"Off Highway 41":
I work the night shift at a gas station off a quiet highway, the kind of place where hours crawl by with nothing but the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional trucker stopping for coffee. It’s just me, a small convenience store, and a couple of pumps outside. The job is boring, but it pays, and I’m used to the silence. Most nights, I stock shelves, watch the security monitors, and wait for morning. But one night, everything changed.
It was around 2 a.m., and I hadn’t seen a customer in hours. The store was dead quiet, just the buzz of the cooler in the back. I was behind the counter, flipping through a magazine, when the bell above the door jingled. I looked up, expecting a tired driver, but instead, a man walked in. He was tall, wearing a dark hoodie pulled low over his face. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and he moved slowly, like he was studying the place. My stomach tightened. Something about him felt off.
“Hey, welcome,” I said, trying to sound normal. “Need help finding anything?”
He didn’t answer. He just wandered down the snack aisle, his head tilted, like he was listening for something. I glanced at the security monitor. His reflection showed him standing still, facing the camera, but his face was hidden under the hood. My heart beat faster. I told myself he was just another weird late-night customer. Happens sometimes.
I busied myself wiping the counter, keeping him in the corner of my eye. He grabbed a bag of chips but didn’t come to the register. Instead, he walked to the back, near the coolers, and just stood there. Minutes passed. I could feel my pulse in my throat. The silence was heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the lights. I cleared my throat.
“Sir, you ready to check out?” I called, my voice louder than I meant.
He turned his head slowly, like he’d forgotten I was there. “Not yet,” he said, his voice low and raspy, like he hadn’t spoken in days. He didn’t move. Just stood by the cooler, holding the chips, staring at the floor.
I forced a smile. “Alright, take your time.”
My hands were sweaty. I glanced at the phone under the counter. The police were a call away, but I didn’t want to overreact. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Not yet. I checked the monitor again. He was gone from the frame. My breath caught. I leaned forward, scanning the other cameras. Nothing. The aisles looked empty. My eyes darted to the door. The bell hadn’t rung. He was still inside.
I grabbed the baseball bat we kept under the counter, just in case. My boss had shown it to me on my first day, half-joking, but now it felt like a lifeline. I stepped out from behind the counter, gripping it tight. “Sir?” I called, my voice shaking. No answer. I moved toward the aisles, my sneakers squeaking on the tile. The store felt too big, too quiet.
I peeked down the snack aisle. Empty. The cooler aisle. Empty. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it. I turned toward the bathroom in the back, the only place I hadn’t checked. The door was cracked open, the light off. I tightened my grip on the bat and pushed the door with my foot. It creaked open. Nothing but darkness. I flicked on the light. Empty.
I let out a shaky breath and turned back to the store. That’s when I saw him. He was standing at the counter, right where I’d been, holding the bag of chips. His hood was still up, his face shadowed. I froze. He shouldn’t have gotten there without me seeing him. The bell hadn’t rung. The cameras hadn’t shown him move.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice calm, almost mocking. He tilted his head, and I caught a glimpse of his eyes—dark, unblinking, like they were boring into me.
“Yeah,” I lied, stepping back toward the counter, the bat still in my hand. “Just checking the store. You ready to pay?”
He didn’t move. “You alone here?” he asked, his voice soft but heavy, like it carried a threat.
My mouth went dry. “My coworker’s in the back,” I said, hoping it sounded convincing. There was no coworker. It was just me until 6 a.m.
He nodded slowly, like he didn’t believe me. “Must get lonely,” he said, setting the chips on the counter. His hand moved slow, deliberate, and I saw a flash of something metallic in his pocket. A knife? My stomach dropped.
I forced myself to stay calm, scanning the chips with shaking hands. “That’s $2.49,” I said, my voice barely steady.
He reached into his pocket, and I braced myself, ready to swing the bat. But he pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill and slid it across the counter. His fingers were long, pale, and smudged with dirt. I grabbed the bill, avoiding his touch, and fumbled for change. He didn’t take it. He just stood there, staring.
“Keep it,” he said, picking up the chips. He turned toward the door but stopped, looking back at me. “You should lock the door at night. Never know who’s out there.”
My blood ran cold. He walked out, the bell jingling as the door swung shut. I rushed to the door and locked it, my hands trembling. I watched him through the glass as he walked to the edge of the lot, where a beat-up truck was parked. He didn’t get in. He just stood there, facing the store, his hood still up. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he was watching me.
I grabbed the phone and dialed 911, my voice shaking as I told the operator about the man, the truck, the way he’d acted. They said they’d send a car, but it’d take 20 minutes. The highway was too far out. I kept the bat in my hand and watched the monitors. The truck didn’t move. He didn’t move.
Then the power flickered. The lights buzzed, dimmed, and came back on. My heart stopped. I checked the monitors again. The truck was still there, but he was gone. I scanned every camera, every angle. Nothing. The bell hadn’t rung. The door was still locked.
I backed away from the counter, clutching the bat, my eyes darting to every corner of the store. The coolers hummed. The lights buzzed. Then I heard it—a faint scrape, like metal on tile, coming from the back. My breath hitched. I wanted to run, but the only way out was the front door, and his truck was still there.
“Sir?” I called, my voice barely a whisper. No answer. The scrape came again, closer now, from the stockroom. I crept toward the door, the bat raised, my heart hammering. I pushed the door open. The stockroom was dark, the single bulb flickering. Boxes were stacked high, casting long shadows. I stepped inside, my sneakers silent on the concrete.
Then I saw it—a flash of movement behind a stack of boxes. I swung the bat, hitting nothing but air. A can rolled across the floor, clattering. I froze, my breath shallow. “Who’s there?” I said, louder now.
No answer. But I heard breathing, slow and heavy, from the corner. I backed up, my back hitting the wall. The lights flickered again, and for a split second, I saw him—standing in the shadows, his hood up, his eyes locked on mine. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just stared.
I bolted for the door, slamming it shut behind me. I grabbed the phone again, my hands shaking so bad I could barely dial. The operator said the police were five minutes out. I locked myself in the small office behind the counter, clutching the bat, watching the monitors. The truck was still there. The stockroom camera showed nothing but static.
I waited, every second stretching into forever. The lights flickered again, and the monitors went black. My heart was in my throat. I heard the scrape again, closer now, right outside the office door. I gripped the bat, tears stinging my eyes, and whispered to myself, “Just stay calm. Just stay calm.”
Then the door handle jiggled. Slow at first, then faster, like someone was trying to force it open. I held my breath, ready to swing. The jiggling stopped. Silence. Then a low, raspy voice came through the door.
“You should’ve locked the back door.”
My blood froze. I hadn’t checked the back door. The stockroom had a delivery entrance. I’d forgotten to lock it. I wanted to scream, but my voice was gone. The handle jiggled again, harder this time. I backed into the corner, the bat shaking in my hands.
Then I heard sirens. Red and blue lights flashed through the windows. The jiggling stopped. I heard footsteps, fast, fading away. I stayed in the office, too scared to move, until the police knocked on the door. They searched the store, the stockroom, the lot. The truck was gone. The back door was wide open.
They found the bag of chips on the stockroom floor, unopened, next to a pocketknife. The police said I was lucky. They’d seen guys like him before—drifters, looking for easy targets at lonely gas stations. They never caught him. I quit the next day. I couldn’t go back. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face in the shadows, hear his voice through the door, and wonder what would’ve happened if the police hadn’t shown up when they did.
"The Man at Pump Six":
I work the night shift at a small gas station off a lonely highway in a quiet town. It’s a rundown place, with four rusty pumps outside, a convenience store lit by flickering fluorescent lights, and a cramped back room with a cot and a flickering bulb. The air smells of stale coffee and motor oil, and the counter is scratched from years of use. I took the job because I needed the money for bills, but the loneliness gets to me. Most nights, it’s just me, the hum of the cooler, and a crackling radio playing old country tunes. I keep a flashlight under the counter and a cheap coffee maker in the corner for long hours. Last night, though, I wish I’d called in sick.
It was 10 PM when I started my shift. I locked the door behind me, flipped the “Open” sign, and checked the register. The cash drawer stuck, as always, and I had to jiggle it open. I restocked the candy aisle, the crinkle of wrappers loud in the empty store, and wiped down the counter, smearing streaks of dust. The radio played softly, a song about lost love, and I settled into my stool, scrolling through my phone. The lot outside was dark, the pumps glowing faintly under their metal canopies. No cars, no people—just silence.
Around 12:30 AM, the bell above the door jingled, sharp and sudden. I looked up, and my stomach dropped. A tall, gaunt man shuffled in, his boots scuffing the linoleum. His flannel shirt was torn, stained with dark patches—blood, I realized, my throat tightening. His hands were worse, smeared red, with dirt caked under his nails. His face was pale, almost gray, and his eyes were wide, darting like he was looking for something. He grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler, the glass door thumping shut, and walked to the counter.
“Evening,” I said, my voice shaky. I forced my hands to stay still as I straightened a stack of receipts. “Just the water?”
He nodded, staring at the counter, not at me. His fingers twitched as he fished a crumpled five-dollar bill from his pocket. The bill was damp, leaving a faint red smudge on my hand when I took it. I scanned the bottle, the beep loud in the silence, my heart pounding.
“That’s $2.50,” I said, trying to smile. My lips felt stiff.
He slid the bill across, his hand trembling. I noticed a cut on his knuckle, fresh and oozing. I handed him his change, coins clinking in my shaky palm. He looked up then, his eyes locking onto mine, bloodshot and unblinking.
“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice low, raspy, like he’d been shouting. “It’s not my blood.”
My breath caught. I opened my mouth, but no words came. He turned, his boots squeaking, and walked out, the bell jingling. I rushed to the window, watching him disappear past the pumps into the darkness. No car, no sound—just gone. My hands were clammy, and his words echoed in my head. I checked the door lock twice, my fingers fumbling, and tried to focus on the radio, but the music sounded wrong now, too cheerful.
By 1:30 AM, I was still jumpy. I kept glancing at the windows, expecting to see his face pressed against the glass. That’s when I noticed a figure at pump number 6. He stood by a beat-up sedan, its paint chipped and windows tinted. He wasn’t pumping gas, wasn’t checking his phone—just standing, staring straight at the store. At me. He wore a hoodie, the hood up, shadowing his face. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and his posture was odd, stiff, like a mannequin. His head tilted slightly, and I swear his eyes caught the pump’s light, glinting like an animal’s.
I leaned closer to the window, my breath fogging the glass. He didn’t move. My skin prickled, and I grabbed the intercom mic, my thumb slippery on the button.
“Hey, you need help out there?” I said, my voice echoing outside.
No response. He just kept staring, his head tilting further, almost unnaturally. I tried again, louder.
“Bathroom key? Or do you need anything else?”
Nothing. Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. He didn’t budge, his gaze never wavering. I paced behind the counter, my sneakers squeaking on the floor. The register screen glowed faintly, showing 1:45 AM. I thought about calling the cops, but what could I say? A guy’s standing there, creeping me out? I grabbed a pen and started doodling on a receipt, trying to calm down, but my hands shook, making jagged lines.
By 2:00 AM, he was gone. The sedan was still there, parked crooked, but the man had vanished. I checked the security monitor, a grainy black-and-white screen in the corner. It showed nothing but the empty lot. I let out a shaky breath, my shoulders loosening, but my heart still raced. I told myself he’d walked off, maybe to another station, but the silence felt heavier now, like it was hiding something.
At 2:30 AM, I heard a faint hum, like a scooter or a small motorcycle. I looked out and saw a figure circling the lot on a battered scooter, its engine sputtering. He wore a dark jacket and a helmet, the visor down, hiding his face. He slowed near the door, revving the engine loudly, then sped up and circled again. My chest tightened. I gripped the counter, watching him loop around, closer each time. He stopped right outside the entrance, his scooter idling with a low growl. He got off, his movements jerky, and yanked on the door handle. The glass rattled hard, the lock straining.
“Hey!” I shouted, stepping back, my voice cracking. “We’re closed for walk-ins after midnight!”
He didn’t answer. He pulled again, harder, the doorframe creaking. I stumbled back, my hip hitting the counter, knocking over a display of gum. He pressed his helmet against the glass, the visor reflecting the store’s lights like a blank, black mirror. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I felt them, cold and heavy. Then he turned, climbed back on his scooter, and sped off, the hum fading into the night.
I was shaking, my breath coming in short gasps. I grabbed my phone, my fingers clumsy, and almost dialed 911. But I stopped. What if he came back? What if he was watching? I checked the locks again, my hands sweaty, and moved to the back room, closing the door. The cot smelled musty, and the single bulb flickered, casting shadows on the cinderblock walls. I sat there, clutching my phone, trying to slow my breathing.
At 3:00 AM, the lights went out. The whole station plunged into darkness, the cooler’s hum dying, the radio cutting off mid-song. My heart leapt into my throat. I fumbled for the flashlight under the counter, dropping it twice before I got it on. The beam shook as I pointed it at the windows, the glass reflecting the light back at me.
Then I saw them. Two figures, standing just outside the windows. The blood-covered man and the staring man from the pump. They weren’t moving, just standing there, their faces pressed against the glass. The blood-covered man’s eyes were wild, his lips curled into a faint, twisted smile. Blood smeared the window where his hands pressed, leaving streaks. The other man’s hood was still up, his head tilted at that same unnatural angle, his eyes glinting in the flashlight’s beam. My knees buckled, and I dropped the flashlight, the beam spinning across the floor.
I scrambled to the back room, my sneakers slipping on the linoleum. I locked the door, my hands trembling so bad I could barely turn the bolt. I crouched in the corner, next to the cot, my phone clutched to my chest. Thumps echoed from the store—slow, deliberate bangs on the glass. Then I heard scratching, like nails dragging across the window. My stomach churned, and I bit my lip to keep from crying out.
The banging stopped, but footsteps started—heavy, uneven, circling the building. They crunched on the gravel outside, slow and deliberate, like they were looking for a way in. I dialed 911, my fingers shaking so much I misdialed twice.
“911, what’s your emergency?” the operator’s voice was calm, too calm.
“Someone’s trying to get into the gas station,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “Two men, outside, banging on the door. One’s covered in blood.”
“Stay calm,” she said. “Where are you now?”
“Back room,” I said, my teeth chattering. “Please, send someone fast.”
“Officers are on their way,” she said. “Stay where you are. Keep the line open.”
I huddled there, the phone pressed to my ear, listening to every sound. The footsteps stopped, then started again, closer now, near the back door. Something scraped against it, metal on metal, like a tool or a knife. My breath hitched, and I covered my mouth, afraid they’d hear me. The operator’s voice was a faint hum, telling me to stay calm, but my heart was pounding so loud I could barely hear her.
Minutes stretched on, endless. The scraping stopped, and the silence was worse. I kept the flashlight off, afraid the light would leak under the door. My legs cramped from crouching, but I didn’t move. I kept seeing their faces in my mind—the blood-covered man’s smile, the hooded man’s tilted head.
Finally, I heard sirens, faint at first, then louder. Red and blue lights flashed through the cracks in the door, painting the walls. I stayed put, my body frozen, until a loud knock shook the door.
“Police! Anyone in there?” a deep voice called.
I stumbled to my feet, my legs wobbly, and opened the door. Two officers stood in the store, their flashlights sweeping the darkness. One was burly, with a stern face and a hand on his holster. The other was younger, his eyes wide, clutching his flashlight like a lifeline.
“You okay?” the burly one asked, his voice gruff.
I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. “They were outside,” I managed. “Two men. One had blood on him, the other was staring.”
They searched the lot, their boots crunching on gravel. The younger officer checked the security monitor, but the power outage had killed the feed. The burly one flipped the breaker in the back, and the lights flickered on, harsh and bright. They found nothing—no sedan, no scooter, no blood on the windows, no trace of anyone.
“Breaker tripped,” the burly officer said, frowning. “Could’ve been a power surge. You sure about what you saw?”
“I’m sure,” I said, my voice trembling. “They were right there, pressing on the glass.”
The younger officer glanced at the windows, his face pale. “We’ll file a report,” he said. “You got someone to cover your shift?”
“Yeah,” I said, my hands still shaking. “I’m done here.”
I quit that night. I grabbed my jacket, left the keys on the counter, and walked out, the bell jingling one last time. The cops offered to drive me home, but I just wanted to get away. I keep seeing their faces—the blood-covered man’s wild eyes, the hooded man’s glinting stare. I don’t know who they were or what they wanted, but I feel them still, out there, watching, waiting for another night when I’m alone.
"2 A.M.":
I’ve been working the night shift at this gas station for six months. It’s a small, rundown place on the edge of town, tucked between a dark stretch of highway and a patch of overgrown weeds. The fluorescent lights buzz constantly, flickering every few hours, casting shadows on the faded linoleum floor. The air smells of stale coffee and motor oil, and the ancient radio behind the counter crackles with static, barely picking up the local country station. I spend most nights alone, ringing up energy drinks, cigarettes, and gas for truckers or late-night stragglers. There’s a tiny TV mounted in the corner, but the reception’s so bad it’s mostly snow. I keep a worn paperback or a crossword puzzle to pass the time, enjoying the quiet. But last week, that quiet turned into something I’ll never forget.
It started with a regular customer I call Joe. He’s in his mid-forties, with a weathered face, deep lines around his mouth, and bloodshot eyes that always look like he hasn’t slept in days. His denim jacket is frayed at the cuffs, and his boots are caked with dirt, like he’s been walking through fields. He’d come in around 2 a.m. most nights, always buying the same thing: black coffee in a styrofoam cup and a pack of Marlboros. He’d make small talk—about the price of gas or how slow the nights were—and I’d nod along, happy for the brief company. He seemed harmless, just another lonely soul drifting through. But two weeks ago, something changed.
That first night, the bell above the door jingled, and I looked up from restocking the candy aisle. Joe walked in, but his steps were slower, heavier, like he was dragging his feet on purpose. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, and he didn’t head for the coffee machine like usual. Instead, he stood near the chip rack, staring at it without touching anything. The silence stretched on, broken only by the hum of the cooler. I straightened up, brushing my hands on my apron, my gut telling me something was off.
“Everything okay, Joe?” I asked, keeping my tone friendly, though my pulse quickened.
He turned his head slowly, his eyes locking onto mine. They were wide, unblinking, like he was staring through me. “You shouldn’t be here alone,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, almost a whisper. My stomach twisted, and I felt a prickle of sweat on my neck. I forced a smile, trying to act normal.
“Just doing my job,” I said, moving behind the counter, putting the scratched plexiglass between us. He didn’t move, just kept staring, his hands still in his pockets. After what felt like forever, he shuffled to the coffee machine, poured his usual cup, and grabbed his smokes. He slid exact change across the counter without a word, his fingers brushing the edge of the register. I watched him walk out, his silhouette disappearing into the darkness beyond the pumps. My heart was pounding, but I told myself he was just tired, maybe having a rough day.
The next night, he was back, same time, same heavy steps. I was wiping down the counter with a damp rag, the smell of cleaning spray sharp in my nose. The radio was playing some old Johnny Cash song, but it kept cutting out. The bell rang, and Joe walked in, his jacket hanging loose on his frame. This time, he didn’t go for coffee. He wandered the aisles, picking up random items—a bag of Doritos, a cheap lighter, a can of dip—then putting them back with slow, deliberate movements. Every few seconds, his head would turn toward me, his eyes catching mine before I could look away. My hands tightened on the rag, my throat dry.
“Looking for something specific?” I called out, trying to sound casual, though my voice cracked slightly.
He stopped in the middle of the aisle, holding a can of Coke, his fingers tapping against the aluminum. “They’re watching me,” he said, not looking at me. “They’re always watching.” His voice was flat, like he was talking about the price of bread. My skin prickled, and I glanced at the security camera monitor, its grainy feed showing nothing but empty aisles and the parking lot.
“Who’s watching?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. I didn’t really want to know, but the silence was worse.
He didn’t answer. He just set the can back on the shelf with a soft clink and walked out, the bell jingling sharply behind him. I hurried to the door and locked it, my hands trembling. I wasn’t supposed to lock up until closing, but I didn’t care. I grabbed the phone under the counter and dialed my boss, my fingers fumbling over the buttons. He didn’t answer, just voicemail. I hung up, my breath shaky, telling myself Joe was just acting strange, maybe stressed or on something. But the way his eyes had fixed on me, unblinking, stayed in my head all night.
Over the next few nights, it got worse. Joe came in every shift, always around 2 or 3 a.m. He’d linger longer each time, pacing the aisles or standing by the coffee machine, muttering to himself. I caught fragments of his words—things like “they know” or “not safe.” His face looked paler each night, his eyes more sunken, like he hadn’t slept in weeks. I started keeping the baseball bat we had under the counter closer, my fingers brushing its worn handle whenever he was in the store. I checked the locks obsessively, made sure the back door was bolted, and kept my phone in my pocket, ready to dial 911.
One night, I was restocking the cooler, the cold air chilling my arms as I arranged energy drinks. The bell rang, and my heart sank. Joe walked in, his boots louder than usual, like he wanted me to hear him coming. He didn’t wander this time. He went straight to the counter, leaning over it, his hands flat on the plexiglass. I stood up slowly, my mouth dry, the can of Red Bull in my hand forgotten.
“You ever feel like you’re not safe?” he asked, his voice so quiet I barely heard it. His breath smelled of stale cigarettes and something sour. His eyes were locked on mine, and I noticed his hands were trembling slightly, his knuckles white against the counter.
“I’m fine,” I said, my voice shaking. I stepped back, bumping into the cigarette rack behind me. “You need anything tonight, Joe?”
He leaned closer, his face inches from the plexiglass. “I know things about you,” he said, his voice slow and deliberate. “Things you don’t want people knowing.” My blood ran cold. I had no idea what he meant—my life was boring, just work and home—but the way he said it, like he’d been watching me, made my stomach churn.
“Please, just tell me what you want,” I stammered, my hand sliding toward the panic button under the counter, hidden behind a stack of receipts.
He smiled, a slow, crooked smile that didn’t touch his eyes. Then, before I could react, he reached over the counter and grabbed my wrist. His grip was tight, his fingers cold and rough. I gasped, trying to pull back, but he held on, his eyes never leaving mine. “Don’t scream,” he said, his voice calm, almost soothing. “I don’t want to hurt you. Not yet.”
I yanked my arm free, my heart slamming against my ribs. “Get out,” I said, my voice trembling but loud. “Get out now.”
He stared at me for a long moment, his smile fading. Then he turned and walked out, the bell jingling like a mockery of normalcy. I locked the door, my hands shaking so badly I fumbled the key. I pressed the panic button, sank to the floor behind the counter, and hugged my knees, trying to breathe. The police came within ten minutes, their flashlights sweeping the parking lot. I told them everything—Joe’s words, his grip, his eyes. They took notes, said they’d look for him, but I could tell they thought it was just a weird guy, not a real threat. They didn’t find him that night.
I almost quit, but rent was due, and I couldn’t afford to walk away. So I went back, promising myself I’d be smarter. I kept the door locked unless a customer was at the pump, checked the cameras every few minutes, and made sure the back door was secure. I even started parking my car closer to the entrance, just in case I needed to run. But nothing prepared me for last night.
It was 3 a.m., and I was sorting receipts, the radio playing some faint song I didn’t recognize. The store was dead quiet, the only sound the buzz of the lights. Then I heard a thud against the front door. My head snapped up, and there was Joe, his face pressed against the glass, his breath fogging it up. His eyes were wild, his mouth twisted into that crooked smile. He banged on the door again, hard enough to make the frame shake.
“Let me in,” he shouted, his voice rough through the glass. My heart stopped. The door was locked, but it felt flimsy, like one good kick could break it. I ducked behind the counter, my hands fumbling for the phone. Another thud, louder, and I heard the glass rattle. “I know you’re in there!” he yelled.
I peeked over the counter, my breath catching. He was holding a gun, tapping it against the glass, the metal glinting under the fluorescent lights. “You can’t hide,” he said, his voice dropping to that eerie calm. “I just want to talk.” He started pacing in front of the door, the gun loose in his hand, his eyes scanning the windows like he was looking for a weak spot.
I pressed the panic button, my fingers trembling so badly I hit it twice. My breath was loud, my vision blurring with tears. I grabbed the baseball bat, clutching it to my chest, my palms slick with sweat. The banging stopped, and for a moment, I thought he’d left. Then I heard a new sound—a rattle at the back door. My stomach dropped. I’d forgotten to double-check it that night.
I crept toward the back, the bat raised, my heart pounding so hard I thought I’d pass out. The rattle turned into a loud bang, like he was slamming his shoulder against the door. The metal creaked, and I imagined it giving way, Joe stepping through with that gun. I backed away, my eyes darting between the front and back doors. Another bang, then silence. I held my breath, listening.
The front door rattled again, harder this time. I realized he was circling the building, testing every entrance. My legs felt weak, but I forced myself to stay low, moving back to the counter. I whispered, “Stay calm, stay calm,” but my voice was shaking, and the bat felt useless in my hands.
Then, headlights flashed across the windows, bright and sudden. A siren wailed, growing louder. I heard Joe shout something, his voice sharp, then the crunch of boots on gravel, running. I stayed crouched, too scared to move, until a cop’s voice cut through the silence. “Police! Open the door!”
I crawled to the front, my hands shaking as I unlocked it. Two officers stepped in, their radios crackling. I told them everything, my words tumbling out. They searched the lot, the pumps, the back alley. Joe was gone, but they found his truck a mile down the road, abandoned in a ditch. The gun was inside, loaded. They said he had a record—arrests for harassment, trespassing, and some mental health holds. He wasn’t supposed to have a weapon. They promised to keep looking, but their faces said they weren’t sure they’d find him.
I haven’t gone back to the gas station. I can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I see Joe’s face against the glass, hear his voice saying he knows things about me. I keep the lights on at home now, check the locks three times before bed. I’m looking for a new job, something in an office, somewhere with people, during the day. I used to think night shifts were peaceful, a chance to be alone with my thoughts. Now I know the truth. Some dangers don’t need shadows or ghosts to scare you. They just need someone like Joe, waiting in the dark.
Tags:
Story