I Work on the Navajo Reservation. I Learned There Are Rules for Killing Skinwalkers | Part 1
Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep
A man fleeing a violent past in Los Angeles takes a remote job at the Broken Wheel gift shop and museum on the Navajo Reservation, hoping to disappear. His boss,
Key takeaways
- Narrator uses fake ID 'Thomas Freed' and flees LA after violent encounters involving chainsaws.
- Alyssa Strong owns the Broken Wheel shop, which houses Hollywood Western props like a stuffed grizzly named Old Cal from the late 1970s.
Main topics
- Remote desert employment
- Hollywood Western props and artifacts
Notable quotes
"We don't touch old Cal. Not without permission."
Conclusion
The episode delivers a tense, atmospheric horror narrative that blends
Transcript preview
Speaker 1 (0:00) 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. Speaker 1 (0:47) Getting the job. Speaker 1 (0:50) 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 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. LA 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 LA 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 Datsun pickup I managed to buy off the guy in the apartment next to me. It was his grandfather's 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 Datsun. And this old Datsun 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 this 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 Datsun into first and roll the rust bucket down the hill, straight toward the building. When I pull up, I'm confused. From 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 Datsun in one of the many open spaces near the building. The front door is glass, with an open sign hanging askew 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. Tucking 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 buzzdings somewhere in the dark space. It takes