Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - We Are the Last

Episode Date: July 28, 2025

At the end of the world, a weary survivor holes up in a haunted desert resort—only to find the vampire stalking him wears the face of his dead wife and offers something more terrifying than death: forgiveness. Author: Jake Bible * * * 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 17. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The fire burns brightly in the desert night, just as it did the night before, and the night before that. Kind of what fire does, burns brightly. I haven't been here long, a few days, a week or so. I could look at my log for the exact amount of time that's passed since I walked into this empty town. But there's no point, really. Time is a construct of man, and I'm the last man, so, really? time is what I wanted to be, except for the past. I can't do a damn thing about that.

Anyway, I've been here a bit, and I have to say, the smell isn't bad in this place. I've walked into hundreds of former municipalities and shitburgs where the dead were stacked like cordwood along the streets. The corpses on the bottom of the stacks were nothing but mush, a seeping, leaking flesh pancake, crushed by the weight of the corpses above it. Being in the desert, this place is mostly about desiccation, the drying of the dead, so all that's left are haunted and haunting husks that appear in windows and cars every couple of blocks. I stare at the flames that spit and kick and fight against oblivion, desperate for oxygen and fuel every moment of their existence. Sparks rise into the night sky and join the stars, creating new, temporary constellations that I, being the last. man can come up with new names for. That one is broken Cadillac. It reminds me of the limo I found

in the ditch way outside Vegas last December. The bride from that bachelorette party never made it to the altar. Then there's the screaming woman. It's only there for a second, combined with the big dipper in the background. But the constellation is burned into my memory, just like its namesake. Finally, as the fire dies down and the last sparks lift higher and higher, there's the child's hand. Because of the slight shimmer in the atmosphere, the hand even seems to flex like that one did in downtown Tulsa so long ago. A coyote howls and is answered by several yips from its pack. Then the desert returns to silence. I could stare at the fire all night, and most nights I do, waiting until dawn before crawling into my sleeping bag.

But tonight I'm tired. My eyes refuse to stay open, stay alert. I've learned this about myself over the years, that exhaustion is a bitch to fight, and falling asleep in the wrong place at the wrong time is how you die. So as soon as I walked into the resort, a swanky, mid-century modern thing that had become the calling card style of Palm Springs, I picked myself a room and prepped it.

It's funny. This is actually my first time in Palm Springs. It's nice. Standing up, I roll my shoulders, then stretch my arms high up into the air, twisting at the waist, sighing at the satisfying cracks from my fatigued hips. Then I pause and listen. Was that the scuff of a shoe? Or just the scrape of a palm frond against the crumbling stucco? The sound doesn't come again, and I slowly lower my arms. If it's you, then show yourself or fuck off. I'm tired and going to bed. No response, but I didn't expect one.

I never do. I give it a good 30 count, then gather my pack. For safety's sake, I should put out the fire. But it's in a pretty large fire pit set in the middle of the resort's massive courtyard. I'm sure it will be fine. Turning away from the main historic part of the resort, I walk to the large tower that was built to accommodate all the tourists and golfers who used to swarm Palm Springs every season. Having scouted the entire building when I got here, while it was still light out, of course, I chose a room dead center on the second floor.

Always avoid putting yourself on the ground floor. It's just too easy to get to, and always avoid a floor where you can't survive the fall if you have to jump. You never know when you'll need to leave in a hurry. The room smells old, musty. But most everything in this world does now. It's better than mildew, though. I can't stand mildew. And half the country reeks of it, especially east of the Mississippi. It's one reason I meandered my way down to the southwest, then on to Palm Springs.

The other reason is because I know it's getting tired. I don't know how I know, but I do. Like the seasoned pro I am. I immediately reset my traps and security measures around the room's door and windows. I even secure the bathroom window, although I'm a floor up. But slipping through a second-story window is not exactly difficult for it to accomplish. So the thin slice of clouded glass gets just as much attention as the double windows in the main room. After my survival ministrations are done, I lay out on top of the bed's covers, fully clothed, boots still on,

and close my eyes. A scrape outside my room has my eyes shooting back open in a heartbeat. I listen, straining my ears until I can't tell reality from tinnitus. A second scrape. I was wrong the first time. It's not directly outside my room. No, there's an echo to the sound. I ease up off the bed and crouch walk my way to the windows.

But my view is shit. All I see is the walkway railing in the sound. the stylized roof of the far-off main building. A third scrape and a clack. It's trying to get my attention. I'd be an idiot to take the bait and step outside my door, but why go to all the bother? What is it up to? The knob and hinges are silent as I slowly open the room's door. I greased them earlier just in case. With a sharpened baseball bat gripped in my right hand, I duck out and glance one way down the walkway, then the other. Satisfied that it isn't right there ready to rip my throat out,

I tiptoed to the railing and look out over the large courtyard. Someone is sitting at the fire, a stick in their hand, poking at the dying embers. With my breath held, I watch. They don't turn to look at me, but I can tell they know I'm there. Of course they do. They want me to see them. They want me to know for sure that they are here, and that they could have joined me at the fire pit any time they wanted. Shaking my head, I creep back inside my room, reset my security again, then lay back out on the bed.

I leave the window curtains up. If it wants to come have a peek at me, let it. The sun comes in too bright and too hot. It's summer in Palm Springs, so no surprise there. But the lack of electrical power means a lack of AC. And fully dressed in jeans, t-shirt, and flannel, I quickly heat up as the morning rays streak across the bed. It's getting harder to stir myself in the daytime. I've gotten so used to being awake and aware from dusk until dawn that on the rare mornings where I do drag my ass out into the sunlight, it's like pulling my own teeth.

The fact that I'm pushing 60 doesn't help either. I find my canteen on the bedside table and take a long swallow. I saw a couple of wellheads around town, so I'll have to see if I can scrounge up some more H2O soon. This desert will dry me out fast, and dying of thirst is not how I intend to go down. When I open the room's door, I freeze. What looks like a desiccated jackrabbit lies on the concrete just outside the threshold. When I squat down and inspect the corpse, I don't see much amiss. Then I flip it over and see that the real state of its neck was hidden.

A huge hunk of the rabbit's throat is missing. And not a drop of blood was spilled on the concrete. So the poor thing must have been drained away from the walkway and dropped here as a what? Message? Warning? Offering? Trying to figure out its psychology will drive me mad if I let it. So I don't let it.

I pick up the jack rabbit and carry it with me as I descend the stairs to the ground. floor. As I cross the courtyard, I fling the dead animal into some bushes, knowing it'll stink for a day or so. I'm not worried since, in this summer heat, it'll lose its smell quickly as the desert scavenger stripped the body clean, and it dries to nothing but brittle bones and wisps of fur. I know the dead well. But I put the dead bunny out of my mind. I've been lollygagging around the resort for too long. Time to get organized and see what the place has to offer. inside the main building, which houses the huge lobby and all the conference rooms, there is a hint of old death, but it's been years since anything living gave up the ghost in here.

Over the years, I've learned to stick to the high-end resorts as I crisscrossed the country. For one, they were well apportioned when it all went to shit. Their shops and pantries and stockrooms were filled to the gills with everything a person who makes more money than is necessary could ever want. This resort is no different. I see that quickly as I make my way out of the public areas and into the maze of back corridors where the real work happened. This is where the old death odor is coming from. All seated on the floor, lining a corridor from one end to the other, are bodies.

Their backs are against the wall and their hands are in their laps. No one is holding hands. No one has curled up in a fetal position. Where the body's posed this way? I prop open the access door to let in the light and walk down the center of the corridor, careful not to nudge any of the shoes sticking out from skeletal legs. Now, they weren't posed like this. I can see the staining under each body from the death purge of the bowels and bladder,

as well as stains from the putrefaction of the flesh and organs. These people died right where they sat. Sorry, I say and keep going. I have a flashlight and several glow sticks at the ready, in case the door closes back at the end of the corridor. I've been in that situation before, and it's no fun when you have to backtrack in pure darkness, knowing you're surrounded by the dead. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling, and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more than head to checkout, only to realize you don't have your wallet.

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It also makes marketing easy with integrated email and social campaigns. campaigns. And if you get stuck, Shopify's award-winning customer support is there for you 24-7. See less cards go abandoned and more sales go with Shopify and their shop pay button. Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at Shopify.com slash DNS. Go to Shopify.com slash DNS. That's Shopify.com slash DNS. There's an office to my right, and I checked the door. Unlocked. You'd be surprised how many doors are still locked, even after the whole world has ended. It doesn't take me long to find what I'm looking for.

A map on the wall by the door tells me where all the pertinent supplies are. A quick rummage through the desk drawers gets me a set of keys. I don't know which key goes to what, but I have plenty of time to find out. First things first. Breakfast. Memorizing the map on the wall, I leave the office and turn right, headed for the main pantry and supply room for the gourmet food court the resort used to boast about. I traverse the gauntlet of bodies once more until I reached the end of the corridor. When I turn left, I'm faced with more bodies, all lined up like the others.

I've seen my share of the aftermath of death cults and coordinated suicides. The land is rife with the remnants, but I've never seen anything like this at a resort. In fact, most resorts are almost completely empty of bodies. There was no reason to stick around once the shit hit the fan. You couldn't just wait it all out somewhere. No, you had to actively protect yourself. And most everyone decided to do that at home. Not these folks.

When I reached the supply room, I shove open the doors, turn on the flashlight, and gasp at what I see. Sheldves from floor to ceiling filled with food. and not just the Mondo-sized cans of peaches and green beans and vanilla pudding. There are jars of olives and pickles and tinned fish and cans of caviar. Boxes and boxes of water crackers and the really expensive mixed nuts that only have 25% peanuts. Dried meats and bags of jerky of all types. Salmon, turkey, bacon, bison, pork, and, of course, beef.

Jack fucking pot. A clatter out in the hall makes me jump. jump, turn off my flashlight, and reach for my sharpened bat. Spinning to face the doors, I prepare for the attack. I'm deep enough in the building that even a little light from down the corridor won't scare it off. Nothing moves. I wait. After a hundred count, I slowly walk toward the doors, my eyes squinting in the gloom. While having my flashlight on would be ideal, I've gotten used to the dark over the years. So it's not as bad as it could be. A crash and a thud, and several thuds. Just as the yips and whines hit my ears, I peek around the corner and see

four coyotes dragging a couple of corpses out of the corridor. I hope they like jerky. Speaking of, I slipped back into the pantry unseen and closed the doors behind me, barring them in case the coyotes get curious and come get some real jerky. With my space secure, I take a quick inventory, estimating what each shelf holds. When I'm done, I almost cry. I could easily live at this resort for the rest of my life. Sure, some of the food would spoil by then, but a lot of it wouldn't. If I'm careful and formulate a menu based on availability and estimates of spoilage times,

I wouldn't have to forage for a very, very long time. Although, I would keep foraging, simply because it also gives me something to do. I still come across books I haven't read, and I once spent three months sleeping in the Cleveland Public Library's main branch, doing nothing but that, reading what I had never read before. The key is, I won't have to rely on foraging to survive, which is a big plus. And it's not like I can keep running from it. It finds me every time, and it's getting faster at tracking me. shoving all thoughts of the future out of my mind, I grab a box of crackers, two cans of caviar, a jar of black cherries, a sleeve of coconut cookie wafers, throw it all on my pack before easing open one of the doors. The coyotes are gone, so I duck out and quietly make my way to a different exit.

Once back outside in the heat and the shining sun, I find a picnic table tucked away in a grove of palm trees, lining up my hall, I open everything and dig in. I'd worry that my moans of pleasure at the first few bites of caviar might attract attention. But there's no one left to attract. I'm all alone in my luxury food binge at the end of the world. An hour later, with a full belly and a fuzzy head, I put the leftovers in my pack and stretch out on top of the picnic table, using my flannel as a pillow.

My sleep schedule is off, so a quick nap is exactly what I need. I make it maybe ten minutes before the nightmares shocked me awake. Same ones as always. The infestation. The massacre as they swarmed through the night and darkness, hungry and done with hiding. The war, the devastation, the vaccine, the hope, the realization, the disappointment. Then the... And us.

The vaccine killed everyone and everything. Except me. Except it. Still, even with the nightmares, a 10-minute nap is still better than nothing. A coyote is sitting across the courtyard for me. Its eyes locked onto my back. I jump off the table and nearly fall flat on my face. My slapstick scares off the coyote. But I know there are more. Rushing back inside, I'm happy to see the doors to the pantry are still closed. I backtrack my first journey and come around the corridor's corner to see most of the bodies have been dragged out of the corridor and into the lobby, where a couple of coyotes are

still munching away. Carefully, I get to the doors and am able to close them without alarming the opportunistic canines. The pantry is safe. With the doors closed, it's pitch black in the corridor, so I switch on my flashlight and scream. There it is! At the other end, staring at me! I aim the flashlight beam at its eyes, and it hisses in discomfort. Then I blink and it's gone, not liking that encounter. Too close. And during the daytime? It's switching its pattern to match my string from a fully nocturnal life. For me, that's an easy switch.

For it? Not so much. I don't know what it's thinking, and I don't want to know. But it could be time to hash this shit out. Maybe Palm Springs is the sight of our inevitable showdown. Somewhere has to be. I wait for it to appear again, and when it doesn't, I creeped at the pantry for a quick restock. Grabbing a couple of plastic bottles of pineapple juice and a few snack bags of Oreos, I stuff those in my pack, then slowly make my escape out of the main building.

It must be staying here and not in the tower. Has to be the case. No way it can make it across the courtyard in full daylight. It'd be crispy bacon before I got to the first rows of lounge chairs. Not that any lounge chairs are out and lined up. No. Those are still stacked up against a wall, with half the stacks having fallen over,

where they'll stay because there are no orders or cabana boys to pick them up. And I'm sure as I'm not going to do it. With a glance at the tower, the one at the main building and a quick scope around to make sure I'm not being stalked by coyotes. I leave the resort and decide to do a little shopping in town. I find a sporting goods slash general store, slash pawn shop a few blocks down, which I'm sure has what I need, but is locked and chained up tight.

Well, nothing a good old garbage can can't fix. Being Palm Springs, there aren't gaudy iron bars protecting the windows, just wire mesh threaded through the glass. The mesh will stop anyone who doesn't want to stick around for five minutes and wallop the shit out of the window until it collapses inward. I, of course, have the luxury of time. since I am now the sole keeper of the construct. So I wallop and wallop and wallop until the window crumples.

I brush away some stray shards and climb in through the window. My foot goes right through a banjo on the other side, and I frown. The banjo deserved better. The place has everything I need, although since I've come to a sort of preliminary conclusion to stay in Palm Springs, turns out I don't really need much, except bullets. I ran out back in Tempea and just never stopped to find more. Granted, all of the sporting goods stores and gun shops were completely looted, so the pickings were slim, but I probably could have scrounged some up.

I just never got around to it. But with so many coyotes getting friendly, it's best I have my 45 fully loaded. Although, as I stare at the glass cabinet filled with pistols, I doubt I'll need the 45. I cracked the glass, since the case is locked, and pull out a nice, neat 22 pistol. A couple shots in the air should scare off the toothy scavengers. Back out on the street, I look one way than the other, trying to decide what's next. The library? That might be nice.

Then I take a deep breath and realize there is something more important than books. Sanitation? I stink. I step back inside and find a soul. shower kit, then I go looking for running water. And in the desert, where there's sun nearly every day all year round, running water isn't as hard to find as he'd think. I aim for the residential blocks and start walking up and down them, eyes on the house's roofs. When I find the house with a double array of solar panels, I hurry over to the water spigot, sticking out of the stucco siding. A few turns to the left, and I hear the pipes groan, which means the solar is still

connected to the house and, if lucky, the house has its own well. When a slush of brown water sprays out of the spigot, followed by a thick, dripping dark sludge, my shoulder slump. I'm about to turn the spigot off when another spray of brown water clears out the sludge, and soon all I see is crystal clear liquid splashing into the dirt. I shout with joy and punch the air a few times. I fill the solar shower water sack and hang it from the eve of the house's front porch, letting the sun warm it a little. Not that I have the patience to wait. In seconds, I strip down,

wet down, and lather up. Then I take my time as I rinse off the suds. I refill the sack twice before I feel like I've washed away the last few thousand miles worth of grime. Raising my face to the sun, I stand in the middle of the house's front yard and let the heat dry my skin. I could go inside for a towel. I'm sure there are some clean yet dusty ones in there, but I only go in houses as a last resort. Everyone went home when this shit went wrong. Most houses are nothing but mausoleums. The other thing I'm not going to do is put those nasty clothes back on. So, slipping on my boots and grabbing my pack, I saunter out of the residential area stark naked, heading for the row of shops on the main drag. When I pass a children's clothing shop,

I pause. My daughter would have loved the dress that hangs on one of the mannequins in the window, even though it is completely sun-fated. And behind that, as a boy mannequin with khaki shorts and a graphic t-shirt, my son would have pitched a fit over if he didn't get them both. I keep walking. I find exactly what I need, and after breaking into a small boutique, I come out in jeans that said they'd cost over $3,000, a t-shirt worth hundreds,

and new underwear that's like having a cloud around my junk. I grab a few changes of clothes, plus some hoodies and jackets for the colder nights, and stuff it all into a garbage bag. Then I backtracked to the house where I showered and gathered the rest of my gear. If I'm going to stay at the resort permanently, then I'll need a better water system. But for now I can haul as needed. Freshly washed and geared up, I walk back to the resort. and stop when I reached the parking lot.

Coyotes. A full pack of them. Come on, guys, I say and slowly set my bag of clothes down. I pull the 22 out of my pack and aim it up at the sky. We can share, right? It'll be easy to get along. All you have to do is fuck off. I fire twice into the air and half the pack spooks and runs.

The other half stays and stares. Shit. The problem with coyotes and other large predators across the country is that human flesh became readily available when the vaccine that was supposed to protect everyone killed them instead. And the country's population started dropping like flies. It happened so fast that the human population was wiped out, at least in this country, within two weeks,

leaving a lot of spoiling meat everywhere. These coyotes must have been able to strip off some human jerky off those corpse as they got to earlier. But what they really want is the nice, tender, fresh and bloody meat, still attached to my bones. I'm against me being added to the menu. I fired twice more, and the pack splits in half yet again. Two more shots in the pistol clicks empty while only one coyote remains. You the top dog, that it?

I ask it, as I shake out the spent casings and reload the pistol. I slap the chamber closed and take aim at the coyote. Are you going to be a problem? The coyote watches me for a minute, then its head whips to the side, and it stares at the resort's lobby doors. It lets out a low growl then winds, turns, and trots off after its pack. I keep my eyes on the coyote until it turns a corner and is lost from sight. Then I focus on the lobby doors.

It's too dark and shadowy to see anything in there. Still, I decide to take the long way around the building, sticking to the sidewalk and the sunshine in order to get back to the tower. When I'm in my room, I sort out my new clothes and pack them in the empty dresser drawers. Then I decide to do something I never do, and strip down and slip between the sheets. Clean body, cool sheets. Paradise. Thump wakes me.

And I don't even have to open my eyes to know I slept until after sundown. Staying perfectly still, I let my senses stretch, hoping I'm alone in my room. After several seconds without being murdered, I sit up and look around. Everything is as it was when I laid down. I get dressed, grab my sharpened baseball bat, and step to the door. Peeking out the peephole, I don't see anything out there on the walkway, except... I slowly opened the door, ready for the attack. but there isn't one.

What there is is the mutilated body of the Alpha Coyote that faced me down earlier. Its legs are twisted in all the wrong directions, which matches its head as it stares up at me from a backwards position. Then I hear a clunk clunking, and I look out past the railing toward the fire pit. A shape sits in the dark, stoking the dead fire. Is this a gift? An offering?

What is this? I shout, nudging the dead coyote with my toe. A whisper of a voice replies. Then I fetch my pack and pull out my essentials. A flask of holy water. A spray bottle of garlic essential oil mixed with regular water. One big-ass, ugly gold cross. And one of the oldest bibles ever found.

I may have stolen it from the Smithsonian. They won't notice it's gone. An invitation for what? I ask as I walk toward the stairs, my eyes on the barely visible shape. If it wasn't for the faint outline from the gray rocks ringing the fire pit, I'd have no idea which direction to even look. Its voice has a way of being everywhere and nowhere at once. I get a few feet away and hold up my sharpened baseball bat.

How about you take a few steps back while I start the fire? I can see it hunched and huddled up in a chair, not sitting in it, perched in it like a vulture. It pokes a stick at the cold remnants of last night's fire. Yeah, I'm not sitting in the dark with you, I say, and ease the flask of holy water out of my back pocket. I don't want to waste it, since there aren't exactly any priests left to bless and make more. But a few splashes and the thing will stay the hell back for sure, it says, slipping off the chair and into the deep dark shadows of the night. I should go back to my room and lock it tight, then wake up in the morning and move on.

But I'm tired. And for the first time, I honestly think it is too. The fire blazes as I feed it extremely dry wood. Sparks shoot up into the night sky, and the chair across for me is no longer empty. Okay, talk, I say, staring hard at the shape. And don't try anything. You know I can defend myself. It does know.

We had a couple of run-ins during our early years of being the last of our respective kinds. The reality is, I got lucky. I should have been ripped apart and drained dry, but it made some mistakes that allowed me to slip away each time. Which gets me wondering, it says, the same loathing I feel every time I hear this voice. Maybe, I reply. But you don't need to fire, and you don't need to talk to do that.

You are the last. It is over. It kind already is. Humans need one of each sex to repopulate. All there is is me, and I'm not like those African frogs or whatever that can spontaneously impregnate themselves. So, as far as I can tell, it's all over for humanity.

No, not yet. Did you not hear what I just said? It is not over until... It is over. I laugh at the... saying it was a favorite in our household. Except we have a problem, I say and lean toward the fire. I'm human. You're a vampire. You eat humans.

I eat nature, it says. Plenty of that. It shakes its head. And human blood cannot be trusted, can it? The vaccine didn't kill me. So my blood is probably different. I laugh again. Not sure why I said that. It doesn't exactly help my cage. And the vaccine didn't kill me either. So perhaps I can drink your blood without ill effects. Great. This is a fun talk so far.

But you said something about peace? This sounds more like you deciding on your dinner menu. It tries to laugh. The sound is clunky and strange. Like a hyena choking on its own spit. I miss you. That stops me. Whatever motivation I had to sit down with this monster leaves instantly.

No, I say and stand up. You don't get to say that. It is true. My hunger, my instincts drove me to track you all these years, following you from city to city, town to town. I could have eaten you many times, but I always stopped myself. You could have tried, I say, and grip my sharpened bat tight. But you would have failed.

It laughs again, and this time it's closer to a natural sound. Not quite, but close. Yes, you have many skills, it says. Is forgiveness one of them? I swallow hard. So many words are lodged in my throat, stuffed against a scream. I've held it in for years. I shake my head. It leans forward, and the firelight illuminates a face I haven't seen this close and so long. The face of my latest wife, it asks. You killed her children, I whisper. It pauses, then adds. You did.

I look down at my sharpened bat and know that under the layers and layers of staining, there is the first layer. The layer made when I plunged to the bat through my daughters, then my son's hearts. All because my wife came home late one evening and changed everything. I sit down heavily and sigh. No, I say after a few minutes. I cannot forgive you, because I can't forgive myself. Yes. Like you can feel.

I feel more than I'd like, and not as much as I want. You have your answer, no forgiveness. But can we have peace? I no longer want to follow you. I am so tired. It swivels its head like a machine, too smooth and precise. This would not be a bad place for peace. I sit and shift my gaze from the fire to what was once my wife and back.

I don't know, I say finally. We'll see. Maybe some night. But not tonight. It says. Then it slips out of the firelight and is lost from sight. I miss you. I wait a while before I reply.

Good night, Nancy. I miss you too. too.