Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - I Work on the Navajo Reservation. I Learned There Are Rules for Killing Skinwalkers | Part 1

Episode Date: October 5, 2026

Get instant access to the full story with a 7-day FREE TRIAL of⁠ ⁠Dr. NoSleep Premium⁠⁠⁠⁠ – Cancel anytime. No commitment. 👉🏼 patreon.com/drnosleep Working nights on the Navajo Reservation, I thought the warnings about Skinwalkers were just old stories—until I learned there were rules for surviving them. Rules for spotting them, rules for hunting them, and most importantly, rules you never break. Because out here, killing one doesn’t always mean it’s over. Still drinking stale, store-bought coffee? Head to⁠ ⁠⁠⁠NoSleepCoffee.com⁠⁠⁠⁠ and pick up a bag of fresh roasted-to-order coffee delivered straight to your door! Use promo code NOSLEEP20 at checkout for 20% off your first order! NoSleep Coffee – The freshest coffee money can buy. Guaranteed. Huge thanks to our sponsor: EarnIn: Download EarnIn on the App Store or Google Play. And when you sign up, type in “ScaryHorrorStories” under PODCAST. It really helps support the show. Author:  Jake Bible Check out all of Jake’s horror story collections at: https://jakebible.com/short-storiesnovellascollections/ * * * 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.  #scarystories #horrorstories #drnosleep #doctornosleep #creepypasta #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

My reg league goalie says he plays for the love of the game. You gave up six goals last week, Steve? Maybe play to win, huh? Like with Bet365, I get paid the second my team goes up big with early payout and can cash out at any time before the game ends. Steve, Bet365, the home of winning early. Must be 19 and older, Ontario only. Please play responsibly.

If you were someone you know is concerns about gambling, visit connectsontario.ca or call 1866-5-3-1-2,600. Terms and conditions apply. You want a vision. I was an Avenger, but I'm not a hero anymore. On October 14th, the Vision returns for the final chapter of the groundbreaking trilogy. That family wasn't real. You sure about that?

I had a father called Vision. How is this possible? Don't miss the two-episode premiere of Marvel Television's Vision Quest. Nothing bonds a family together quite like Mortal Jeopardy. Streaming October 14th, only on Disney Plus. In today's story, a man running from a dangerous past takes a job at a remote gift shop and museum deep in the desert, hoping it will be the perfect place to disappear. The job comes with free lodging, almost no customers, and a collection of strange old props and artifacts from forgotten Hollywood westerns. But his new boss seems to know far more about him than she should.

And something about the place feels wrong from the moment he arrives. Before his first day is over, he realizes he may have found the one place more dangerous than the life he left behind. But before we get into it, if you enjoy scary stories like this, be sure to like and subscribe so you never miss any of our weekly uploads. Part 1. Getting the Job The road is long and dusty, and I am sick and tired of it already. If it wasn't for the fact that the ad said lodging was included, which I confirmed when I spoke to the woman, and briefly on the phone. I'd turn around and head back. Not that I have a back to head to. There's nothing left there for me. Not anymore. I burned all of those bridges. L.A. is a smoldering

wasteland to me now, which means that if I don't get this job, I'm not sure what I'll do or where I'll end up. Let's not call it being on the run, all right? There's no law after me, not that I know of at least. But let's just say that if I were to show my face, in L.A. again anytime soon, I might have issues. Issues like keeping my head attached to my body because of chainsaws, that sort of thing. So I drive down this dusty desert road, headed to who the hell knows where, hoping beyond all hopes that I'm finding the right place to land, and that my past stays right where it is and doesn't come looking. The road reaches a slight rise, and I crested in the beat-up Dotson pickup I managed to buy off the guy in the apartment next to.

to me. It was his grandfathers or something, and he was going to lower it and trick it out all retro 90s style. We both knew that was never going to happen. He loved his heroin too much. 200 bucks, and it was mine. Expired registration and all. Seemed fitting at the time. And as I drove through this almost barren landscape, I agree with my past self's choice of vehicle. This desert deserves this old Dotson, and this old Dotson deserves this desert. I hit the brakes and have to stare. Holy shit. Right there in front of me is that huge mesa that's been in all the old movies.

All those westerns with tough guys played by men who were most likely gay. Nothing wrong with that. Oh, and that alien movie with the mashed potatoes. That was shot around here too. It's pretty spectacular. And supposedly, miles and miles on the other side of the mesa are all the lodges and tourist spots. the places that book up years in advance, even though they haven't been renovated since Clinton was president, if then even.

I'm sure there's some great mid-century modern architecture over that way. They probably charge extra for the retro vibe, which makes me wonder why I'm driving to the side of the damn thing. If all the people are over there, what in the hell is a gift shop slash museum slash props warehouse doing over here? And all the hell the way off the highway like this? It's not exactly adhering to the time-tested rule of location, location, location. I shift my gaze away from the mesa and look a little closer. There's a large building sitting in the middle of a whole lot of nothing, except for tumbleweeds and cactus, or cacti.

Lots of cactus is cacti, I think. I throw the Dotson into first and roll the rust bucket down the hill, straight toward the building. When I pull up, I'm confused. a distance, it looked like a metal warehouse, no different from a UPS warehouse, which I worked in for a summer, which sucked hot balls. But now that I'm up close, I can see that it's made of metal, sure, but also wood and stone and brick. It's like the builder couldn't make up their mind and just threw every material at it they had on hand. Or they went insane while building it.

Either might be the case, since I'm sure living all the way out here does something to a person's mental health. And, if I'm lucky, I'll get to find out for myself. Yay. Broken Wheel Gift Shop and Museum is what the dusty, dirty, faded sign says above the front door. I parked the dots in one of the many open spaces near the building. The front door is glass, with an open sign hanging a skew from a suction cup hook on the inside. For a moment, I think I see movement in the shadowed space beyond the door, but I blink and it's gone. Glancing at the passenger seat, I decide to let my 45 revolver stay where it is, tucked safely up in the seat springs, hidden from any prying cop eyes.

With expired tags, I knew I was running the risk of getting pulled over, and no need to add fuel to that fire. So hidden it was on the way here, and hidden it stays. Plus, I've left all that crap behind. I'm not that guy anymore. In fact, as I take out my wallet and stare at the fake ID I paid way too much money for, I smile at the face that smiles back at me. Hello, Thomas Freed. Nice to meet you.

I wonder what I should go by. Thomas is too, well, Thomas. Am I a Tom or a Tommy? I see movement again behind the glass door and put my wallet away. Then open the pickup store, wincing at the loud creak it makes from hinges that probably haven't been oiled since E.T. was in theaters, speaking of aliens. Sucking my wallet into my back pocket and still trying to figure out if I'm a Tommy or Tom, or maybe even just T, I walk up to the front door, grab the handle and pull it open. An electronic bell buzz dings somewhere in the dark space. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust before I can make out more than generic shapes.

Hello? No one responds. Hello? Um, I'm here for the job. I walk farther into the space, then stop dead. There's a 10-foot-tall bear in front of me. It looks like a grizzly, and it doesn't look happy. My heart almost beats out of my chest before I realize, because, duh, that it's stuffed.

Nearly got me there, pal. I say and pat its arm as I walk by. Oh, if old Cal wants to get you, he'll get you. I jump at the wheel. woman's voice and spin around. No one there. What's you going for there, Haas? Without knowing it, my hand went for my waistband, where I usually stow my 45, the 45 that's hidden in my dirty mess of a pickup truck. I let my arm relax and go slack, laughing a little. Um, hello? Who's that? I can't see shit in here. Nothing but shit to see, so that might be a problem. The woman laughs, and a shadow materializes by an old

wooden barrel filled with spears, cheap spears, the kind with the rubber heads and the primary colored, obviously plastic feathers of peak cheapness. Switch out the feathers for different, darker colors, and the spears could pass for African tribe artifacts if artifacts were made in China and were racist as hell. You the guy I spoke to on the phone earlier? The woman asks. She's gorgeous, black hair, dark skin, perfect almond eyes, almost as tall as me. but not bulky like I am. Lithe is the word. She grins, knowing I know that she's caught me staring.

Beautiful women always know. It's not really fair if you ask me. Um, yeah, yeah, I'm, uh, Thomas Fried. I hold out a hand, but she doesn't move from her spot by the barrel. I, um, go by Tommy. Do you? The words come out almost as a laugh. You don't look like a Tommy.

That name fits about as well as those boots. I looked down in my third-hand hiking boots I snagged from a goodwill on the way out of town. All I had were some old Nikes and three pairs of flip-flops. I figured I needed something more desert appropriate. The boots are a size too small, but it's not like I expect to actually go hiking. Come here, let's get you some real boots. She walks off and rounds a set of shelves holding about every type and style of cowboy hat you can think of. Some are even bright Barbie pink.

I quickly follow her and try to keep up as she winds past more shelves, racks of wooden tools, piles of blankets, and then barrel after barrel of old-time candy. I smile at the wax paper wrapped, bright pieces of candy until I get closer, reach out to snag a hunk of taffy, and realize that the candy is glued together. Props! The woman says, suddenly right by my side. I don't jump this time, and I think she smiles at that fact.

Over here. Her hand brushes my elbow, and I turn to see a wall of boots. From traditional cowboy boots to calf-high leather moccasins to modern hiking boots and rubber rain boots. These are for costuming, but they're real. She walks to the wall and points at a pair of dark brown cowboy boots. Size 11, right? These will be perfect. Just add them resold and padded inside.

You can stand all day in these and never feel it. Oh, um, thanks. But I'm not here for boots. You're here for the job. A job that'll require you to be standing all day. No time for sitting around here. Always something to do. Smiling at the fact that it's the middle of the afternoon,

and there isn't a single car in the parking lot except mine. I can't help but wonder if she's joking. Hard to tell. Try them on, she says, plucking the pair of boots off their shelf. Gonna fit like a glove, I guarantee it. Um, thanks. But I can't afford. new boots right now. They're on the house. Consider them part of the uniform. She looks me up and down.

The jeans and t-shirt you have on work too. Um, okay. Great. I take the boots from her and look them over. So does that mean I have the job? You're here, aren't you? She laughs and touches my elbow again. Yes, you have the job, and you start as soon as you put those boots on. Just like that. Just like that. I nod and my son. mile widens. Cool. Great. But I don't think you ever told me your name. You're right, I didn't. Kind of weird of you to drive all the way from L.A. without knowing who you're going to meet, don't you think? You must really need the job. She wipes her hand on her jeans and holds it out.

Alyssa. Elissa. I take the offered hand and shake. Her skin is warm. Her hand strong. just like her last name. A tingle runs up and down and back up my spine, then lodges at the base of my skull. A warning? Nah, more like my horny nature is getting the better of me. Then it hits me. It totally is a warning, and I need to get my head in the game.

I never said I was from L.A., she laughs again. Angelino stick out like a sore thumb around here. Wasn't hard to guess. Right, sure. She keeps a hold of my hand, way. longer than she should. Then she gives a quick squeeze and let's go. Okay, Tom, how about I show you around? Do you want to see the shop first or where you'll be staying? She looks me over. I'm guessing your bags are in the car. Nope, no luggage. All I have is a backpack stuffed with all the crap

that I could snag at the last minute, but I don't tell her that. Yep, um, show me the shop first. I'd like to look around before I say yes to taking the job. That makes her laugh even harder. And she Pat's my elbow again. Come on, let's take the tour. Lead on. She doesn't move. I don't move. Then she glances at the boots in my hand.

Oh, right. I kneel down, take off my two small hiking boots, glad to have the torture devices off my feet. I was very wrong about these pieces of crap. Tossing the old boots aside, I slip on one new boot than the other. I'd have to admit it's like slipping my tired feet into a pair of. of clouds. I swear the boots fit like they were made for me. Looking good, hoss. Now you're ready for

work. Think about how strange it is that we work, earn money, and then still have to wait to actually get paid. We're used to getting almost everything else instantly, but somehow payday is still on a schedule. That's where earning comes in. Earnan gives you access to money you've already earned, with up to $150 per day and up to $1,000 between paychecks. So if you've already put in the work, It can give you more flexibility around when you access your money instead of always waiting for payday. It's a simple way to make payday timing feel less restrictive. Download Earnin on the app store or Google Play, spelled like earning money, but without the G. And when you sign up, type in Scary Horror Stories under podcast.

It really helps support the show. Earnin is a financial technology company, not a bank. Access limits are based on your earnings and risk factors. Standard cash outs take one to two business days with no mandatory fees. Expedited transfers available for a fee. Tips are voluntary and don't affect the service. Available in select states. Terms and restrictions apply.

Visit urnand.com for full details. Our fantasy commission says for him it's all about the friendships. Cute, Kevin, but I disagree. Like with Bet365. I get paid the second my team goes up big with early payout and can cash out at any time before the game ends. No hard feelings, Kevin. Just faster payouts from Bet365,

the home of winning Earth. Must be 19 and older. Ontario only. Please play responsibly. If you were someone you know is concerns about gambling, visit connectsontario.ca or call 1-866-5-3-1-2,600. Terms and conditions apply. Following her to the front of the store or shop or whatever this place is,

Alyssa pauses in front of the grizzly. Old Cal, she smiles at the big thing. Grizzlies aren't native to the area, but Hollywood never cared for authenticity. Cal here was used in 16 B-Westerns until he died in the late 70s. His handler had him stuffed. Weird, but cool. How do you end up here?

He makes for a great prop in the corner of a saloon or brothel, or used for quick close-ups instead of having to use a live bear. I think old cow's career actually got busier after he died. So the handler gave him to you? To this place? Alyssa doesn't answer and walks on. I stay for a beat and study old cow. It looks like a flap of his skin is coming loose below his belly.

And I reach out to touch the flap, but my hand is slapped, hard. We don't touch old cow, not without permission. The look on Alyssa's face is dead serious. Sure, right, no problem. A suggestion? Maybe put a sign on him? She smiles and walks off again. I hurry to follow. She shows me the rows of shelves that hold the cheap-ass gifts.

She says she sells to tourists and travelers. It's the same crap I've seen at all. all the gas stations I stopped out along the way. I'm almost embarrassed for her at having to shill this mass-produced crap that I'm sure holds zero actual historical significance. You're Navajo, right? I ask as we pass a shelf filled with plastic figurines of cowboys and Indians straight out of a 1950s serial. She pauses and seems to think about it. Yes, is all she says, then keeps walking. She shows me the barrel of spheres, the display of toy, bows and plastic arrows, the rack of gaudy headdresses, blankets, hoodies, t-shirts,

fake leather packs, badly-sown wallets and purses, snow globes, actual snow globes with the iconic mesa smack dab in the middle. Does it snow much around here? What do you think? Right. Then we walk past a counter with a register. Seems out of place all the way back here. But I'm struggling to figure out what seems in place, certainly not old cow. I'll show you how to work the till and how to reconcile receipts at the end of the day later. First, you get to see the fun stuff. We round a set of shelves, and I try not to gasp at the gauntlet of display cabinets that stretches all the way to the back wall.

Weapons of every sort you can imagine that would look historically appropriate for a Hollywood Western. Revolvers, repeating rifles, real bows with real arrows, spears and daggers and clubs, Bowie knives that I actually think might be period. Shotguns, more revolvers, more of everything, and an entire cabinet of nooses. Huh, is all I say. Some of those are real. You'd never guess the necks that snapped in a few of them.

That tingle at the base of my skull vibrates again. I have no clue what it's trying to tell me. Usually, it means to get the hell out and walk away from the deal, which is a good thing to have, considering that some folks I used to deal with are the type of guys who use chainsaws to prove points, hence my fast exit out of L.A. But this is a tourist trap slash prop house,

and Alyssa looks about as threatening as a bouquet of flowers, so I'm confused. Wary as hell, sure, but still confused. You good? Did I get too morbid too fast? She laughs that laugh, and I wonder if she's mocking me or truly amused. Sorry about that. No, it's cool.

The noces are cool. Creepy, but cool. I'm glad you think that. She sighs and turns in a circle. You know what? Let's show you your trailer. Trailer? Yeah.

I told you lodging was included. What did you think you were getting? A condo? Oh, no, no, the opposite. I figured it'd be a cot in the storeroom with a hot plate and coffee maker. Nope. It's a trailer with a hot plate and a coffee maker. and we don't have a back store room.

What you see is what you get at the broken wheel. She gives me a wink. Mostly. She walks off, leaving me by the display case of nooses, which, for the record, I don't find cool. Creepy, for sure. I don't lie about that. Cool? Nah.

Not when you've seen someone actually hanging from one in real life like I have. With the image of death ropes in my head, I follow Alyssa to the back wall of the building, where a cracked exit sign hangs over a dirty door. Shoving through, Elissa takes us out into the blindingly bright day of the already stupidly hot desert. There's a picnic table that's seen better days, a swing set that's missing both swings, a grill that is open and has the carcass of something scorched still sitting on it, and a dust-covered old airstream trailer, one of the full-sized ones, not the little half-sized nubs. The wheels have been removed, and the trailer sits on the U.S.

ubiquitous concrete blocks that seem to be grown straight from the ground out in these parts. Not surprisingly, the steps up to the side door are concrete blocks too. Alyssa climbs them, pulls out a ring of keys from her jeans pocket, unlocks the door, and swings it wide, leaning to the side so she's not clocked by the door. Before she can even rear back, the smell from inside hits me. Jesus, I mutter. Damn coyotes. They must have dragged something beneath the trailer and tucked it up in the undercut.

carriage. I'll get Lou to crawl under and take care of it. Lou, someone else works here? I thought you said on the phone that I'd be the only employee. I never said I'd pay Lou. With that, she takes a red bandana from her back pocket and holds it to her nose as she steps inside. I wait at the bottom of the concrete blocks. Alyssa is lost to the trailer's interior shadows. Come on, her muffled voice calls out. It looks better than it smells. Taking a deep breath, I climb the blocks and step inside. She's not lying. The inside looks pretty well put together.

It's not restored or fixed up, but it's habitable and in decent shape for an old trailer. I've slept in worse. My lungs hitched, and I jam my face into the crook of my arm as I take a new breath. The taste of death coats the back of my throat. Living space with a dining table. Kitchen. Alyssa points to the features with her free hand. I was joking about only having a coffee maker and a hot plate.

Full electric stove and an actual running fridge. The power is off right now, but I'll get that working for you. There's a small AC unit in the bedroom. Come on, I'll show you. She walks us down a very tight, very short hallway. I glance in the bathroom real quick, and I'm glad to see it is fairly stained free. Then we get to the bedroom and Alyssa says, Oh shit. Well, that explains that.

It's a full-sized bed with a Navajo blanket covering it. Unfortunately, on top of that blanket are the remains of some animal. It's so torn apart, I have no idea what it is. All I see are browned guts and awful, sitting in a pool of still slightly sticky blood. Son of a bitch, Alyssa drops her hand and tucks her bandana into her back pocket. Those bastards! Who? She doesn't answer me, just says. Grab a side. We'll fold it like a taco and take it outside. I'll get you a new mattress.

She coughs and shakes her head. It must be torture without her bandana. I guess I'm about to find out. I take my face out of the crook of my arm and fight back the gagging that wants to rule me. You might need to sleep in the building tonight while we get this place aired out. Sorry I didn't check it earlier. All good. I gasp and grab my side of the mattress. We lift, we fold, then we struggle like a couple of slapstick actors in an old silent film as we try to get the mattress out of the bedroom, down the short hallway and outside into the fresh, hot air, where we carry it over to the swingless set and drop it in the dirt.

Looking down at the remains, I'm still not sure what animal it is, or was. You have problems with coyotes? I ask. Always, but you're from L.A., so you're used to them, right? True, but I have always had a you don't mess with me, I won't mess with you attitude toward the trash dogs. They aren't trash dogs. I know. It's like calling a raccoon a trash panda. Not a lot of raccoons out here.

Or pandas? I suppose not. The sound of tires crunching on gravel echoes from around the building. Alyssa straightens up, then frowns. Customers? I ask. Could be. Come on.

Time to learn on the job. Off she goes again. I think walking away from people is a hobby of hers. I follow her inside, my eyes rebelling against me, showing me nothing but shadowed shapes for the first five seconds before details emerge as the back door closes on my ass. Before I get more than a few yards into the building, before I even get to the edges of the display cases

in that damn news collection, a scream rings out, followed by three gunshots. Normally, old me, the one not named Thomas Freed, would turn tail and run as far and fast as possible at the sound of unknown gunshots. But this knew me, the one that is named Thomas Freed, is immediately worried for Alyssa, and I run my ass off straight toward the danger instead of away from it,

grabbing a crappy rubber-headed spear out of a barrel on my way to the front. There, Alyssa stands next to Old Cal with a 45 revolver in her hand. I'd say a wisp of smoke is still coming from the barrel, but that's just my imagination trying to push a Western trope onto a very shitty situation. Shitty, because only a few yards from Alyssa and Old Cow lie three bodies, each with a single hole in their heads. Bastards, Alyssa says as she tucks the pistol into her jeans waistband at the small of her back.

What the hell did they think would happen? I don't know what to do. The bodies are of a family, a dad, a mom, and a little girl, each dressed like tourists with novelty t-shirts and out-of-date shorts. The little girl is missing a flip-flop, and then I see it a few feet away. What the hell did you just do? I shout. Alyssa looks back at me like I'm crazy.

What had to be done? Now come on and help me carry them out back. We need to bury them fast. Burry them? What are you talking about? We need to call the cops. Which is a sentence I never thought I'd say. The glare Alyssa throws me is brutal.

I hired you, Tom, or whatever your name is, because I knew you had experience. with this sort of thing, and experience is what I need. Now, move your ass, and grab the dude by the shoulders. I'll get the woman. She doesn't wait for me to answer. She's already dragging Mom by her arms by the time I step over to Dad and stare down at him. I don't really have much of a choice. All those burned bridges and shit.

So I grab Dad and drag him after Alyssa. Once out back, we deposit the bodies by the soiled mattress, and head back inside. I need to check on something. Carry the girl outside too. Again, Alyssa doesn't wait for an answer. Dreading this next part, I walk up to Old Cal and look down at the little girl, except there's a problem. Um, Alyssa? Hey, Alyssa? What? The girl is gone. My wreckly goalie says he plays for the love of the game.

You gave up six goals last week, Steve? Maybe play to win, huh? Like with Bet365, I get paid the second my team goes up. with early payout and can cash out at any time before the game ends. Steve, Bet365, the home of winning early. Must be 19 and older, Ontario only. Please play responsibly. If you were someone you know is concerns about gambling, visit connectsontario.ca or call 18665-3-1-2,600.

Terms and conditions apply.