"After Hours":
I’d only been working at the repair shop for a few months, still getting used to the late-night shifts. The place was old, with concrete floors stained black from years of oil spills. Wrenches, screwdrivers, and greasy rags cluttered the workbenches, and the air smelled like metal and gasoline. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. It was past 10 PM on a Thursday, and I was alone, finishing up some paperwork at the front desk. The owner, Mr. Johnson, had left hours ago, trusting me to lock up.
The clock on the wall ticked loudly, the only sound breaking the silence. Outside, the street was dark, with just a faint glow from a distant streetlamp. I was ready to call it a night when a sharp knock on the glass door made me jump. I looked up and saw a man standing there, his face half-hidden in the shadows. He was tall, with a scruffy beard and wild eyes that darted nervously. His jacket was torn, and he clutched a set of keys so tightly his knuckles were white.
I hesitated. The shop was closed, and I wasn’t supposed to let anyone in after hours. But he looked desperate, and I didn’t want to leave him stranded. I walked to the door and opened it a crack. “Can I help you?” I asked, my voice steady but cautious.
“Hey, sorry to bother you so late,” he said, his voice low and shaky, with a faint slur like he’d been drinking. “My car broke down a few blocks away. I need to get it towed, but I want to siphon the gas out first. Can you help me with that?”
I studied him for a moment. Something about him felt off—maybe it was the way he kept glancing over his shoulder or the sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool night air. But I pushed the thought aside. “Sure, I guess,” I said. “Let me grab a gas can.”
I stepped into the back room to grab a can, my boots echoing on the concrete. When I returned, he was already inside, standing too close to the counter where we kept the cash register. “Ready?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“Yeah, let’s do this,” he said, flashing a quick smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
We walked to his car, an old VW Beetle parked crookedly on the side of the road. It was a wreck—dents and scratches covered the body, and the front bumper hung loose like it had been in a crash. “Rough night, huh?” I said, trying to make small talk.
“You could say that,” he muttered, avoiding my gaze. He kept talking as we walked back to the shop, rambling about how he needed the gas for another vehicle and couldn’t afford to waste it. His words came too fast, like he was trying to fill the silence. I nodded, but my focus was on getting this over with so I could go home.
Back in the shop, he stopped near the workbench and pointed at the shop vacuum in the corner. “Let’s use that,” he said. “It’ll be faster.”
I froze. “The shop vacuum? That’s not safe. Gas fumes can ignite.”
He waved his hand dismissively, his smile tightening. “Come on, it’ll be fine. I’ve done it before.”
I stared at him, my gut twisting. Every mechanic knows you don’t mess with gas and electric motors. But I was tired, and he was insistent, and I didn’t want to argue with a stranger in the middle of the night. “Alright,” I said reluctantly, “but we need to be careful.”
He grabbed the vacuum and a length of tubing, his hands shaking as he set it up. I noticed he kept glancing around the shop, his eyes lingering on the cash register and the shelves where we kept expensive tools. I went to the back to grab more tubing, and when I came back, he was near the counter again, his hand hovering over a drawer. My heart skipped a beat.
“What are you looking for?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
He jumped, his hand snapping back. “Oh, nothing,” he said, laughing nervously. “Just curious about the place.”
I didn’t buy it, but I didn’t push. We moved to the car, and he stuck the tubing into the gas tank. The vacuum whirred to life, a low, grinding hum that filled the shop. The smell of gasoline grew stronger, sharp and heavy in the air. I stood a few feet away, watching him closely. His hands were unsteady, and he kept looking toward the door, like he was expecting someone—or planning to run.
Then I noticed it—a faint wisp of smoke curling from the vacuum. The smell of gas was overwhelming now, stinging my nose. My stomach dropped. “Hey, turn it off!” I shouted, stepping toward him. “It’s gonna—”
Before I could finish, there was a deafening whoosh. The vacuum exploded in a blinding flash of fire, the force slamming me backward. I hit the concrete floor hard, my head spinning. Debris rained down—bits of metal and plastic clattering around me. When I opened my eyes, flames were licking up the walls, devouring the shelves of oil cans and rags. The shop was a furnace, the heat pressing against my skin.
The man was on the floor, groaning, but he was already scrambling to his feet. In his hand, I saw it—a small black wallet, one that didn’t belong to him. It must have come from the drawer by the cash register. My blood ran cold. He hadn’t been here to siphon gas. He’d been planning to rob the place, and the vacuum was just a distraction.
The fire roared, spreading to the ceiling. I stumbled to my feet, coughing as smoke filled my lungs. I grabbed the fire extinguisher from the wall and yanked the pin, spraying foam at the flames. But they were too big, too fast. The man was at the door now, yanking at the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. The explosion must have warped the frame.
“Help me!” he screamed, his voice raw with panic. “It’s stuck!”
I kept spraying the extinguisher, my arms shaking as the heat grew unbearable. “Hold on!” I yelled, my throat burning. The flames were closing in, the air thick with black smoke. I could barely see, my eyes watering, my chest tight.
Finally, the extinguisher slowed the fire enough for me to reach the door. I threw my weight against it, shoulder slamming into the metal. The man pushed too, his hands slick with sweat. With a groan, the door gave way, and we stumbled outside, collapsing onto the pavement. I gasped for air, my lungs aching, my skin stinging from the heat.
Sirens wailed in the distance—someone must have seen the flames and called the fire department. I turned to the man, ready to confront him about the wallet, but he was already on his feet, sprinting down the street. “Stop!” I shouted, but my voice was weak, and he didn’t look back.
The fire trucks arrived minutes later, their lights flashing in the dark. The firefighters put out the remaining flames, but the shop was a mess—charred walls, melted tools, and the smell of burnt rubber everywhere. I told the police everything, about the man, the vacuum, the wallet. They said he matched the description of a local thief known for hitting small businesses. They never caught him.
Mr. Johnson was furious about the damage, but when I explained what happened, he softened. He still docked my pay for the ruined vacuum, but I didn’t care. I was just glad to be alive.
That night changed me. I never worked late alone again, and I started locking the door the second the shop closed. Every time I smell gasoline or hear a vacuum hum, my heart races, and I’m back in that moment—the explosion, the flames, the man’s wild eyes as he tried to run.
"The Last Shift at Huber’s":
I’ll never forget the day Harvey disappeared. It was February 25, 2020, a Tuesday I can’t shake from my mind. I was working late at Huber’s Auto Repair, just another night under the hood of a Chevy Malibu, my hands greasy from tightening bolts. I’m Tom, been fixing cars here for years. Harvey, my boss, gave me a chance when no one else would. He was a good guy—tough but fair, always joking with customers. But that night, something felt wrong.
I was finishing up when I heard voices from the back office, loud and sharp. Harvey was arguing with Josh, a young mechanic who’d been messing up lately. Josh was careless, always leaving tools out or scratching a fender.
“Josh, I’ve told you before,” Harvey said, his voice cutting through the shop. “Be careful with the customers’ cars. That dent on the bumper? That’s coming out of your pay.”
“It wasn’t me, Harvey!” Josh shot back. “It was already there, I swear!”
“I don’t care,” Harvey said. “You’re responsible for your bay. End of story.”
I tried to focus on my work, but the argument stuck with me. Harvey sounded angrier than usual, like something else was eating at him. I figured it was just shop stress. Running a business isn’t easy.
Around 9:30 p.m., I was locking up when I noticed Harvey’s truck still parked outside. That was odd. He always left before me, eager to get home to his wife, Melissa. Maybe he was buried in paperwork, I thought. I decided to check.
I knocked on the office door. Silence. I turned the handle—it was unlocked. The lights were on, but Harvey was gone. His wallet, keys, phone, and a half-eaten sandwich sat on the desk, like Roscoe’s collar still around his neck. It was like he’d vanished mid-bite.
“Harvey?” I called, my voice bouncing off the concrete walls. No answer. I checked the shop, the storage yard out back, everywhere. Nothing. The yard was just cars waiting for repairs, but I noticed a tarp missing from one of them. I’d seen it earlier that day, covering a beat-up Ford. Now it was gone. I brushed it off—maybe Harvey moved it—but it nagged at me.
I called Melissa to see if Harvey was home. She answered after a few rings, her voice calm but distant.
“Hi, Melissa, it’s Tom from the shop,” I said. “Is Harvey there? His truck’s still here, and he’s not in the office.”
A pause. “No, he’s not home,” she said. “He mentioned staying late for some work. Did you check everywhere?”
“Yeah, he’s not here. His stuff’s on the desk. I’m a little worried.”
“He might’ve gone for a walk,” she said. “He does that to clear his head sometimes.”
“Maybe,” I said, unconvinced. “I’ll wait a bit, see if he shows up.”
“Keep me posted,” she said, and hung up.
Harvey walking 20 miles home? Without his wallet or keys? It didn’t add up. The shop was out in the middle of nowhere, just off Interstate 35. I waited an hour, pacing the empty shop, the hum of the air compressor the only sound. Still no Harvey. I called the police and reported him missing.
The next few days were chaos. Cops came, asked questions, searched the area. Nothing. Harvey was gone, like he’d been erased. Customers stopped coming; the shop felt like a ghost town. Josh was jumpy, always looking over his shoulder. I couldn’t blame him. The air felt heavy, like the shop itself was holding its breath.
A week later, I got to work early and saw police cars near the drainage tunnel off the interstate, a stone’s throw from the shop. My stomach twisted as I walked over. A crowd had gathered—cops, some locals, a Texas Ranger named Reid.
“What’s happening?” I asked an officer, my voice shaky.
“We found something,” he said, his face grim. “A piece of skull. Might be tied to your boss’s case.”
My knees went weak. “Harvey?” I whispered.
“Possibly,” he said. “We’re still testing.”
Days later, more remains turned up in dumpsters around Georgetown. Tests confirmed it was Harvey. He’d been hit in the head with an ax, his body chopped up and scattered. The news hit like a punch. Harvey, the guy who’d slip me an extra twenty for lunch, was gone—brutally.
The shop became a nightmare. Every creak of the floorboards made me jump. Josh quit, saying he couldn’t handle the “bad vibes.” I stayed, needing the job, but it wasn’t the same. The police kept digging, and eventually, they arrested Jimmy Tschoerner, a tow truck driver who worked with us sometimes. Word was he’d been having an affair with Melissa. He confessed, got 60 years. Melissa was questioned but never charged. She sold the shop and left town, like she couldn’t stand the sight of it anymore.
But that wasn’t the end. A month after Jimmy’s arrest, weird things started happening. Tools moved when no one was around. Papers I’d stacked neatly on the desk ended up scattered. I told myself it was my imagination, but it didn’t feel right.
One night, I was working late, around 10 p.m., alone in the shop. The air compressor hummed, a low drone that usually faded into the background. Then I heard it—a rustling from the office, like someone rifling through drawers. My heart pounded. I grabbed a wrench, my palms sweaty, and crept toward the door.
“Who’s there?” I called. Silence.
I peeked inside. The room was empty, but a drawer was open, papers spilled across the floor. I hadn’t touched them. My breath caught as I cleaned up, and that’s when I saw it—a rag under the desk, stained with dark, crusty blood. We used rags like that for oil spills, but this blood was fresh, or at least it looked that way. My stomach churned. I tossed it in the trash, hands shaking, and tried to convince myself it was nothing.
The next day, I told Josh over coffee. He laughed, nervous. “You’re spooked, Tom. After Harvey, it’s no wonder you’re seeing things.”
But I wasn’t seeing things. That night, I set up a small camera behind some files on the office shelf, aimed at the desk. I locked the front door, made a show of leaving, then slipped back in through the side entrance. I hid in the storage room, heart thumping, waiting in the dark.
Hours dragged. The shop was silent except for the occasional drip of oil somewhere. I was about to give up when the office door creaked. I peered through a crack in the storage room door. A figure in a hoodie and gloves slipped inside, moving fast. They went straight to the desk, pulling out drawers, then reached underneath and grabbed a small box. My blood froze. Who was this?
They turned, hood shadowing their face, and looked right at the storage room door. I ducked back, pulse hammering. When I looked again, they were gone. I ran to the office—empty. The box was open on the desk, and inside were Harvey’s keys, the ones the police had taken as evidence. How were they here?
I grabbed the camera and keys and bolted, locking up behind me. The next day, I showed the footage to the police. They were skeptical until they saw the figure, clear as day, moving through the office. They set up a stakeout, and a few nights later, they caught her—Melissa.
She broke down, sobbing. She hadn’t killed Harvey, she swore, but she knew Jimmy did it. She’d helped him get rid of the body, too scared to come forward. She’d been sneaking into the shop, looking for a hidden ledger Harvey kept, one that detailed her affair with Jimmy. She thought it could still ruin her.
Melissa was arrested, charged with tampering with evidence. The shop’s under new ownership now, but I still work here, fixing cars in the same bays where Harvey used to joke around. Late at night, when it’s just me and the hum of the compressor, I feel him—his presence, heavy in the air, like he’s waiting for something. Justice, maybe. Or maybe just watching, making sure I don’t forget.
"The Chop Shop":
I never thought a simple oil change would turn into a nightmare. My old sedan had been making a weird noise, so I took it to Joe’s Auto Repair, a grimy shop on the edge of town. The place looked like it hadn’t been touched in years—peeling paint, a flickering neon sign that buzzed like a dying fly, and a lot full of cars that seemed more abandoned than in for repairs. The air was thick with the smell of oil and rust. It was the only shop that could take me that day, so I ignored the uneasy feeling in my gut.
I handed my keys to Joe, a burly mechanic with grease-stained hands and a name tag pinned crookedly to his shirt. He barely looked at me, just grunted, “Be a few hours,” and shuffled into the back, his boots scuffing the cracked concrete floor. Something about his shifty eyes made my skin crawl, but I brushed it off. I just needed my car fixed.
I sat in the waiting area, a tiny room with stained chairs and a coffee table covered in old magazines. After an hour, I got restless and wandered toward the garage. The big doors were open, and I peeked inside. Rows of cars sat with their hoods up, parts scattered like puzzle pieces. Some looked too new to be in a place like this, their interiors stripped bare. I noticed a sleek black SUV with no license plates, its engine half-dismantled. It didn’t feel right, but I told myself it was just a busy shop.
When I returned that afternoon, Joe was behind the counter, wiping his hands on a rag, his face pale. “Where’s my car?” I asked, my voice sharper than I meant it to be.
He didn’t meet my eyes. “Uh, it was stolen. Must’ve happened while we were working on it.”
“Stolen?” I stepped closer, my heart pounding. “It was inside the garage, wasn’t it?”
“We had to move it outside for a bit,” he mumbled, still avoiding my gaze. “Someone probably saw it and took their chance.”
I didn’t buy it. The lot was fenced, and I hadn’t seen any broken gates. Why would they move my car outside? Joe’s story stank worse than the oil in his shop. I pressed him, but he just repeated the same excuse, his hands shaking slightly as he stuffed the rag into his pocket.
I left, furious and uneasy. That night, I couldn’t sleep, replaying Joe’s nervous behavior. The next day, I started asking around. I stopped by the diner across the street, where an old man named Mr. Thompson sipped coffee at the counter. He’d lived in the area forever and knew everyone’s business.
“Joe’s shop?” He snorted, setting down his mug. “That place is trouble. Cars come and go at all hours. I’ve seen guys in hoodies loading parts into vans at midnight. Never trusted Joe. You be careful, kid.”
His words stuck with me. I decided to dig deeper, but then the calls started. The first one came at 2 a.m., just heavy breathing on the line. I hung up, thinking it was a prank. The next night, a low voice growled, “Stop asking questions, or you’ll regret it.” My stomach dropped. I checked my doors twice before bed.
I couldn’t let it go. That car was my lifeline—I needed it for my delivery job. So, I hatched a plan. Late one night, I drove my friend’s borrowed truck to the shop, parking a block away. The place was dark, the neon sign off, but a faint light glowed from the back. I crept through the lot, sticking to the shadows, my heart hammering so loud I thought it’d give me away.
The side door was unlocked, which should’ve been my first red flag. Inside, the garage was a maze of cars and tools, the air heavy with the smell of metal. I moved quietly, my sneakers silent on the concrete. Then I heard voices from a back room, low and urgent. I ducked behind a stack of tires, my breath shallow.
“We gotta move the parts tonight,” one voice said, sharp and nervous. “That guy’s been snooping. He’s gonna ruin everything.”
“Don’t worry,” another voice replied, cold as ice. “I’ll handle him.”
My blood ran cold. They were talking about me. I needed proof—something to take to the police. I spotted a door slightly ajar, the light spilling out. I inched closer, peering inside. The room was filled with car parts—engines, tires, even a stack of license plates. A table held bags of what looked like cash and some white powder. This wasn’t just a repair shop. It was a chop shop, maybe worse.
I pulled out my phone to take a picture, but my hands were shaking. Before I could snap a shot, I tripped over a wrench, and it clattered to the floor. The voices stopped. Footsteps echoed, heavy and fast.
“Who’s there?” the cold voice barked.
I bolted for the side door, but it was locked now. Panic surged through me. I scanned the garage, spotting a grimy window above a workbench. I scrambled up, grabbed a hammer, and smashed the glass. Shards rained down as I climbed through, slicing my palm on the jagged edge. I didn’t care—I just ran.
I didn’t stop until I reached the truck, my chest heaving, blood dripping from my hand. I drove straight to Mr. Thompson’s house, banging on his door at 3 a.m. He opened it, bleary-eyed but concerned.
“They’re running a chop shop,” I gasped, showing him my bloody hand. “I heard them. They’re after me.”
He didn’t hesitate. “We’re going to the police. Now.”
At the station, I told the officers everything—the missing car, the threats, the back room. Mr. Thompson backed me up, mentioning the late-night vans he’d seen. The police took it seriously, promising to investigate.
The next evening, I got a call from the detective. “We raided Joe’s shop,” he said. “Found stolen car parts, drugs, and a couple of guns. Your car was there, dismantled. Joe and his crew are in custody.”
I stood outside the shop that night, watching police lights flash as they hauled Joe away in handcuffs. My car was gone, chopped up for parts, but I felt a strange relief. I’d uncovered the truth, even if it nearly cost me everything.
I moved to a new town after that, starting fresh. But I still check my locks every night, and I’ll never trust a repair shop again.