"The Last Delivery"
It’s 9:15 p.m. when I get the notification. One last delivery before I call it a night. I pull my phone from the pocket of my worn windbreaker and see the details: 712 Cross Street, the far end of town, just past the industrial zone where the warehouses sit mostly abandoned. It’s one of the longer routes, and I hesitate. I can already feel the cold creeping through the thin fabric of my jacket, and the damp smell of approaching rain lingers in the air. But, the payout’s double.
I tap *Accept*, adjust my beanie, and hop onto my bike. The restaurant, an old-school burger joint, is only a couple of blocks from where I am. I navigate the familiar roads quickly, weaving between the occasional parked car and gliding through the amber glow of street lamps. As I pull up, the bag is waiting, loaded with the usual weight of greasy, delicious takeout. I strap it to my back, double-checking that everything’s secure, then push off into the night.
The streets are emptier than usual. I pick up speed, heading toward Cross Street, feeling a sense of satisfaction as my legs pump in a steady rhythm. But there’s something else there too — a slight unease. It’s that same stretch of town where you feel like you’re being watched. Maybe it’s just because there are no streetlights, no people, and barely any houses. Just long stretches of shadows and buildings that used to be alive.
As I turn onto Cross Street, the feeling intensifies. There’s barely any light, and my bike’s headlamp casts strange shadows that seem to dance and flicker at the edges of my vision. The industrial buildings loom like monoliths. Windows are shattered or dark, and every so often, the wind whistles through an alleyway with a pitch that feels almost human.
Then, my phone buzzes. It startles me so much that I nearly lose control of my bike. Swerving to steady myself, I stop, pull over, and check the notification. It’s from the customer: *“Are you close?”*
I text back, *“On my way, just a few minutes out.”*
I pick up the pace. 712 Cross Street, just a few more blocks. I pass a series of empty lots and notice a flickering light ahead. As I approach, I realize it’s an old streetlamp, and underneath it, there’s a figure leaning against the post. A man, tall and thin, wearing a dark coat with the collar turned up. His head is down, obscuring his face.
I keep pedaling, trying to ignore him, but as I pass, I can feel his eyes on me. Cold, assessing. I push harder on the pedals, glancing back over my shoulder. He’s still standing there, staring, and I could swear I see him move just slightly, as if he’s about to follow. The unease in my gut twists into something darker — something close to fear.
Up ahead, I spot a building with the number 712 painted in faded white letters on the door. I stop in front, catch my breath, and glance around. No lights are on inside. The windows are dark, and the place has the look of something long abandoned. But I’m sure this is the address.
I take the bag off my back, hold it tightly, and approach the door. I’m about to knock when my phone buzzes again. Another message: *“Leave it by the door.”*
A shiver slides down my spine. Who orders food to an abandoned building? I should just leave it, get on my bike, and ride away. But I could use the money, so I set the bag down carefully on the ground by the door.
Just as I’m about to turn back, I hear a faint sound. It’s coming from inside the building, a soft shuffling, like footsteps. My breath catches, and for a second, I stand frozen, listening. Then, without thinking, I lean closer to the door, pressing my ear against the cool wood.
Nothing.
I pull away, ready to get out of there when the door suddenly creaks open a crack. My heart nearly jumps out of my chest. It’s just a sliver, enough to see a shadowy figure on the other side.
“Thanks,” a voice whispers, barely audible. It’s raspy, low, almost inhuman. I don’t answer. I’m already stepping back, putting distance between myself and the door. I don’t know why, but something in my gut tells me to get on my bike and go, fast.
Just as I turn to leave, the door slams shut, and I hear the lock click. The sound reverberates in the empty street, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I fumble to get my bike upright, throwing one leg over and pedaling as hard as I can. My head is buzzing, my hands slick with sweat as they grip the handlebars.
I take a glance over my shoulder, just once, and nearly skid off the road. The man from the streetlamp is now in the middle of the road behind me, watching me, his face still hidden in shadow. I push harder, my legs screaming as I speed up, trying to put as much distance between us as possible.
I don’t stop pedaling until I’m back in the city, back in the familiar glow of streetlights and the faint hum of traffic. Only then do I pull over, gasping for breath, feeling the burn in my lungs and legs. I pull out my phone, checking the app, expecting to see the completed delivery notification.
Instead, there’s a message waiting for me: *“Thank you for the delivery. We’ll see you again soon.”*
The words send a fresh wave of chills down my spine. The address — 712 Cross Street — flashes on the screen, along with the time of delivery, and then the app goes dark, as if I’d never taken the order at all. I blink, staring at the blank screen. The job has disappeared, no record of the delivery, no payout, nothing.
My heart is pounding as I shove the phone back into my pocket, my thoughts racing. Was it a prank? Some kind of glitch? But I can’t shake the feeling that something about that address, that voice, and the man in the shadows wasn’t part of any ordinary job.
I take a deep breath, hop back on my bike, and head home, hoping that I won’t be getting any more deliveries from that part of town anytime soon. But as I pedal through the empty streets, the thought lingers at the edge of my mind: *“We’ll see you again soon.”*
"Night Shift: A 24-Hour Delivery Challenge Gone Wrong"
The idea of doing a 24-hour food delivery challenge on my bicycle was both exciting and intimidating. I wanted to see how much I could earn in a single day and experience the grind delivery drivers go through. It wasn’t my usual line of work—I had a desk job, safe and predictable. But I craved a break from routine, an adventure, and maybe even a little bit of thrill. So, I charged up my phone, packed some snacks, and hit the road on my bike at 7 a.m. sharp.
The morning shift was almost serene. The city was just waking up, and the air felt cool and fresh as I cycled down familiar streets. My first few deliveries were easy, and I even felt like I was getting into a good rhythm. By noon, I’d made a decent amount, but I was already feeling the fatigue building in my legs. I pushed through, taking only quick breaks to stretch my back and grab a sip of water. By late afternoon, every pedal started to feel heavier, but I reminded myself that this was all part of the challenge.
As the sun dipped below the horizon and the city lights flickered on, I kept going, my determination outweighing the exhaustion. By now, I had spent nearly fifteen hours cycling across the city, dropping off burgers, pizzas, and coffee orders at doorsteps and apartment complexes. My legs were burning, my shoulders ached, and even my hands were sore from gripping the handlebars.
Around 10 p.m., I found myself in a quieter part of town. Most businesses here had already closed, and the streets were almost deserted. The silence was unsettling, but I was too tired to care. I spotted a bench under a flickering streetlight and decided to take a break, parking my bike right next to me and locking it up.
I sank into the bench, letting the fatigue wash over me. There was something calming about the stillness. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting my muscles relax, when suddenly, a deafening crunch echoed through the empty street. My eyes snapped open, and I looked up, heart pounding.
Some guy in a beat-up car had just slammed into my bike. The metallic screeching was horrible as he dragged my bike along the road, the wheels bending and twisting under his car. My mouth went dry, a mix of anger and disbelief hitting me like a punch. But the shock quickly turned to fear as he stopped the car and got out.
He was tall, wearing a black hat pulled low over his face, and a mask covered his mouth and nose. He wore dark clothes, blending into the night, and his car had no license plate—nothing that could identify him. He just stood there, staring at me from a distance, his face unreadable in the shadows.
I tried to steady my breath, convincing myself that maybe he would apologize, offer to help or explain. But the longer he stared, the more unsettling it became. Slowly, he started walking toward me, his steps unhurried, almost calculated. Every instinct in me screamed to get out of there. My legs, tired as they were, found a burst of energy, and I bolted down the street.
I could hear his footsteps picking up behind me, heavy and fast. I glanced back once and immediately regretted it—he was running, closing the distance. My heart was pounding as I took random turns, desperately trying to shake him off, but he matched my every move. The quiet, empty streets felt endless, and my fatigue was catching up with me. But the fear kept me running.
Finally, up ahead, I saw a more populated street and a 24-hour supermarket with lights on and people still coming and going. I pushed myself harder, sprinting into the store and darting down one of the aisles. My heart was pounding so loudly I was sure everyone could hear it. I stopped by the shelves, gasping for air, trying to make myself small among the racks of cans and boxes.
I peered out, watching the entrance, half-expecting him to burst through the doors. The store was well-lit, and security cameras were scattered across the ceiling. There were a few people around, a couple of employees stocking shelves, a security guard near the entrance. I let out a shaky breath, hoping the cameras and the presence of others would deter him.
Ten minutes passed. I shifted from foot to foot, still glancing toward the doors. He didn’t show up. Slowly, my heart rate began to steady, and I felt a glimmer of relief. I told myself he must have given up and left. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still out there, somewhere in the shadows.
When I finally felt brave enough to leave, I stepped cautiously out of the supermarket, glancing around to make sure the coast was clear. The street was empty, and the silence felt even heavier than before. I retraced my steps back to where I’d left my bike, hoping for a miracle. But when I got there, my stomach dropped.
My bike was lying in the middle of the road, mangled and twisted, a painful reminder of how quickly things had spiraled. The wheels were bent, the handlebars were crooked, and parts of it were scratched and torn. It was barely recognizable. I just stood there, feeling a mix of anger, fear, and helplessness wash over me.
With no other options, I began the long walk home. Every few minutes, I looked over my shoulder, half-expecting to see him lurking in the darkness. The quiet of the streets that had once felt peaceful now felt menacing. I quickened my pace, determined to get back to the safety of my own home.
When I finally got inside, I locked the door, leaned against it, and let out a long, shaky breath. I’d taken on the challenge to see how much I could earn in a day, to test myself and experience a new kind of work. But that night had taught me more than I ever wanted to know—not just about the physical toll of the job but the unseen dangers of being out there alone, vulnerable in the dead of night. That haunting chase, the coldness in his stare, and the memory of my ruined bike would stay with me for a long time.
In the end, I knew one thing for certain: I’d never do another delivery shift again.
"Dark Deliveries: A Night of Survival"
My name is Jake. I’m a computer programmer, the kind of guy who spends most of the week hunched over a desk, eyes locked on code, breaking only for coffee and the occasional stretch. It’s a good job, but come the weekend, I need a break—a change of pace and scenery. That’s why I picked up food delivery on the side. Riding around town on my bike with a backpack full of takeout isn’t glamorous, but it keeps me moving, clears my head, and gives me a little extra cash. Plus, it’s satisfying to be out there in the real world, away from the screen.
This particular Saturday started like any other. The streets were buzzing with nightlife, bars filling up, people in groups, laughing and shouting. It was a good crowd, and I felt comfortable riding around, weaving in and out of traffic. Around 8 p.m., I got a new order—a pretty decent-paying one, actually. The pickup was quick, and the destination was only a few kilometers away. I’d never been to this area, but it seemed close enough to the city, so I didn’t think much of it.
The ride started off fine, but as I left the main streets and turned into quieter neighborhoods, the atmosphere shifted. The lights grew sparse, and the streets were deserted, lined with old houses that looked closed off and silent. The deeper I went, the more it felt like stepping into a different world—like this neighborhood was frozen in time, untouched by the hum of city life just a few blocks over. It was strange, eerie even, but I kept going. I wanted to finish the delivery, get paid, and move on.
I arrived at the delivery address and knocked on the door, which creaked open just wide enough for a hand to slip through. A man’s voice thanked me from the shadows, and he pulled the bag inside, not even showing his face. It was strange, but people can be weird. I brushed it off, eager to get back to the city where the streets felt alive, where other people and lights kept things feeling safe.
As I turned back, I checked my phone for my next order, adjusting my bike and getting ready to take off. That’s when I noticed them: three girls, walking slowly along the other side of the street. They weren’t saying much, but their heads were down, their strides unhurried, almost synchronized. Something about them felt off. I tried to ignore it, focusing on the map as I picked my route back, but when I passed them, I felt their eyes on me.
I gave a slight nod, as if to break the silence, to acknowledge them with a harmless greeting. But then—thud! My bike jolted as one of them kicked the back wheel, knocking me off balance. I nearly tumbled over but managed to catch myself, heart pounding. I spun around to face them, confused, words catching in my throat.
One of them stepped forward, grinning—a sick, twisted grin that made my blood run cold. “Where you headed so fast?” she asked, her voice teasing, but there was a bite in it. Before I could respond, another girl lunged forward, knocking me clean off the bike. I hit the gravel hard, feeling the rough ground scrape against my skin. I opened my mouth to protest, but then something sharp, something cold, pierced my side.
I gasped, feeling a searing pain that stole the breath from my lungs. I looked down, barely processing what was happening, when the blade plunged into me again, and then a third time. I felt like I was drowning, each stab sending shockwaves of pain that made everything around me blur and spin. The world went dim, my vision narrowing as the darkness of the street seemed to swallow me whole.
My mind screamed at me to move, to get away, but my body felt sluggish, paralyzed by fear and agony. I could hear them laughing, their voices cold and mocking. Somehow, a surge of adrenaline kicked in. Maybe it was the survival instinct, or maybe just sheer luck, but I managed to push one of them off me, stumbling backward and finding my feet.
With every ounce of strength I had left, I ran. I clutched my side, feeling the warm blood soaking through my shirt, dripping down my fingers. I knew I couldn’t stop—I had to keep moving, get to safety. Each step sent another jolt of pain through me, but I forced myself forward, focusing on the distant glow of the city lights as if they were my only lifeline.
It felt like hours, though it was probably only minutes, before I finally saw the lights of a convenience store ahead. I stumbled inside, nearly collapsing against the counter. The cashier took one look at me, eyes widening with horror as he grabbed for the phone, calling an ambulance. My vision blurred, everything turning hazy, but I was aware of him speaking, his words mixing with the sirens I could hear approaching in the distance.
When the paramedics arrived, they carefully lifted me onto a stretcher, asking questions I could barely answer. My body felt like it was on fire, every inch of me aching, but I forced myself to stay awake, clinging to the sound of their voices, to the reassuring tone that made me believe I’d be okay.
At the hospital, the doctors worked quickly. They told me later I was lucky the knife hadn’t hit anything vital, that with a little time, I’d recover. But lying there in that sterile room, the reality of what had happened started to sink in. I kept replaying the night in my head, wondering how a simple delivery had spiraled into something so dark, so random. Who were those girls? And why would they do something so senseless?
The police came by to take my statement, but there wasn’t much I could tell them. In the darkness, in the haze of pain and fear, their faces were just a blur. All I could remember was that smirk, the cold look in their eyes as they watched me struggle. They were like predators, like they’d done this before—or were at least looking for the thrill of it. Just the memory of their laughter sent a chill down my spine.
Weeks went by, and my body slowly began to heal, but that night left a scar on more than just my skin. Every time I went out for another delivery, I felt an instinctual fear in the back of my mind. I stuck to well-lit streets, avoided the quieter neighborhoods, constantly glancing over my shoulder, feeling a tension I couldn’t shake. And even now, months later, I still can’t help but wonder why they picked me—what made them choose that moment to strike.
But maybe that’s the scariest part. There was no reason. No logic. Just random, sudden violence that tore through my life in the blink of an eye. I’ll never understand it, and I don’t think I want to. All I know is that I survived, and maybe that’s enough.
And though I’m still out there, riding my bike, delivering food like nothing ever happened, there’s a part of me that will never feel truly safe again. Because now, I know how quickly things can change. How quickly a dark street can turn into a nightmare.