I'm at the fifth step from the top when the entire staircase starts to wobble. I hear boards cracking and nail straining. Then it all goes out from under me, and I'm in open air, falling. I cry out as my backlands on cracked and broken boards. The 45 is knocked from my grip, and I lose it in the dark. Pain radiates up for my right leg as I try to roll over and scramble to my feet.

Fearing a break, I look at my leg, but I don't see anything poking out of my slacks. Not that I can see shit down here. The sun has set outside, so no light is coming through the single window anymore. Coughing on dust, I reach out and find the wall, using it to get my ass upright. My right ankle is thrashed. I can't put any weight on it. Shit, where's my gun? I pull out my phone and shine the flashlight around, looking for the 45.

Instead, I see two huge, unblinking black eyes staring back at me. My scream is caught in my throat as I stumble away, pressing myself up against the wall. My feet, slipping and sliding in the staircase debris. My scream is released as my bad ankle rolls hard in my panic. The eyes withdraw into the shadows, and I sweep my phone around, hunting for them. The wet, smacking noises start up again. I shiver at the thought of what those noises mean. Then I gasp when I see the mound of the bloody delivery guy in the far corner,

and the thing mounted over it, munching away on the guy's face and neck. Blood smears the thing's mouth, coating its very sharp teeth. The unblinking huge black eyes are locked onto me, watching me watch it. eat the poor kid. I don't want to look away, but right now I could really use my 45. A debate rages in my head. Keep an eye on whatever this big-headed gray-skinned, huge-eyed thing is, or find my pistol. Pistol wins. I whip my arm around, shining the light in every nook and cranny as fast as I can. There, only a couple feet away, I see the butt of the gun sticking out from the staircase debris. I lunge for the gun, gasping as my ankle catches on a board. I nearly

stumble into the pile of broken wood, but managed to stay upright long enough to grab the pistol and back my ass up against the wall again. It's always good to have your back covered in situations like this. Not my first time in a life or death scenario in a dark basement, that's for sure. Toots can attest to that. Toots, yeah, Toots. I should call him so he can get his ass over here. Screw burning my favor on a work crew.

What I need now is a crew crew, one that can handle shit like this, one that is heavily armed and ready for anything. I grabbed the pistol, then I leant my way back to the wall as I dialed Toots' number. Beep, beep, beep. The call doesn't go through. There's no signal down here. I might be able to get a signal if I can get close enough to the window. But that also happens to be right where the freak is eating the pizza delivery guy. Poor kid. I try Toots again with the same lack of results. There's a loud hiss in response to my outburst. I try to push myself through the wall, but physics says that's not happening. my phone into my pocket, then double-check my 45. It looks fine. I inspect the chamber, make sure

the safety is off, they get my phone back out, and shine it toward the dead delivery guy. The thing is gone. It's not on top of the kid, munching away at his face anymore. I check to my left, nothing. I check to my right, nothing. Then I catch a noise. It's faint. Like catclaws on a wood floor. I aim the flashlight up and yell out. It's right above me. My 45 fires, once, twice, three times. The thing screeches and scuttles away. Its claws gripping the rafters as it escapes my attack. I keep firing, trailing bullets after it.

Then it drops and disappears into the darkness. I shine my light in every direction, but I don't have a great angle from where I'm standing. So all I see is bare dirt, a dead delivery guy, and a whole lot of deep dark shadows. A hiss comes from my left, and I swing my gun that way, firing immediately. There's a high-pitched cry, and then pain explodes across the back of my hand. The hand holding the 45. The gun falls for my grip as something slams into me. I'm pushed to the ground, cracked wood jamming into my spine as a heavy weight presses down on my chest.

I look up at a face filled with black eyes and razor-sharp teeth. My hand scrambles blindly about from my pistol as the thing studies me. It's full weight pinning me to the staircase debris. It has no nose, but I swear it's sniffing me. Then its mouth opens wide, just as my hand finds the 45. It lunges down at me. I lift the pistol up, jamming it under the thing's chin. Claws rake across my face as I pull the trigger.

Black blood and rubbery skull explode everywhere. I'm coated in it, and I spit and spit as I shove the dead weight off me. Then I quickly get to my feet, favoring my bad ankle as I keep the pistol aimed at the headless creature. What's left is a skinny body with long, thin arms and long thin legs. Jesus, the thing might as well have walked out of a novelty t-shirt advertising area 51. It's literally one of those stereotypical aliens. You see a million blow-up balloon versions swinging from gift shop awnings all over Nevada. But typical or not, it sure is hell is dead.

There's no doubt about it. Oh shit, it's twitching. I empty my magazine into it, and the body deflates, turning slowly to a green black slime. Okay, now it's dead. Nothing comes back from slime. I take a step in wince. My ankle is so swollen that I can feel it straining against my shoe. I'll probably have to cut my loafer off to get my foot out.

Too bad. These loafer's worth a fortune. All right, big brass. What are you going to do next? I'm going to limp over to that window and hope for a signal. When I reach the window, I check the signal on my phone, and I'm beyond stoked to see two bars staring back at me. Better than having those black eyes staring back at me,

That's for freaking sure. I find Toots' number and dial it, putting the phone on speaker so I can keep it close to the window. I said they'd be there at 6am, B, B. Yeah, forget the work crew. I need you to send some guys out here to get me the hell out of my basement.

Your basement, heirs? They collapsed. Sounds to me like you need that work crew, but, like I said, they'll be there at six. It ain't just the stairs, Toots. There's something down here, or there was until I blew it to shit. Something. I take a deep breath, and I'm about to tell him everything, knowing I'll sound crazy.

But also knowing, I'll be able to gloat when his guys get here and see all this shit. But the words don't come out, because I freeze as I hear a heavy scraping noise. The heavy scraping is coming from the other side of the basement. Hold on, Toots. Hold on. Six. He hangs up. The dickhead hangs up.

I don't waste a second and turn my flashlight. back on. There, right there. The opposite wall is sliding apart, and four of those things are walking out of it. I shove my phone back at the window and dialed tuts. Beep, beep, beep. What? No. I try again. The call doesn't go through. I try again, and again, and again. No goddamn signal. The thing sees me. I see them. I raise my pistol and pull the trigger, but there's only a dry click. I scream as the four things rush me. Now I know why that jerk bet this damn cabin! That son of a... Thanks for tuning in.

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