3 Very Scary TRUE Rural Delivery Horror Stories

 

"Flagged for Danger":

I’ve been delivering packages for five years, winding through rural backroads where fields stretch forever and houses sit far apart. The quiet out here is peaceful, but those long, twisting driveways always make my stomach twist a little. Most days are routine—drop a box, maybe chat with a customer, and keep moving. But one Tuesday, my last delivery turned into a nightmare I can’t shake.

The day started like any other. My van was loaded with packages, and I was checking addresses off my list. Early on, I stopped at a small house with a tidy garden. An old lady with a warm smile opened the door, holding a plate of homemade cookies. “You work so hard, dear,” she said, her voice soft. “Take a cookie for the road.”

“Thanks, ma’am, but I’ve got a tight schedule,” I said, smiling back. “Maybe next time.” She waved as I jogged back to the van, her kindness lingering in my mind. It was a good moment, the kind that makes the job feel worthwhile. But as the hours passed, the houses got farther apart, and the roads turned from pavement to gravel. The countryside felt emptier, and that uneasy feeling started creeping in, like a shadow I couldn’t shake.

By late afternoon, I was down to my last delivery. The GPS showed an address deep in the sticks, a place buried behind a thick wall of oak and pine trees. The driveway was a narrow, mile-long ribbon of gravel, curving through the woods. I gripped the steering wheel tighter as the trees closed in around me, their branches scraping the van’s roof. The GPS beeped, and I glanced at the screen: “Deliver to rear door.” My heart sank. Rear door deliveries in rural areas are the worst—too far from the road, too far from help. But it was my last stop, so I took a deep breath and told myself to get it done.

I pulled up to the house, a big, rundown place with peeling white paint and a sagging front porch. The yard was overgrown, with tall grass and weeds choking an old swing set. A doghouse sat off to the side, a rusty chain snaking into the dirt, but no dog in sight. I scanned the windows, looking for movement, but the house was still, almost too still. My boots crunched on the gravel as I stepped out, grabbing the package—a small, light box wrapped in brown tape. I tucked it under my arm and started down the path to the back, my eyes darting around.

The path was narrow, lined with thorny bushes that snagged at my pants. My heart was beating faster now, though I couldn’t pinpoint why. Maybe it was the silence—no birds, no wind, just the sound of my own footsteps. I reached the rear door, a flimsy screen thing with a torn mesh at the bottom. I raised my hand to knock when a low, guttural growl froze me in place. I turned slowly, my breath catching in my throat. Two pit bulls stood maybe ten feet away, heads low, ears back, teeth bared. Their eyes were locked on me, dark and malicious, like they were sizing me up.

My stomach twisted into a knot. “Easy, boys,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. I held the package out in front of me, like it could protect me somehow. The dogs didn’t move, but their growls grew louder, rumbling deep in their chests. I took a slow step back, my eyes never leaving them. Then, without warning, they charged.

“Stay back!” I shouted, my voice cracking. I stumbled backward, my foot catching on a garden hose coiled in the grass. I hit the ground hard, pain shooting through my elbow as the package flew from my hands. The dogs were on me in a flash, barking so loud it felt like the sound was inside my skull. One lunged, its teeth snapping inches from my leg, tearing a rip in my jeans. I kicked wildly, my boots connecting with air as I scrambled to my feet. The package lay forgotten in the dirt as I ran for the van.

My boots pounded the ground, the dogs’ paws thumping right behind me. Their barks were deafening, a mix of rage and hunger that sent chills down my spine. I could feel their hot breath, hear their jaws snapping, so close I thought they’d grab me any second. The van was parked at the end of the path, maybe thirty feet away, but it felt like a mile. I pushed harder, my lungs burning, my heart hammering in my chest. I reached the van, yanking the door open and diving inside. One of the dogs lunged, its teeth grazing my shoe as I slammed the door shut. I fumbled with the lock, my hands shaking so bad I could barely grip it.

The dogs didn’t stop. They circled the van, jumping and clawing at the windows, their barks echoing inside the metal walls. I pressed myself against the seat, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. My hands were trembling, my whole body buzzing with adrenaline. I kept picturing those teeth, those eyes, and what would’ve happened if I hadn’t made it to the van.

Then I saw him—a man, maybe forty, stepping out from the back door. He was tall, with a scruffy beard and a faded flannel shirt tucked into worn jeans. He clapped his hands sharply, shouting, “Max! Duke! Come here!” The dogs froze, glancing back at him, then trotted over like obedient pets. Their tails wagged, but their eyes still flicked toward me, like they weren’t done.

I cracked the window, just enough to talk. “Your dogs almost got me,” I said, my voice shaking with anger and fear. “They could’ve hurt me bad.”

The man shrugged, a lazy half-smile on his face. “Sorry about that. They’re usually tied up. Must’ve forgotten today.” His tone was too casual, like he was talking about forgetting his keys. He walked closer, his boots crunching on the gravel, and leaned toward the window. “You got my package?”

I glanced at the floor, where the package had slid during my scramble. It was gone—left in the dirt when I fell. “It’s back there,” I said, pointing toward the path. “I dropped it when your dogs came at me.”

He squinted at me, his smile fading. “You should’ve honked,” he said, his voice flat. “They don’t like strangers.” He turned and walked back toward the house, whistling for the dogs. They followed, but one glanced back at me, its lips curling in a silent snarl. I watched them disappear around the corner, my hands still gripping the steering wheel.

I didn’t leave right away. I sat there, trying to calm my racing heart, replaying the moment in my head. If I’d been slower, if I’d tripped again, I might not have made it. I finally started the van and drove back to the depot, my knuckles white on the wheel. The whole way, I kept checking my rearview mirror, half-expecting those dogs to come tearing down the road.

At the depot, I marched straight to my supervisor’s office. “Those dogs almost tore me apart,” I said, leaning on the counter. “The guy didn’t even care. Just shrugged it off.”

My supervisor, a tired-looking guy with graying hair, frowned and grabbed a clipboard. “Give me the address. I’ll flag it for next time.” He scribbled a note, but his face said he’d heard this before. “Stay safe out there,” he added, already turning back to his computer.

I wasn’t done. Over coffee in the break room, I told a coworker, a guy who’d been driving longer than me. He listened, stirring his coffee slowly. “You’re lucky,” he said, his voice low. “Few months back, another driver wasn’t. Same deal—rear door delivery, rural place. Dogs got him. He didn’t make it to the van.”

My blood ran cold. “Nobody told me,” I whispered, my coffee cup suddenly heavy in my hands.

He nodded, staring into his mug. “Yeah. They don’t like to talk about it. Scares the new guys.” He paused, then added, “That house you went to? It’s been flagged before. Same dogs, same guy. Nobody does anything.”

I went home that night, but I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those dogs—those dark, hateful eyes, those snapping teeth. I kept hearing the man’s voice, so calm, so unbothered. I started carrying pepper spray the next day, clipped to my belt like a lifeline. I stopped doing rear door deliveries, too. If the instructions say “rear door,” I honk and wait, or I leave the package at the mailbox. I don’t care if it’s against policy.

But every time I drive down a long, quiet driveway, that fear comes back. I scan for doghouses, for chains, for any sign of trouble. I can still feel those dogs behind me, their barks ringing in my ears, and I wonder if the next house will have someone—or something—waiting, just out of sight.

"The Bag in the Mailbox":

I’ve been a rural mail carrier for twelve years, driving the same winding roads through fields and woods, delivering letters and packages to folks who live miles apart. The job’s mostly quiet, just me and my old mail truck, the engine humming as I bounce along gravel paths. I’ve seen plenty—deer darting across the road, stray dogs chasing my tires—but nothing prepared me for what happened last summer. It was a day that started ordinary but turned into something so creepy it still haunts me, and it was all real, no ghosts or monsters, just the kind of fear that sticks in your bones.

That morning, I was at the post office, sorting mail under the fluorescent lights. My coworker, Jim, was there, leaning on the counter with his usual mug of coffee. He looked tired, his eyes scanning the room like he was waiting for something. “You hear about the east route?” he said, his voice low. “Folks say someone’s been tampering with mailboxes. Smashing ‘em, stealing packages. Even found one with weird stuff inside.”
I paused, shoving a stack of envelopes into a bin. “Weird stuff? Like what?”
He shrugged, but his face was serious. “Nobody’s sure. Could be kids, could be worse. Just watch yourself out there.”
I nodded, trying to brush it off. “Probably just bored teenagers,” I said, grabbing my keys. But as I loaded my truck, Jim’s words clung to me like damp air. I’d been on this route long enough to know the countryside wasn’t always as peaceful as it looked.

The drive started normal. The roads were empty, just endless stretches of gravel and dirt, flanked by tall grass and patches of trees. Houses sat far back, some barely visible, their mailboxes the only sign anyone lived there. I stopped at each one, sliding letters into metal slots, tossing packages into bigger boxes. But as I got deeper into the route, a strange feeling settled in my chest, like the world was too quiet. No birds chirped. No dogs barked. Even the cicadas, usually screaming this time of year, seemed muted.

By midday, I reached the Carter place. Their mailbox was at the end of a long, narrow driveway, maybe a quarter-mile of rutted dirt lined with weeds and shrubs. The house itself was hidden, tucked behind a wall of pines, so you’d never know it was there unless you looked hard. I always got a bad vibe from that stop. The driveway felt like a tunnel, the greenery closing in, and the air always seemed heavier, like it was pressing down on you.

I pulled my truck to the side of the road and grabbed the Carter’s mail—a few bills, a catalog, and a small padded envelope. I stepped out, my boots crunching on gravel, and walked the ten feet to the mailbox. It was an old metal box, rusted at the edges, nailed to a wooden post that looked ready to fall over. As I got closer, I noticed something off. The mailbox door was half-open, and the post was leaning, like someone had kicked it or tried to yank it out.

“Great,” I muttered, glancing around. The road was empty, no cars, no people, just fields stretching out under a wide sky. I figured it was vandalism, like Jim said, but it still made my skin prickle. I reached to open the mailbox wider, but then I saw it—something inside, tucked against the back wall. It wasn’t mail. It was a plastic grocery bag, knotted tight, the plastic streaked with dirt and something darker, like oil or mud.

My stomach twisted. This wasn’t right. I stood there, holding the Carter’s mail, my eyes locked on the bag. Part of me wanted to leave it and move on, but I couldn’t just ignore it. What if it was important? Or dangerous? Jim’s warning about “weird stuff” flashed through my mind. I set the mail on the ground and pulled a pen from my pocket, using it to nudge the bag out. It slid forward and dropped into the dirt with a soft, heavy thud.

The bag was small, about the size of a grapefruit, but it felt wrong, too dense for its size. I crouched, keeping my distance, and poked it with the pen. A smell hit me—sharp, sickly sweet, like rotting meat mixed with something chemical. I gagged, covering my nose with my sleeve. My heart started pounding, a steady thump I could feel in my ears. Whatever was in that bag, it wasn’t trash or lost groceries. It was something bad.

I stood up, scanning the driveway. The pines loomed, their shadows long and dark, and the path to the house disappeared into them. I felt exposed, like someone was watching me from those trees. I grabbed my radio, my fingers fumbling with the clip. “Jim, you there?” I said, trying to keep my voice calm.
“Yo, what’s up?” His voice crackled through, casual but alert.
“There’s a bag in the Carter mailbox. It’s not mail. Smells… awful. Like something died.”
A long pause. “Don’t touch it,” he said, his tone sharp now. “Could be drugs, could be something worse. You alone out there?”
“Yeah,” I said, my eyes darting to the trees. “Just me and this thing.”
“Call it in,” he said. “And get back to your truck. Now.”

I clipped the radio back, my hands shaky. I bent to pick up the Carter’s mail, still lying in the dirt. That’s when I heard it—a rustle in the tall grass, maybe twenty feet away. I froze, pen still in hand, my breath catching. It wasn’t the wind. The sound was deliberate, like footsteps, slow and careful.

“Who’s there?” I called, louder than I meant. My voice echoed, unanswered. The rustling stopped, but then it came again, closer, from the other side of the driveway. I spun around, my eyes searching the weeds. Nothing moved, but I could feel it—someone, something, was out there. My skin crawled, and my pulse raced so fast it made my head spin.

I backed toward the truck, keeping the mailbox in my sight. The bag sat in the dirt, its dark contents bulging against the plastic. I didn’t want to turn my back on it—or whatever was hiding in the grass. The rustling came again, now behind me, near the road. I whipped around, but all I saw was my truck, its white paint glinting, the door still open from when I’d stepped out.

“Show yourself!” I shouted, my voice cracking. Silence answered, heavy and thick, like the world was holding its breath. I clutched the mail tighter, my knuckles white, and took another step back. My boot hit a rock, and I stumbled, catching myself against the truck. That’s when I saw it—a shadow moving at the edge of the driveway, where the pines met the path.

It was a man, tall and lean, wearing a dark hooded jacket. He stepped out from the trees, slow, like he didn’t care if I saw him. His hood was up, hiding his face, but I could feel his eyes on me, cold and steady. He didn’t move closer, just stood there, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly.

My mouth went dry. I scrambled into the truck, slamming the door and locking it. My hands shook so bad I could barely get the key in the ignition. I grabbed the radio again. “Jim, there’s someone here,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “A guy, at the Carter place. He’s just… standing there.”
“Get out of there,” Jim said, urgent now. “Drive, now. I’m calling the sheriff.”

I started the engine, my eyes locked on the man. He hadn’t moved, just stood at the edge of the trees, watching. I floored the gas, the truck lurching forward, tires kicking up dust and gravel. In the rearview mirror, I saw him take a step onto the driveway, still staring, his hood casting a shadow over his face. He didn’t chase me, didn’t wave, just watched as I sped away.

I didn’t stop until I reached the next house, a mile down the road. I pulled over, my chest heaving, sweat soaking my uniform. I could still see that bag in my mind, the smell burning my nose, and that man, silent and still, like he knew something I didn’t. I radioed the sheriff, my words tripping over each other. “There’s a bag at the Carter place,” I said. “Smells like something dead. And a guy—he came out of the trees, just watching me.”

The deputy met me at the post office later that day. I sat in the break room, a bottle of water in my hands, still shaking. I told him everything—the bag, the smell, the rustling, the man. He listened, scribbling in a notebook, his face unreadable. “We checked the Carter place,” he said finally. “Found the bag. You were smart not to open it.”
“What was it?” I asked, my voice barely audible.
He hesitated, glancing at his notes. “Animal organs. Heart, maybe some others. Packed in some kind of chemical, like they were trying to preserve it. Could be a sick prank, could be something else.”
I swallowed hard. “And the guy?”
“No sign of him,” he said. “No footprints, no tire tracks. Just the bag and a busted mailbox. We’re watching the place, but… stay sharp out there.”

I nodded, but his words didn’t ease the knot in my stomach. I finished my route that day, but every stop felt like a trap. Every mailbox made me pause, checking for bags, for shadows, for anything. The rustling sound followed me, or maybe it was just in my head, echoing every time I stepped out of the truck.

When I got back to the post office, Jim was waiting by the door. “You okay?” he asked, his eyes searching my face.
“No,” I said, honest for once. “Who does that, Jim? Leaves a bag like that? Watches from the trees?”
He shook his head, his mouth a grim line. “Out here, you get all kinds. People hiding things, doing things. You just keep your eyes open and your doors locked.”

I still drive that route. The Carter mailbox is fixed now, the post straightened, the rust painted over. But I check it twice before I open it, my heart pounding every time. I haven’t seen that man again, haven’t found another bag, but I feel him sometimes, or something like him, in the quiet of the route. Every rustle in the grass, every shadow in the trees, makes my blood run cold.

The sheriff never figured out who left that bag or why. They called it a prank, maybe hunters messing around, but I know what I saw. That man wasn’t a hunter. He wasn’t a kid pulling a joke. He was watching me, waiting, and out here, where the nearest help is miles away, that’s the kind of fear that doesn’t let go. I keep driving, keep delivering, but I’m never alone anymore—not with that memory following me down every road.

"Unopened Boxes":

I was on my night shift, driving the delivery van through endless country roads that twisted like veins through the dark. The headlights carved a narrow path ahead, barely touching the dense woods on either side. Trees loomed close, their branches scraping the van’s roof now and then, making me flinch. I’d been a driver for six months, but these rural routes always set my nerves on edge. The isolation, the quiet—it felt like the world was holding its breath. Tonight, my last stop was a house buried deep in the backcountry, miles from the nearest town.

My GPS pinged, directing me onto a dirt path so narrow the van’s sides brushed against overgrown bushes. The road was rough, full of ruts and rocks that jolted the van, rattling the packages in the back. My dashboard clock read 11:47 p.m., and I was already behind schedule. The signal on my phone flickered, one bar, then none. I gripped the wheel tighter, my palms sweaty despite the chill in the air. After what felt like an hour, though it was probably only ten minutes, I spotted a mailbox, rusted and leaning like it hadn’t been touched in years. Weeds choked its base, and the numbers painted on it were faded, but they matched the address on my delivery slip.

The driveway stretched into the shadows, long and winding, disappearing into the trees. I turned in, the van lurching over the uneven ground. My headlights caught glimpses of the house ahead—a sagging, two-story structure that looked like it belonged in a nightmare. The paint was peeling in strips, exposing rotted wood. Most windows were boarded up, though a few had cracked glass that glinted like broken teeth. The porch was cluttered with junk: a broken chair, stacks of newspapers tied with twine, and a rusted bicycle missing a wheel. A single bulb hung above the door, flickering like it was on its last breath, casting jittery shadows across the yard.

I parked and sat for a moment, engine idling, staring at the house. My gut twisted, urging me to leave the package and go, but company policy was clear: get a signature or confirm delivery in person. I grabbed the package—a small, light box with no return address, taped sloppily—and checked the label again. “Resident,” it read, no name. That wasn’t unusual for rural deliveries, but it didn’t help the unease crawling up my spine. I stepped out, my boots crunching on the gravel, and the sour smell hit me: damp wood, rotting leaves, and something sharper, like spoiled meat. The air felt heavy, pressing against my skin.

I walked to the porch, each step louder than the last. The boards creaked under my weight, and I half-expected them to give way. I knocked on the door, the sound dull and swallowed by the silence. “Delivery!” I called, my voice too loud in the quiet. Nothing. I knocked again, harder, the door rattling in its frame. Still no answer. I glanced back at the van, its headlights glowing like eyes in the dark, tempting me to leave. But then I heard it—a slow, dragging sound from inside, like bare feet shuffling across a wooden floor. My heart thudded, and I gripped the package tighter.

The door creaked open, an inch at first, then wider, revealing a man standing in the shadows. He was tall, painfully thin, his frame swallowed by a stained flannel shirt and baggy pants held up by a frayed belt. His face was gaunt, cheekbones sharp under pale, waxy skin. His eyes were wide, unblinking, and bloodshot, like he hadn’t slept in days. His lips twitched into a smile that didn’t reach those eyes, showing yellowed teeth. His hair was thin, greasy, plastered to his scalp in clumps. He smelled of unwashed skin and that same sour rot I’d noticed outside, strong enough to make my stomach churn.

“You got my order?” he rasped, his voice low and dry, like he hadn’t spoken in weeks.

I held up the box, forcing my voice steady. “Yes, sir. Right here. Need you to sign for it.”

He didn’t move to take it or sign. Instead, he stared at me, head tilting slightly, like a predator sizing up prey. “You’re late,” he said, his smile fading. “I’ve been waiting a long time.”

“Sorry,” I said, shifting my weight. “The roads out here are hard to find.”

He stepped closer, into the flickering light of the porch bulb. His fingers twitched at his sides, long and bony, nails chipped and dirty. “Come in,” he said, his tone flat but insistent. “I need to check it’s right.”

Every instinct screamed to run. “I can leave it here, sir,” I said, taking a step back. “You can check it yourself.”

“No!” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to make me jump. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward. “You come in. I need to see it’s what I ordered.”

I hesitated, my mind racing. I could drop the box and bolt, but he was fast, I could tell—those long legs, that wiry frame. And the van was twenty feet away. I didn’t want to turn my back on him. “Just a quick check,” I said, more to calm myself than him. “Then I’ve got other deliveries.”

He nodded, stepping aside, and I crossed the threshold, clutching the box like a shield. The door clicked shut behind me, and I heard the lock slide into place. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst. The house was dark, lit only by a single lamp in the corner of what looked like a living room. The air was thick with dust, mold, and that rotting smell, now so strong it coated my throat. The floor was littered with trash—empty food cans, crumpled papers, and a few broken dishes. Furniture was pushed against the walls: a sagging couch covered in stains, a bookshelf stuffed with moldy magazines, and a table in the center piled with more cans and a cracked plate crusted with dried food. A single chair sat by the table, its upholstery torn, stuffing spilling out.

“Open it,” he said, standing too close, his breath hot on my neck.

I set the box on the table, my hands trembling. “I don’t have a knife,” I said, hoping he’d back off.

He didn’t. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a rusty kitchen knife, its blade pitted and stained. My breath caught. “Use this,” he said, holding it out, handle first.

I shook my head. “I’ll just tear it open.” I clawed at the tape, my fingers slipping, finally ripping the box apart. Inside was a plastic container, the kind for storing leftovers, but it was empty. I lifted it out, confused. “This is it,” I said, showing him.

His face twisted, eyes blazing. “Empty?” he hissed, snatching the container. He shook it, as if food might magically appear. “You’re lying. Where’s my order?”

“I don’t know,” I said, backing toward the door. “This is what was in the box. Maybe it’s a mistake.”

He slammed the container on the table, the sound echoing in the quiet house. “You took it!” he shouted, pointing the knife at me. “You stole my food!”

“No!” I raised my hands, heart racing. “I didn’t take anything. I swear!”

He lunged, shoving me against the wall. My shoulder slammed into the plaster, pain shooting down my arm. He leaned in, his face inches from mine, eyes wild. “I know what you’re doing. You’re keeping it for yourself, just like the others.”

“What others?” I gasped, trying to push him off, but he was stronger than he looked, his bony fingers digging into my arms.

“The ones who never bring my food,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “They send empty boxes, laughing at me, starving me.”

I tried to stay calm, my mind scrambling for a way out. “Sir, I didn’t take anything. Maybe the warehouse messed up. I can call my boss, get you another delivery.”

He laughed, a sharp, ugly sound that sent chills down my spine. “No calls. No one’s coming.” He grabbed my wrist, yanking me toward a door at the back of the room. I stumbled, fighting to pull free, but his grip was like iron.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked, my voice breaking.

“My pantry,” he said, his tone eerily calm now. “You’ll stay there till you give me what I need.”

The door led to a narrow hallway, the walls covered in peeling wallpaper that curled like dead skin. The floor was sticky, and the air grew colder, heavier. At the end was another door, heavy and wooden, with a padlock dangling from a rusty latch. My stomach dropped. I twisted in his grip, kicking at his shins, but he barely flinched, dragging me closer to the door.

“Please,” I begged, tears stinging my eyes. “Let me go. I’ll get you food, I promise.”

He ignored me, fumbling with the padlock, the knife still in his other hand. His fingers shook, and the lock wouldn’t open. “Stupid thing,” he muttered, banging the knife against it.

I saw my chance. I stomped on his foot, grinding my heel into his toes. He yelped, his grip loosening, and I tore free, sprinting back down the hall. My boots pounded the floor, echoing in the tight space. He roared behind me, his footsteps heavy and fast. I burst into the living room, eyes locked on the front door. I reached it, my fingers scrambling at the deadbolt, but it was stuck, rusted in place.

“You can’t leave!” he screamed, his voice closer now.

I yanked harder, the bolt finally giving way with a groan. I flung the door open and stumbled onto the porch, the cold air hitting my face. I ran for the van, my breath ragged, my legs burning. His footsteps pounded behind me, gravel crunching under his bare feet. I reached the driver’s door, yanked it open, and climbed in, slamming it shut. My hands shook as I fumbled the key into the ignition.

He reached the van, his face pressed against the window, eyes wild, teeth bared. He banged the knife handle against the glass, a crack spiderwebbing across it. “You’re not going anywhere!” he shouted, his voice muffled but furious.

I turned the key. The engine sputtered, coughed, then died. My heart stopped. He hit the window again, the crack widening. I twisted the key once more, praying, pumping the gas pedal. The engine roared to life, and I threw the van into reverse, tires spinning, gravel flying. He chased me, swinging the knife, his shadow lunging in the headlights. I floored it, backing down the driveway, branches scraping the van’s sides. The van lurched onto the main road, and I shifted into drive, speeding away, my hands trembling on the wheel.

I glanced in the rearview mirror. He stood in the road, a dark silhouette, the knife glinting in his hand. His eyes locked on mine, even from that distance, and I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. I drove for miles, not daring to slow down, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. My phone was useless, still no signal, and the GPS was frozen, stuck on that cursed address.

Finally, I saw the glow of a gas station, its neon sign a beacon in the dark. I pulled into the lot, parking under the brightest light, and locked the doors. My hands shook so badly I could barely dial 911. When the operator answered, I spilled everything, my voice cracking as I described the house, the man, the knife. They told me to stay put, that a patrol car was on its way.

The police arrived twenty minutes later, two officers with flashlights and serious faces. I told them everything again, pointing them to the road I’d come from. They took my statement, then drove out to the house. I waited at the station, sipping bitter coffee from a styrofoam cup, my mind replaying every moment—the shuffle of his feet, the glint of the knife, the way his eyes never blinked.

Hours later, an officer came back to update me. They’d found the house, just as I described, but it was empty. No man, no knife, just stacks of unopened delivery boxes, dozens of them, scattered across the living room. They pried a few open—empty plastic containers, every single one. The pantry door was unlocked, leading to a small, bare room with scratches on the walls, like someone had clawed at them. The officer said it looked like a squatter’s hideout, maybe someone with a mental illness, obsessed with deliveries that never held what he wanted. They found no trace of him, no footprints, no sign he’d fled. It was like he’d vanished.

I quit the job the next week, unable to face another night on those roads. I moved to the city, where lights and people keep the darkness at bay. But I still check my locks every night, sometimes twice. I keep a flashlight by my bed, and I jump at every creak in the house. I can’t shake the image of his face at the window, those unblinking eyes, or the feeling that somewhere, out in the shadows, he’s still waiting for his next delivery—and wondering if it’ll be me.