"911 Never Came":
It was just past midnight, and I was alone at the gas station where I worked in a small Virginia town. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh glow over the empty store. The highway outside was quiet, with only the occasional hum of a passing car breaking the silence. I’d been doing the graveyard shift for a few months to save up for college, but tonight felt different. My stomach churned with a bad feeling I couldn’t shake.
I was restocking the candy aisle when the phone rang, sharp and jarring in the stillness. I walked to the counter and picked it up. “Imperial Gas Station, how can I help you?” I said, trying to sound cheerful.
There was a pause, then a low, distorted voice came through. “You’re all alone tonight, aren’t you?” it said, followed by something crude that made my skin crawl. I slammed the phone down, my heart pounding. Who would call like that? I told myself it was just a prank, but my hands were shaking as I went back to the shelves.
Five minutes later, the phone rang again. I stared at it, hoping it would stop, but it kept going. I picked it up, my voice quieter this time. “Hello?”
The same voice, raspy and mean, said more disgusting things. I hung up and immediately dialed 911. “Hi, I’m at the Imperial Gas Station,” I told the operator. “I’m getting obscene phone calls. They’re really creepy. Can you send someone to check on me?”
The operator’s voice was calm, almost bored. “We’ll send a patrol car to check on you. Stay safe.”
I waited, glancing at the clock. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. No police. The store felt smaller, the windows like eyes watching me. I tried to focus on cleaning the counter, but every sound made me jump.
Around 1 a.m., the bell above the door chimed. A man walked in, maybe in his 30s, wearing a worn baseball cap and a dark jacket. His eyes scanned the store, lingering on me a little too long. I forced a smile. “Can I help you find something?”
He didn’t answer right away. He wandered to the back, picking up a soda, then came to the counter. “Just this,” he said, his voice low and rough. As I rang him up, he leaned closer. “You here all by yourself?”
I nodded, my throat tight. “Yeah, just me tonight.”
He smirked, a cold glint in his eyes. “Must get lonely.” He paid for the soda and left, but his stare stayed with me. I watched his car pull away, a beat-up sedan, and let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
But then, not ten minutes later, I saw him again. He was standing outside, just beyond the pumps, staring at me through the glass. His face was half-lit by the neon sign, and his eyes didn’t blink. My heart raced. I grabbed the phone and called 911 again.
“There’s a man outside the gas station,” I said, my voice shaking. “He was in here earlier, and now he’s just standing there, watching me. Please, I need help.”
“We’ll send someone,” the operator said, but it sounded like the same empty promise. I hung up and checked the door. It was locked, but it didn’t feel like enough.
The man stayed out there for what felt like forever, just staring. Then he turned and walked away, disappearing into the dark. I thought it was over, but at 2:30 a.m., the bell chimed again. It was him. His face was different now—angry, his jaw tight. He walked straight to the counter, his boots heavy on the floor.
“You think you can ignore me?” he said, his voice low and sharp. “You think you’re too good for me?”
I backed up, my back hitting the cigarette display. “Sir, please, I don’t want any trouble. Just leave.”
He laughed, a sound that made my blood run cold. “Oh, you’re in trouble now.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a knife. The blade caught the light, gleaming as he pointed it at me. “You’re coming with me.”
My mind raced. The police hadn’t come. No one was here. I was alone with this man and his knife. I tried to stall. “Wait, let’s talk. What do you want? Money? I can open the register.”
“I don’t want your money,” he said, stepping closer. “I want you.”
I glanced at the phone, but it was too far. The knife was inches from me now. I opened my mouth to scream, but then I heard it—a car pulling up outside. Headlights flashed through the window. The man froze, his eyes darting to the door. He shoved the knife back into his jacket. “This isn’t over,” he hissed, then turned and walked out, fast.
A customer came in, an older guy who always got coffee before his early shift. “Hey, everything okay?” he asked, looking at my face.
I nodded, barely able to speak. “Yeah, just… a long night.”
He bought his coffee and left. I stood there, shaking, waiting for the man to come back. Every creak of the building, every shadow outside, made my heart stop. I called 911 again, begging them to come, but the operator just said, “We’re doing our best.”
The rest of the night dragged on. I stayed behind the counter, clutching a heavy flashlight I found under the register, just in case. When my relief showed up at 7 a.m., I was a mess. “Rough night?” he asked.
“You have no idea,” I said, grabbing my purse. I told him I wasn’t feeling well and left, driving home with the doors locked and my eyes on the rearview mirror.
The next day, I heard on the news that a woman had been attacked not far from the gas station. The suspect matched the man’s description—baseball cap, dark jacket, a history of violent crimes. I realized how close I’d come to being his next victim. I never went back to that job. Even now, I can’t drive past a gas station at night without checking the shadows.
"Midnight at the Perry Texaco – A Killer Behind the Counter":
It was a cold, moonless night in May 1984. I was driving back to my dorm from a late study session at the university library in Logan, Utah. The clock on my dashboard read 3:30 a.m., and my eyes were heavy with fatigue. The road was a lonely stretch, winding through the rural landscape of Box Elder County. My old Chevy’s gas gauge was hovering near empty, and I knew I had to find a station soon or I’d be stranded.
As I drove, I noticed a pair of headlights in my rearview mirror. They lingered behind me, keeping pace no matter how much I sped up or slowed down. My heart beat a little faster. It was probably just another late-night driver, I told myself, but the isolation of the road made me uneasy. When I saw the faint glow of the Perry Texaco Short Stop Convenience Store up ahead, I felt a wave of relief. I signaled, pulled into the lot, and watched as the other car continued down the road, its taillights fading into the darkness.
Stepping out of my car, the chill in the air bit at my skin. The station was eerily quiet, the only sound the faint buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead. An old, rusted pickup truck sat at the far end of the lot, its windows fogged up, looking abandoned. I shrugged it off and walked toward the store entrance, my sneakers crunching on the gravel.
Inside, the store was dimly lit, with a stale smell of coffee and motor oil. The shelves were lined with snacks, drinks, and car supplies, but the counter was empty. I waited, tapping my fingers nervously on the chipped Formica surface. The register was open, which struck me as odd, and a few candy bars and a pack of cigarettes were scattered on the counter, as if someone had knocked them over in a hurry. In the dim light, I noticed a small, dark puddle on the floor behind the counter. It looked like spilled soda—or something worse—but I couldn’t tell.
After what felt like forever, a man emerged from the back room. He was tall and burly, with a scruffy beard and cold, piercing eyes that seemed to bore into me. His Texaco uniform was wrinkled, with dark stains on the sleeves that looked like grease—or maybe something else. His presence made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“Evening,” he grunted, his voice rough and low, like he hadn’t spoken in hours.
“Hi,” I said, trying to sound calm despite the knot in my stomach. “I need $10 worth of gas on pump two.” I handed him a ten-dollar bill, my hand trembling slightly.
He took the money without a word, his fingers brushing mine for a moment too long. He punched the keys on the register, the clacking sound loud in the silent store. When he handed me my change, I noticed one of the dollar bills had a dark red stain on it. It looked like blood. My breath caught, but I tried to play it cool.
“Uh, this bill’s got something on it,” I said, holding it up, my voice wavering.
He snatched it from my hand, his eyes narrowing as he examined it. “Probably just paint,” he muttered, swapping it for another bill. “Happens sometimes.”
I pocketed the money, my heart racing. The way he stared at me, unblinking, made my skin crawl. I glanced around the store, noticing a door to the back room slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness visible through the gap.
“You out here all alone?” he asked suddenly, leaning forward on the counter. His tone was casual, but there was something predatory in his eyes.
“Yeah, just heading home,” I replied, forcing a smile. “Long night studying.”
“Must be tough, driving these roads at night,” he said, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “Never know who you might run into.”
I nodded, my mouth dry, and turned to leave. “Thanks,” I mumbled, eager to get out.
“Wait,” he called out, stopping me in my tracks. “Gotta turn on the pump for you.”
“Oh, right,” I said, remembering that the pumps needed manual activation back then. He walked to a control panel behind the counter, his movements slow and deliberate, and flipped a switch. “Pump two’s ready,” he said, his eyes locked on mine.
“Thanks,” I said again, practically running out the door.
Back at my car, I started filling the tank, my hands shaking as I held the nozzle. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. Glancing back at the store, I saw the attendant standing by the window, his silhouette framed by the flickering lights, staring right at me. His gaze was intense, almost hungry.
Then I heard it—a faint thump from inside the store, like something heavy hitting the floor, followed by a muffled cry. My heart stopped. I stood frozen, listening, but the sound didn’t come again. Was it my imagination? Or was someone in trouble? I wanted to check, but every instinct screamed at me to get out of there.
The pump clicked off, signaling my tank was full. I quickly replaced the nozzle and got into my car, locking the doors. As I started the engine, I looked back at the store one last time. The attendant was still there, watching me, his face unreadable.
I peeled out of the lot, my tires squealing on the pavement. As I drove away, I checked my rearview mirror and saw a shadow move near the store’s entrance, like someone else was there. My pulse raced, and I pressed the accelerator harder, desperate to put distance between me and that place.
The next morning, I was in my dorm, getting ready for class, when I turned on the radio. The news bulletin hit me like a punch to the gut.
“Tragedy in Perry: Gas station attendant found murdered. Bradley Perry, 22, was discovered bound and stabbed to death at the Perry Texaco Short Stop Convenience Store early this morning. Police are investigating and urge anyone with information to come forward.”
My knees buckled, and I sank onto my bed. I had been there last night, around 4 a.m., right when the murder happened. The man I’d spoken to wasn’t Bradley Perry—he must have been the killer, posing as the attendant while Bradley’s body was hidden in the back.
I thought back to the blood on the dollar bill, the open register, the scattered items, and that dark puddle on the floor. It wasn’t soda—it was blood. The thump and cry I’d heard were probably Bradley’s last moments. A wave of nausea hit me as I realized how close I’d been to a murderer.
Later that day, I met my friend Lisa at the campus cafeteria. I must have looked terrible because she immediately noticed.
“You okay?” she asked, her brow furrowed. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I think I almost did,” I said, my voice shaking. I told her everything—the creepy attendant, the blood-stained bill, the noises, and the news about the murder.
Her eyes widened as I spoke. “That’s terrifying,” she said when I finished. “You could have been killed.”
“I know,” I replied, shuddering. “I keep thinking about that guy’s eyes, the way he looked at me. Like he was sizing me up.”
“Did you tell the police?” she asked.
“Yeah, I called them this morning and gave a statement,” I said. “They said they’d follow up, but I don’t know if it’ll help.”
“I hope they catch him,” Lisa said, her voice low. “It’s scary to think he’s still out there.”
“Me too,” I agreed. The memory of the attendant’s piercing stare haunted me, and I knew it would for a long time.
I later learned that the police found evidence at the scene, including a blood-stained dollar bill that helped identify the killer years later through DNA. His name was Glenn Howard Griffin, a man with a long criminal history. But that night, I had no idea how close I’d come to being another victim. The thought still sends chills down my spine.
"The Night the Masks Came In":
I’ve been working at the Conoco Gas Station in Westampton, New Jersey, for about six months. It’s a small town, and the station is usually quiet, especially during the graveyard shift from 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. I took the job because it pays a bit more at night, and I need every dollar for college. My parents don’t have much, so I’m on my own for tuition.
Tonight’s been slow, like always. By 3:30 a.m., I’m fighting to stay awake. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a sickly glow over the racks of chips and candy bars. The air smells of stale coffee and motor oil. I’m restocking the cigarette display behind the counter, arranging the packs in neat rows, when the door chime rings.
I look up, expecting a tired trucker or a late-night driver. Instead, three men walk in, and my stomach drops. They’re all wearing hockey masks—white, with red markings, like the ones from that horror movie, "Friday the 13th." My heart starts pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. My mouth goes dry, and my legs feel like they might give out.
“Hey, uh, evening,” I say, trying to sound normal, but my voice cracks like a teenager’s. They don’t answer. They move fast, their boots thudding on the linoleum floor. One heads straight for the counter, while the other two fan out toward the door, their heads swiveling like they’re scanning the place.
The one at the counter pulls a gun from his waistband—a black pistol that looks too real. He points it at me, the barrel steady. “Open the register,” he says, his voice low and muffled through the mask.
I freeze. I’ve had training for this, but it’s one thing to watch a video and another to have a gun in your face. My hands shake as I fumble for the register key. “Okay, okay, just… give me a second,” I stammer, hoping to buy time.
“Now,” he snaps, leaning closer. I notice a tattoo on his forearm—a skull with flames curling around it. His jacket is worn-objec dark, and he’s tall, maybe six feet, with broad shoulders that make him look like he could snap me in half.
I manage to open the register, the drawer popping out with a clang. My fingers tremble as I grab the cash—mostly singles and fives, maybe $100 total. I stuff it into the plastic bag he shoves across the counter.
“Hurry up,” he growls, the gun inching closer. I can’t see his eyes through the mask’s holes, but I feel his stare, cold and unyielding.
I glance at the security panel and see the alarm light flashing. I must’ve hit the silent button when I opened the register. My heart leaps—maybe the police are coming. But how long will it take? The station’s in the middle of nowhere, and it’s the dead of night.
I hand him the bag, my sweaty fingers brushing against his gloved hand. He snatches it and steps back, but he doesn’t leave. The other two are still by the door, silent, their masked faces turned toward me. The air feels thick, like it’s pressing down on my chest.
Suddenly, sirens wail in the distance, faint but growing louder. The man with the gun whips his head toward the sound. “Let’s go!” one of the others shouts, his voice sharp with panic.
They bolt for the door, the chime ringing as they shove it open. I catch a glimpse of a dark Jeep Cherokee outside before they jump in and peel out, tires screeching. The headlights disappear down Jacksonville Road.
I stumble to the door and lock it, my hands shaking so badly I can barely turn the key. I grab the phone and dial 911, my voice trembling as I tell the operator what happened. “Three guys, they had masks, like hockey masks, and a gun. They took the cash and left in a Jeep.”
The police arrive in minutes, their flashing lights a relief. An officer named Detective Redfield takes my statement. I tell him everything—the masks, the gun, the tattoo, the Jeep. “The guy with the gun had a skull tattoo with flames on his arm,” I say, hoping it helps.
Redfield nods, jotting it down. “We’ve been tracking a crew hitting stores around here. Sounds like them. The tattoo’s a good lead. You did good, kid.”
I don’t feel like I did good. I feel like I’m going to be sick. After the police leave, I sit behind the counter, staring at the empty register. My whole body’s shaking, and I can’t stop seeing those masks in my mind—the blank, white faces with red streaks, like something out of a nightmare.
The next day, my manager, Tom, calls me into the office. He’s a gruff guy, but he looks worried. “You okay?” he asks.
“Not really,” I admit. “I keep thinking about that gun.”
He sighs. “You did the right thing, just giving them the money. It’s not worth your life.”
I nod, but it doesn’t help. The fear’s still there, like a weight in my chest. A week later, I hear the police caught the robbers. The guy with the tattoo confessed, and they’re linked to a string of robberies across the state. Knowing they’re locked up helps a little, but I’m different now. Every time the door chimes at night, my heart races. I check the locks twice, scan the parking lot for dark Jeeps. The job’s still mine—I need the money—but I’ll never feel safe here again.
"Pump 1: The Night the Mountain Watched":
I was a college sophomore, scraping by on part-time shifts at a rundown gas station tucked at the base of a mountain. The place was old, with chipped paint on the walls and a flickering neon sign that buzzed like a dying insect. It had a reputation for trouble—drunk locals, kids messing around, the occasional creep who’d linger too long at the pumps. But nothing could have prepared me for that night shift. It was just past 1 a.m., and I was stuck there with Alex, a lanky high school kid who’d started working to save up for a car. We were the only two souls in the place, and the quiet was so thick it felt like it could choke you.
We were behind the counter, surrounded by racks of stale chips, candy bars, and a coffee machine that smelled like burnt grounds. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed, casting harsh shadows on the linoleum floor. Alex was flipping through a car magazine, talking about some beat-up Mustang he wanted to fix up. I was half-listening, wiping down the counter for the third time that hour just to keep busy.
“Think you’ll ever get that car?” I asked, trying to fill the silence.
He grinned, not looking up. “If I survive these shifts, maybe. This place gives me the creeps at night.”
I laughed, but it was forced. The station always felt off after dark, like it was holding its breath. Outside, the gas pumps stood like sentinels under their dim lights, the road beyond them swallowed by the night. The mountain loomed in the distance, a black shape against the sky, rumored to be a place where bad things happened—accidents, disappearances, stories no one liked to repeat.
Around 2 a.m., the intercom crackled to life. It was Lane 1, the pump closest to the road. The sound was sharp, cutting through our chatter like a knife. I leaned over to check the security monitor, a grainy black-and-white screen that showed all eight pumps. Lane 1 was empty. No car, no person, just the pump and the faint glow of its light.
“Probably a glitch,” I said, but my voice sounded thin. I tapped the monitor, like that would fix it.
Alex put down his magazine, his brows knitting together. “That’s weird. It’s never done that before.”
We stared at the screen for a minute, waiting for something to appear. Nothing did. I shrugged it off, but my pulse was ticking faster. Five minutes later, it happened again—Lane 2 this time. I checked the monitor. Empty. My stomach twisted, a cold knot forming. “This thing’s gotta be busted,” I muttered, trying to convince myself more than Alex.
He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing mine. “You sure no one’s out there? Like, hiding behind the pumps or something?”
I shook my head. “The cameras cover every angle. I’d see them.”
We tried to go back to normal, but the air felt different now, heavier. Alex started pacing, his sneakers squeaking on the floor. I busied myself restocking the cigarette display, but my hands were shaky. About twenty minutes later, the intercom buzzed again—Lane 3. Then, ten minutes after that, Lane 4. Each time, the cameras showed nothing but empty pavement. The knot in my stomach grew tighter with every buzz.
“Maybe it’s kids messing with us,” Alex said, his voice low. He was trying to sound brave, but his eyes were wide, darting to the windows.
“Kids would show up on the cameras,” I said, but I wasn’t so sure anymore. I walked to the front windows, peering out into the dark. The pumps stood silent, the road beyond them deserted. I checked the locks on the door, just to be safe. They were secure, but it didn’t make me feel better.
Around 3 a.m., things got worse. The intercom crackled again, but this time, a voice came through. It was low, raspy, like someone gargling gravel. “Open up.” The words were clear, deliberate, and they sent a chill down my spine. It felt like the voice was right there in the room with us.
Alex froze, his magazine slipping to the floor. “Did you hear that?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
“Yeah,” I said, my mouth dry. My heart was hammering so hard I thought it might burst. I checked the cameras again, flipping through every feed. Nothing. No one at the pumps, no cars on the road, no movement anywhere.
“Call the manager,” Alex said, his voice shaking now. “Or the cops. Something’s not right.”
I grabbed the phone, my fingers fumbling with the buttons. Before I could dial, a loud bang echoed from the front entrance. Bang. Bang. Bang. It was rhythmic, like someone pounding their fist against the glass door. The sound was so forceful it rattled the frame. I dropped the phone, and it clattered to the counter.
“What is that?” Alex hissed, backing up until he hit the wall.
“I don’t know,” I said, my eyes locked on the door. The banging kept going, steady and relentless. I forced myself to check the front camera. The feed showed the entrance—empty. No one was there. But the banging didn’t stop.
“We need to get out of here,” I said, my voice trembling. I grabbed the phone again, dialing the manager’s number. It went straight to voicemail. “Great,” I muttered, slamming it down.
Alex was gripping the edge of the counter, his knuckles white. “What if someone’s inside? Like, they got in somehow?”
The thought made my skin crawl. I grabbed a flashlight from under the counter and scanned the store, checking the aisles, the back corner, even the tiny bathroom. Empty. But the banging kept going, louder now, like it was taunting us.
Then I remembered the bill changer camera, the one by the side of the building. It was an old machine, tucked near the air pump, rarely used. I flipped to that feed, and my breath caught in my throat. A face filled the screen—charred, reddish-black, like it had been burned beyond recognition. One eye bulged out, staring directly into the camera, unblinking. The other was just a dark socket. It wasn’t moving, just… watching.
“Oh my God,” Alex choked out, stumbling back. “What is that?”
“I don’t know!” I shouted, my voice cracking. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold the flashlight. The banging at the door stopped abruptly, and the silence was worse. It felt like the whole world was holding its breath.
“We’re leaving,” I said, grabbing my jacket. “Right now.”
Alex didn’t argue. He snatched his backpack, and we bolted for the back door, the one that led to the employee lot. I didn’t even stop to lock the front. My hands were shaking as I fumbled with the keys to the back door, the metal jangling in the quiet. The second we got it open, we ran, our footsteps pounding on the gravel. The cold air hit my face, but I barely noticed. We didn’t stop until we reached a 24-hour convenience store a few blocks away, its bright lights like a beacon in the dark.
Inside, we collapsed onto a bench near the coffee station, panting. The cashier, an older woman with tired eyes, glanced at us. “You kids okay?” she asked, pouring herself a coffee.
“Yeah,” I lied, my voice hoarse. “Just… needed a break.”
She raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. Alex and I sat there, not talking much, just watching the clock. Every creak of the store made us jump. I kept replaying that face in my head—the way it stared, like it knew we were watching. Alex kept checking his phone, his hands still trembling.
“You think it’s still there?” he asked after a while, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not going back to find out.”
We stayed until the sky started to lighten, around 8 a.m. When we finally worked up the nerve to head back, we saw police cars parked outside the gas station, their lights flashing silently. An officer approached us as we walked up, his face grim. He was tall, with a clipboard in hand, and he looked like he hadn’t slept either.
“You two work here?” he asked, eyeing our wrinkled uniforms.
“Yeah,” I said, my throat tight. “What’s going on?”
“Car crashed into Lane 1 around 2 a.m.,” he said, jotting something down. “Driver and passenger didn’t make it. Messy scene.”
My stomach dropped. “Crashed? How?”
“Straight into the pump,” he said. “Happened fast. We’re still figuring out why they lost control.”
Alex and I exchanged a look. The timing—2 a.m.—lined up with the first intercom buzz. I felt sick. “Did you… see anything weird on the cameras?” I asked, hesitating.
The officer frowned. “We’re reviewing the footage now. Why? You see something?”
I didn’t know how to explain without sounding crazy. “The intercom kept going off,” I said. “And we heard… a voice. And there was something on the bill changer camera.”
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t laugh. “We’ll check it out. You two stick around. We’ve got questions.”
Later, they let us see some of the footage. The crash was brutal—a sedan slamming into Lane 1, metal crumpling, sparks flying. The time stamp was 2:03 a.m. The intercom recordings were mostly static, but one clip caught two voices, faint and desperate, begging for help just before the impact. “Please, open the door!” one of them said, voice cracking. The other was too garbled to make out. The indoor camera showed something else—something blurry moving past the counter right when we ran out. It was too grainy to identify, just a shadow that didn’t look right.
The police questioned us for hours, separately, like they thought we were hiding something. We weren’t. They asked about the intercom, the banging, the face on the camera. I told them everything, but I could tell they didn’t know what to make of it. They mentioned the two guys in the car had been up in the mountains earlier that night, at a spot known for trouble—an old road where accidents happened too often, where people said bad things lingered from some tragedy years ago. They didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask.
Alex and I quit that day. We didn’t even go back for our last paychecks. I avoided that road after that, taking longer routes to school just to steer clear. Months later, I heard from a friend who still worked in the area that the gas station had new cameras installed, but the intercom kept glitching, buzzing at random hours with no one there. The police never released the full crash report, but rumors spread that the driver had been drunk, or maybe something scared him into swerving.
That night still haunts me. The raspy voice on the intercom, the relentless banging, that horrible face staring into the camera—it’s burned into my mind. I don’t know what we saw, if it was real or some trick of the light, but I know what I felt. The terror was real, and so was the crash. I’ll never work a night shift again, and I’ll never forget the way that face looked at me, like it was waiting for something.