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[00:00] This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. You don't always realize how much financial stress is affecting you until it starts showing up in other areas. Your sleep, your mood, even your relationships. I think a lot of us grow up with certain beliefs about money, like you're supposed to just figure it out on your own. And when things feel tight or uncertain, it can feel overwhelming fast. But struggling financially doesn't mean you've failed. It just means you're dealing with something a lot of people are going through. Therapy can actually help you work through the anxiety, the pressure, and even the mindset you have around money. It's not about getting financial advice. It's about understanding how it's affecting you mentally. BetterHelp makes it easy to get started. They'll match you with a licensed therapist based on your needs. And if it's not the right fit, you can switch anytime. When life feels overwhelming, therapy can help. Sign up and get 10% off at betterhelp.com/dns. That's betterhelp.com/d-n-s. A nurse who murdered patients with unprescribed insulin injections. A sadistic killer whose murder was inspired by the hit TV show Dexter. These are just a couple of the dark true crime stories you'll hear each week on the Crime Hub Podcast. In each episode, I dive deep into new disturbing true crime stories, like the story of the religious cult Heaven's Gate, a group who convinced its followers to commit suicide in order to reach a level of existence above human. Disturbing true crime stories like these are what make the Crime Hub Podcast worth listening to. If you enjoy my horror stories, then you'll absolutely love my true crime stories. Go check it out today by searching Crime Hub in the search bar on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, or Amazon Music. Be sure to click follow to get notified every time a new episode is released. Want to hear brand new horror stories brought to life, live? Join me every Sunday at 7pm Eastern Time on the Dr No Sleep Podcast YouTube channel, where I narrate fresh, never-before-heard stories in real-time. Just search Dr No Sleep Podcast on YouTube, and make sure you're subscribed with notifications on so you don't miss it. The pain is excruciating. Son of a bitch! I shout, pulling my hand out of the drawer like it's on fire. I stare down at the meat between my thumb and forefinger, and watch the skin already start to swell and turn red. What the hell? If I squint hard enough, I can see two minuscule puncture marks in the flesh. Damn, is it a bite? It has to be a bite. I pull the drawer all the way out and dump the contents on the desk. Pens roll everywhere, and scraps of paper flutter into the air, then settle onto the blotter, which is a calendar year that has long since passed. Paper clips, old receipts, no spider or other creepy crawly that could have bitten me. Then I see the magnet coated in staples. That has to be it. Two small puncture marks that line up almost exactly with the ends of a staple. Good thing I'm up to date on my tetanus shots. It's required for work. Work? I shake my hand as I yawn. Two in the morning, nearly halfway through my shift. Oh crap. No, not even close. Gregson called in sick, and I'll be covering the day shift too. Nothing like working 24 hours straight, right? Not exactly labor board approved or OSHA approved for that matter. Although, what kind of trouble can I get into while sitting on my ass in a small shack on the Canadian border? I stare at the redness on my hand and roll my eyes. Apparently, I can get into some trouble while sitting on my ass in this small shack on the Canadian border. The alarm on my phone goes off, startling me. I swear, no matter what ringtone I set, the damn alarm makes me jump. I even used rushing waves once as the ringtone, and I still managed to scare myself. Crashing waves? Who jumps at the sound of crashing waves? Me. I jump at the sound of crashing waves. The alarm is to remind me to do my outside rounds, even though it's cold as a witch's tit out there. Hello? A woman's voice calls out from the darkness outside the shack. I get to my feet, check my sidearm, tighten the straps on my Kevlar vest, and hurry to the door. Peering out of the steel mesh reinforced door window, I try to catch sight of the woman. The motion sensor lights haven't come on yet, so she can't be close. Those halogens will light up everything within a 50-yard radius. Most nights, raccoons, foxes, or even bears trigger the lights. But it's pitch black out there. I shake my head and walk back to my chair. Must have been one of those foxes. The biologists say they can sound like a child or a small woman when they cry in the dark. Although I haven't noticed that. To me, they sound like foxes. Coked up little dogs all yipping and crying until they scurry off into the underbrush looking for whatever it is foxes eat. Gregson has said for a while now that I need to brush up on my life sciences with this job. When you're stuck out in the middle of nowhere, miles upon miles away from everything even resembling civilization, you might want to get to know your neighbors better. Neighbors like raccoons, foxes, bears, etc. Gregson says, there are wolverines up here, but I haven't seen any, and I should be the one to see them since they're nocturnal, and I work the night shift, 6 p.m. until 6 a.m., except for this shift, of course. Hello? The knocking on the door's window causes me to cry out, and I almost fall off my chair while I scramble to grab my sidearm. It's a woman, and she's staring right at me through the window. What the hell? I growl as I get my shit together and stand up. The woman gives me a little wave and a sheepish smile. She's maybe in her late 20s, or maybe late 30s. Kind of hard to tell. Short, raven-black hair cut to chin length. Pale-ass skin. I mean, we are talking white as a sheet, or a ghost, which she kind of looks like as the light from the shack filters through the meshed glass and onto her face, adding unnatural shading and angles to her features. Hi. She exclaims, waving again. Um, can I come in? It's really cold out here. I'm sorry ma'am, but this is a government building, and only authorized personnel are allowed inside. I say as I go to the door and open it, forcing her to take several steps back. Are you looking to cross the border this evening? I don't add that it would be a first. In all the years I've worked this crossing, not a single person has ever used it, and not just at night. Gregson has said the same thing. It's just too remote, and the road in and out isn't exactly easy on the suspension. Don't get me started on what it's like after a storm. I, well, yes, I will be crossing, the woman says. She looks behind her down the rutted rural road back the way she came. But I'm waiting for someone to join me. Really? Who are you waiting for? She's definitely distracted, which gets a little alarm buzz going in the back of my head. Unlike my phone, this type of alarm doesn't make me jump. It does the opposite. It gets me focused. Instinctively, my hand goes to the butt of my pistol. The woman's eyes follow my movement. I'm sorry, she says. But did I say or do something wrong? No offense, ma'am, but it's the middle of the night. You're at an official government border crossing, and you say you are waiting for someone. But don't tell me who. It's sketchy. That shy smile crosses her lips again. Right. Yeah, I can see that. Sorry. I look her up and down again. She's not short, but weighs maybe a buck-oh-five soaking wet. A weighty thing, my mom would have called her. Of course, my mom weighed close to 250 before she passed away, so most women were waify things to her. Except this woman is the real deal. I feel like a hard breeze could bowl her over. She shivers, and I finally notice she's only got dark denim jeans, boots, and a thin, long-sleeved tee on, no jacket or gloves or hat. I bet she's freezing her ass off. Then realization hits me, and I lean out of the shack to look down the road. Where's your car? I ask her. I didn't drive. You didn't drive? What do you mean you didn't drive? I reach inside the shack and snag the maglight off its clamp on the wall. Turning the powerful beam on, I shine the light down the road. There's no way you walked here. Did someone drop you off? She shakes her head, then glances toward the red and white bar that is all that blocks anyone from crossing over the border. The bar looks flimsy, but it can stop a Honda going 40, not that a Honda going 40 would be much of a threat. Gregson and I joke that as long as 16-year-old girls are the only ones who try to get by us, we'll be fine. Now, if it's a teamster in a panel truck, we're screwed. What's funny? The woman asks me. What are you smiling at? I didn't realize I was smiling, so I force a frown back onto my face. Can I get your name, ma'am? I ask, trading out the maglite for a tablet. Pam. She says as I tap at the tablet screen. Pam? Pam what? I keep tabbing at the tablet screen, but nothing happens. Damn it, Gregson. The SOB didn't charge the tablet again before his shift ended. Yeah, yeah, I should have checked it when my shift started. Gregson was complaining about how his stomach hurt, and he was going to go to the urgent care in town to get it checked out. I said that he could save himself some money and just stop shoving his face full of Doritos and Twinkies and Dr. Pepper. He countered that it was diet Dr. Pepper and flipped me off as he got into his pickup truck. You're smiling again, Pam says, forcing the frown back on. I clear my throat, asking my question again. Pam what, ma'am? That rhymes, Pam and ma'am. My eyebrows raise. Pam, are you on drugs? Her laugh is like a million wind chimes, all clinking in a soft breeze. Not a bad thing. It's kind of cute, but it's not an answer to my question. Her eyes glance past me to the interior of the shack. I'm sorry, but it's really cold out here. Can I please come in? No, ma'am, you may not. What are you doing out here without a coat? It's late October, ma'am. You're lucky it's not raining. Oh, I don't mind the rain. It feels good on your skin, don't you think? Reminds me of what life is supposed to feel like. Right. I try the tablet again, but it's just not going to come on. I set it back in its rack. I'll need to find the charger and plug it in as soon as I'm done with this woman. Then I snag a clipboard with a stack of forms held in place on it. The pen is in the clip, and I pull it out, check that it's working, then stare hard at the woman. How about we start over? Your first name is Pam, correct? She nods. And your last name? What's wrong with your hand? She asks. A look of deep concern over taking her features. That shy smile is long gone. Did you hurt yourself? I look down at the redness between my thumb and forefinger. It's gotten a lot worse. It's not just a hot pink, but now bordering on angry red. The two tiny puncture marks have swollen too, making them much easier to see. Um, nothing. Jammed it with a staple. That doesn't look like it was from a staple. That looks like a bite. Nope. A staple. I saw the staple. Just dumb luck. No such thing. Sorry? No such thing as luck. I'll have to respectfully disagree. Now, back to your last. Luck is just the human mind's way of trying to justify fate. Instead of realizing that our paths are preordained, the human mind has to invent luck to explain the wild turn of events that happen during one's lifetime. Fate? Like it's all going to happen how it happens anyway? That kind of fate? The woman shrugs, and the shy smile returns. Sort of like that. It's a little more complicated. Her eyes fall on the angry red flesh on my hand. I want to tuck the hand away into a pocket, but it's currently holding the pen I need to write this woman's information down with. If she'll ever answer a damn question, that is. Ma'am, your last name, please. There's a loud howl from far off down the road. Been following me. This woman, Pam, says. What? Who has been following you? She shakes her head. You were right the first time. Not a who. A what? The howl echoes through the darkness again, this time slightly louder, possibly closer. Maybe I should come inside, she says. No, ma'am, you will not, I say. She shivers, and I have to keep myself from sighing. But I can get you a thermal blanket and a chair while we wait for your friend to show up. My friend? You said you were waiting for a friend. No, no, not a friend. I'm waiting for someone, maybe a friend. I don't know. A third hell splits the night. What is that? We don't have wolves around here. The closest pack, from what Gregson says, is an entire state away. I mean, sure, wolves can migrate, but not this far. That's not a friend either, Pam says, tearing my thoughts away from wolves and interstate travel. You sure I can't come inside? If I let you in, I'd have to handcuff you. I'm sorry, but that's the policy. No unsecured civilians in the guard shack. Seems like a cruel rule, she smiles. That rhymes too. I think about the gate controls sitting on a panel only an arm's length away from me. Cruelty has nothing to do with it, ma'am. It's a matter of national security. Saving the country is your job, I guess. She shivers harder. Can I take you up on that blanket? And that chair? Of course. Setting the clipboard aside, I move to the cabinet on the opposite wall, opening it and pulling out a thick thermal blanket from the pile of them on the top shelf. I also grab a folded camping chair, one of six we keep in the cabinet, too. When I turn, Pam is standing almost at the threshold of the shack's door. Ma'am, please step back. There's a line out there that you need to be behind for security purposes. It's warm in here, Pam says, reaching a bone-wide hand past the doorway and into the shack. Ma'am! I snap and move quickly, shoving the blanket and chair into her arms, knocking her back a couple of steps. I point at the nearly impossible to see painted red line on the square of concrete surrounding and supporting the shack. You can set your chair up back there, please. Pam, not ma'am, she says and moves back. She nods with her chin. Your hand is looking worse. I look down, and she isn't kidding. It does look worse, a lot worse. I pull it back into the shack and hold it under the light. Yeah, it's bad. Black streaks are spreading across my skin, starting at the two puncture marks. I'm thinking it may not have been a staple after all. 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, then head to checkout, only to realize you don't have your wallet. But then you see it, that purple shop pay button, and just like that, you're done in seconds. That's the power of Shopify. It supports millions of businesses and drives 10% of all e-commerce in the US, from major brands like Mattel and Gymshark, to entrepreneurs just getting started. With Shopify, everything you need is in one place, from customizable store templates to built-in AI tools that help write product descriptions and enhance your images. It also makes marketing easy with integrated e-mail and social 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/dns. Go to shopify.com/dns. That's shopify.com/dns. As I keep Pam in sight out of the corner of my eye, I grab the first aid kit off the wall and set it on the counter where the gate controls are. Popping the case open, I pull out antiseptic wipes, cotton balls, gauze, and some isopropyl alcohol. On my first wound cleaning while at work. I can help with that, Pam says, as she struggles to set up her camp chair. Just give me a second with this. She has the blanket tucked up under her arm, but it falls to the ground. Damn it. The howl returns. Then it's answered by another. Except this howl comes from the opposite side of the border, the Canadian side. Pam looks up and stares into the darkness that way. Oh, I know, I know. She mutters, still fighting the chair. What do you know? I ask. I've paused my wound cleaning. Well, I guess I never really started. I step out of the shack, my bad hand on my sidearm. I glance toward our northern neighbor. Those sounds, what are they? Pam, giving up on the chair, lets it clatter to the road next to the fallen blanket. She puts her hands on her hips and faces the border. Pain's in my ass, she says. Okay, so you know what they are. Wolves? She laughs and shakes her head. Wouldn't that be nice? Then her attention is fully on me. And I step back into the shack from the intensity of her gaze. No, they aren't wolves. The howls are joined by two more, which then turn into loud, angry barks. Dogs? I ask. Do you have dogs with you? With me? Me? No, no, not with me, she says quickly. She frowns at my hand. Clean that up. You want it cleaned for? I wait for her to finish, but she only shakes her head again. Then she sighs heavily and picks up the chair. Once more on to the breech, she mumbles. It's not that hard, I say. Set the legs on the ground and spread from the top. Just pull the frame apart. It'll open right up. Okay, thanks, she says, then grabs the top of the chair and pulls so hard that the frame warps and the material rips. Oh, damn it. More howls fill the night air, a lot more, and then the barking starts up again, but this time it doesn't stop. Maybe you should come inside, I say before thinking. She lifts an eyebrow and there's that shy smile. Handcuffed? I don't think so. Well, I could make an exception. I'm not liking what I'm hearing. Might be a pack of feral dogs. Wolves, we don't have. Feral dogs, though? Yeah, that might be the problem. Are you sure? No, but if you get torn apart by wild Fido, well, I'll have a lot of paperwork to fill out. Which gets me thinking of my blank form on the clipboard. I still haven't gotten her last name. I'm not sure if that's an invitation or not, Pam says, kicking the broken chair off to the side. She bends down and picks up the blanket, unfolding it, so she can drape it over her shoulders. I don't want to get you in trouble. When is your friend supposed to arrive? I told you, it's not a friend, I don't think. Maybe they will, we'll see. I can't help but laugh. When you say shit like that, it makes me second guess having you step into the guard shack. Who exactly are you waiting for? The barking intensifies and grows closer. Pam doesn't seem scared, but the hair on the back of my neck is standing straight up. I scan the area, but it's just too dark to see beyond the pool of light from the shack. Pam's eyes go to the border once more, then she looks back the way she came, back deeper into the US. I lean my hand on the door frame and lean out again. The second I put my weight on my hand, I cry out and jerk my hand away. Just that little pressure was excruciating. The black streaks are thicker and longer, stretching up across the back of my hand, headed for my wrist now. My skin feels hot and tight. As I stare at it, I cough hard. A sickly thick taste fills my mouth. They won't be long now, Pam says and walks right up to the doorway. Can I come in now? A memory from my childhood slams into my brain, forcing a highly irrational thought to the forefront of my mind. All I see is that old actor. What was his name? He played a bad wizard in those elf movies, the ones with the little people and shit. Um, um, someone, Lee. That guy, except the memory I have, isn't from those movies, but from his earlier stuff. When he played Dracula. You're not a vampire, are you? I ask Pam. I try to smirk like I'm joking, but the barking outside is a lot louder, putting me on edge. So the smirk probably looks like a grimace. Jesus, that's a lot of barking. Maybe I should call this in, get wildlife services out here to see what is going on. No, I'm not a vampire, Pam replies. She doesn't laugh off the question, but she also isn't shocked or phased by it. She crosses her heart with one hand. I promise. Um, yeah, come on in, I say. I don't realize I'm holding my breath until she steps inside the shack and looks around. Can I sit there? Or is there a different chair? She's looking at my chair, the only one in the shack. Yes, sure, sit there, I say and go back to the cabinet, pulling out another camp chair. With practiced ease, I grip the top and give the whole thing a hard shake. It unfolds easily, becoming stable as I set it on the floor and give a hard push at the top. I'll take this one, you sit there. Before I can sit, I hear the howls and barks turn into deep low growls, growls that are way too close for comfort. I shut the shack door and grab the handset off the CB radio we use, since there is absolutely zero cell service out here. Of course, I grab with my bad hand. The pain is brutal, and I feel my knees weaken a little. Sit down before you fall down, Pam says from what was my chair. You look really pale, Shane. I try again with the CB handset, switching hands this time. I give the button a couple of clicks and say into it, Command, this is Border Outpost 13, come back. Nothing, not even static. With my bad hand, I carefully twist a couple of dials, moving the channel to a different one we use. Command, this is Border Outpost 13, come back. Still nothing. I flip the power switch off and then on again. The CB dial light glows, so I know there's power going to it. The needle in the signal strength panel shows zero activity, telling me I'm not receiving or transmitting. Shit. No one there? Pam asks. Oh, they're there. I just can't seem to reach them. That happens. I look over at Pam. What do you mean? You said that happens. What happens? No CB signal? Why would you say that? I go to lean my hand on the counter and cry out. My entire arm goes numb with pain and this time, my weak knees do give out, sending me falling to the floor. I catch myself with my good hand, leaving the CB handset to dangle free from the counter. It swings and twirls, twisting the coiled cord even tighter than it already is. Then it slows and twists in the opposite direction. As I'm on the floor, I realize that my whole body aches, and the heat isn't just in my hand anymore, but all over. My head feels a little fuzzy. A voice reaches my ears and I look over at Pam. What was that? You have a fever, Shane, she says. Come sit down, let me clean that wound for you. It dawns on me that this is the second time she said my name, and I never told her my name. Did I? No, no, no, I didn't, I'm sure of it, sure of it. She must see the suspicion in my eyes, because she tries to bring that shy smile back to put me at ease. I'm a lot of things right now, but at ease is not one of them. I think I made a mistake, I say as I stand up on wobbly legs. I want to place my hand on the butt of my sidearm again, but even that little motion brings waves of agony shooting up my arm and straight into my brain. I see hot white light for a brief second, then it dissipates, and all I see is Pam staring at me. You should leave. I don't know who you were waiting for, but they obviously aren't coming. I'd advise you to go back the way you came, and maybe try again in the daylight. A loud thump against the door forces a startled yip from my throat, a throat that feels scratchy and irritated. I can't leave until the one I'm waiting on arrives, Pam says. She frowns at the door. And I'd rather not wait out there, if you don't mind. Another thump, and I reach across myself with my good hand to unsnap the strap holding my sidearm in place. I pluck it out, the weapon feeling weird in my non-dominant grip. Gregson has always told me to switch up hands at target practice. I should have listened to him. That won't help, Pam says. You should put it away. I turn the weapon on her. She only continues frowning. No fear or worry or surprise on her face at all. Just a sad frown. The barks and howls and growls get louder and louder outside. It sounds like the shack is surrounded by angry beasts, all wanting to get inside. Another thump shakes the door, and I begin to wonder if what's out there might actually make it into here. My hand is sweaty and shaking as I aim the gun back at the door. Are those dogs yours? Did you bring them with you? I snap. She doesn't respond. Call them off, now! My throat catches and I start coughing. Something loosens in my chest, and I hack up a nasty hunk of phlegm. The flavor is pure sickness. I need aspirin, I say, and look around for the first aid kit. Where'd I put that? I see the cotton balls, gauze, and antiseptic wipes I pulled out, but no first aid kit. Then I catch a hint of blue on the floor. I must have knocked it under the counter when I fell to my knees. Reaching for it with my bad hand is a mistake. Just stretching my fingers is like jamming my hand into a bucket of broken glass. A scream nearly passes my lips. Let me get it for you, Pam says. No! I shout. There's now broken glass in my throat, too. I gasp and try to swallow, but my mouth is bone dry. At almost a whisper, I say, Stay where you are. Stay in that chair. I knew this was a mistake. I should have cuffed her. Then I'd be able to move freely without worrying she's going to jump me. Although all she's done is offer to help. Shit, this night has really gone off the rails. Shane, I am not here to hurt you, but I can help. Sit down, and I'll clean that hand up so that you aren't dealing with it for the rest of eternity. A third time? She said my name a third time. How do you know my name is Shane? I ask. Bam! The door shakes in its frame. I let out a pained whimper, instantly regretting the show of weakness. Pam doesn't answer my question. My head throbs, and I feel sweat breaking out of my scalp. My armpits are also sweating. Well, pretty much all of me is sweating now. Bam! Christ! I shout, nearly shredding my aching throat. Can you put that gun away, Shane? It's making me nervous. It really confused things if you accidentally shot yourself. You have no idea what paperwork is, trust me. If you die by firearm, I'll be filling out forms and triplicate for eons. I don't, I don't know what... I cough and groan from the pain. I don't know what that means. You will, she says and stands up. I try to swing my arm toward her so I can aim my sidearm her way again. But damn if my whole body doesn't feel like mush. The sweat beating on my forehead drips into my eyes, stinging like a bastard. Blinking it away, I stare up at Pam as she looms over me. Bam! Thump! Oh, knock it off! Pam shouts at the door. A harsh bark is followed by a low whine. He'll arrive when he arrives. Who? I gasp. Your... friend? Again, Shane. Not my friend. Not yet. My confusion grows. This woman talks in riddles, and riddles are not what my mind can handle right now. I'm not sure what it can handle, actually. It feels as if my skull is full of thick cotton or wool or whatever that polyester stuffing is they put in teddy bears and shit. A single thought now takes forever. Hands grab me under my arms, and I want to fight them off. But who am I kidding? I couldn't fight off anything right now. Not even wafy Pam. Then I'm plopped in the chair at the table, and I realize it's Pam who picked me up, proving my point. She pulls up the camp chair and sits down, then takes my bad hand in hers. There's pain, but it's not horrible. I watch as she tears open an antiseptic wipe and calmly gently cleans my wound. The coolness of the wipe clears a little fuzz away from my fever-addled mind. I look at the wound, knowing that what she is doing won't help. Not anymore, I'm way past that. I'm dying, aren't I? I ask as she discards the first wipe and opens another. I'm not going to make it, right? She starts to say something, then just shakes her head. Well, shit. I take a deep breath and look about the shack. I glance at the door. There haven't been any thumps or bams since she's shouted at whatever is out there. You're not a vampire, are you? That gets a laugh out of her. No, Shane. I'm not a vampire. I nod like that's a normal answer to a normal question. What are you? A woman. I snort, and she looks up from her ministrations. What? Don't I look like one? Yeah, but you aren't, are you? She shrugs and holds my bad hand in both of hers. It feels warm and nice, like a hug from a loving parent. I am, and I'm not. Both are true. Then she stands up, keeping my hand held in hers. Ready? For what? She sighs. I pause then nod. Oh, for that. I stand, and she leads me to the door. She opens it, and I see a dozen large black dogs all sitting in a row outside the shack. They stand up, but don't approach us, as Pam walks me out of the shack and toward the red and white bar that separates the borders. We're not going to Canada, are we? I ask as we get closer to the border. No, Shane, we aren't. Am I going to hell? Do you think you should go to hell? Her hands are so warm and comforting. If this is what hell has to offer, maybe it's not so bad. Pam laughs. No, Shane, you aren't going to hell. I glance behind me and see myself in the chair in the shack, collapsed over the table. Huh. It was a spider bite, wasn't it? I ask as we finally reach the border. Yep. Sorry. And Gregson thought he was sick. Pam laughs. I smirk. Again, as we make the crossing, everything drifts away. Thanks for tuning in. If you enjoyed the story, be sure to follow or subscribe and share the show with a fellow horror fan. I'll see you in the next one.