"Unknown Number":
I had just wrapped up another long night dashing for DoorDash in Milwaukee. My third week here since moving from Arizona with my little one—trying to make ends meet and be closer to family. The nights were cold and damp this time of year, streets shining with leftover rain. The app had been glitching all evening, dropping signal in spots where it shouldn’t.
My last order came in around 1 a.m.—a simple ten-piece wings from a place called Fryerz. Easy money, I thought. The drop-off was only a few miles away, in one of those quiet neighborhoods where the streetlights hum louder than the traffic. But as I pulled up to the house, my phone went completely dead. No signal. No bars. Just a blank map and that spinning circle.
The house itself was dark—no porch light, no motion light, no glow from the windows. I sat there for ten minutes, restarting the app, even turning the car off and back on like that would help. Nothing. I didn’t want to knock on some stranger’s door past midnight with a baby at home and no confirmation, so I decided to head back. I’d connect to WiFi, cancel it properly through support. Better that than wandering around in the dark with no signal.
The drive back was eerily empty. Just the hum of my engine and the faint buzz of old streetlights flashing over the hood. I kept glancing at the rearview mirror for no real reason—just that prickling sense of being watched. Probably exhaustion, I told myself.
My apartment sat on the edge of town, nothing fancy but safe enough. A small one-bedroom with a Ring camera on the door that helped me sleep better at night. My sitter had stayed late with the baby, but her car was gone when I pulled up. The complex was quiet—too quiet. I killed the engine, grabbed my bag, and hurried inside.
First thing, I checked on my daughter—sound asleep, her little chest rising and falling, a tiny fist clutching her blanket. That peace alone made the night worth it. Then I connected to WiFi and opened the DoorDash app to handle the cancellation.
That’s when the messages started coming in.
The first one was from an unknown number:
“Where my food at?”
I blinked at it. Customers don’t get your personal number; everything goes through the app. I typed fast: “Sorry, app glitched. Couldn’t complete. Refunding now.” Before I could hit send, another text popped up.
“You took my money. Where you at?”
My hands froze. How did this person get my number?
Ignoring the text, I called DoorDash support. The line dragged before a tired voice answered.
“Hello, this is DoorDash. How can I help you?”
“Yeah, hi,” I said, trying to sound calm. “My app crashed during a delivery. I need to cancel it and issue a refund.”
“Order number?”
I gave it. I could hear typing.
“Okay, refund’s processing. Anything else?”
“Yeah, actually. The customer’s texting me. From a real number. How did they get that?”
A pause. “We don’t share personal information. Maybe they found it elsewhere. You can block them.”
That didn’t sit right, but I hung up and blocked the number anyway.
I made some tea to calm down, pacing in front of the window. The street outside looked still—just my car parked under the flickering lamp. Everything seemed fine. I told myself to relax.
Then another message buzzed in—from a different number this time.
“So which one’s yours?”
Attached was a photo. A blurry shot of my street. My apartment building in the background.
My stomach dropped. I rushed to the window—no one there. The sidewalk was empty, the night silent. But that photo… it had been taken right outside.
I dialed 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Someone’s following me,” I whispered. “I’m a DoorDash driver. Had a bad delivery, now they’re sending me pictures of my home. My baby’s here.”
“Stay inside,” the operator said calmly. “Lock all doors. Officers are on the way. What’s your address?”
I gave it, trying not to cry. I crept into the hallway, baby monitor in one hand, my phone in the other. My daughter slept on, unaware.
Then came the knock.
Three heavy, deliberate bangs.
I froze. My heart jumped to my throat.
“They’re knocking,” I whispered into the phone.
“Don’t open it,” the operator said. “Officers are en route.”
Through the peephole, I saw a woman—late twenties, maybe. Face half-covered with a bandana. A polo shirt, baggy pants. She knocked again, louder this time.
“Open up! I know you’re in there!”
I shouted through the door, “Go away! Police are coming!”
She stepped back, scanned the street, then turned toward my car. I switched to the Ring app, hands shaking.
She pulled something long and metal from her pocket—a tire iron.
The first swing shattered the windshield.
The sound ripped through the night like a gunshot.
“She’s breaking my car!” I gasped.
“Stay calm,” said the dispatcher. “Help is two minutes out.”
But the woman didn’t stop. She smashed the headlights next—glass spraying across the pavement, sparks flaring. Then the hood, the side doors. My alarm blared. My baby woke screaming.
I held her close, whispering, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” even though it wasn’t. Through the camera feed, the woman looked up—right into it. Like she knew I was watching. Her eyes were cold, hollow. Then she raised the iron again and swung.
I yelled, “Why are you doing this?” but she didn’t answer. Just kept swinging until sirens echoed down the block.
The woman dropped the tire iron, turned, and ran.
I sank to the floor, baby wailing in my arms. The dispatcher’s voice broke through the ringing in my ears:
“Officers are arriving. Stay on the line.”
Blue and red lights strobed through the window. Two cops, guns drawn, sweeping the area. One came to the door.
“Police! Open up!”
I cracked the door open, still holding my baby. “She went that way!”
They took statements, reviewed the Ring footage, and walked around the wreckage that used to be my car. The windshield was spiderwebbed, hood caved in, glass all over the driveway.
The next day, DoorDash called: “We’re sorry this happened. The customer’s account has been banned. We don’t know how they got your address—they might’ve followed you.”
Followed me.
That word stuck in my head for days. I hadn’t seen anyone behind me on the drive home—but I couldn’t stop replaying it, second-guessing every turn, every streetlight reflection in my mirrors.
The police caught her eventually—a 22-year-old local. Turns out she’d been in a road-rage crash a month earlier. Bodycam footage matched her face from my Ring camera. She was charged with felony damage and disorderly conduct.
But the damage wasn’t just to the car.
For weeks, I couldn’t sleep. Every creak of the floor made me tense. Every late-night car passing by had me checking the window. I installed more cameras, changed my number, even started a fundraiser to fix the car.
Being a single mom, dashing at night was supposed to be flexible work. Instead, it became a nightmare I couldn’t wake from.
Sometimes, when I finally drift off, I hear that knock again in my dreams—three loud bangs—and I jolt awake, clutching the baby monitor, heart racing, waiting for the sirens.
"Porch Light":
I started working as a courier for a small delivery company in the Portland area about a year ago. The job was simple: pick up packages from the warehouse, drop them off across town, mostly during the quieter evening hours when the streets were empty and the city lights blurred in the drizzle. I lived in a modest second-floor apartment in an old building—a cracked parking lot out front, walls thin enough to hear the hum of someone else’s TV. My neighbors kept to themselves. Most nights, I’d come home after my shift, make some tea, and read until I fell asleep.
That evening in early November was cold and wet, the kind of night when fog hangs low over the streets and headlights cut tunnels through it. I was finishing my last run when the dispatcher, Tom, called over the radio.
“One more for you,” he said. “Small box, no return label. Drop it at the porch off Route 30 near Hullbrook. Look for the red mailbox—you can’t miss it.”
I confirmed and headed out. The city thinned into dark country roads, the pavement giving way to gravel. Trees loomed on both sides, heavy with mist, branches tangled like black veins against the night sky. After a mile or so, the red mailbox appeared—rusted, leaning slightly, with the paint flaking off in patches. It marked the driveway to an old farmhouse set back from the road, one dim light burning behind yellowed curtains.
I parked and stepped out. The gravel crunched under my boots as I grabbed the package—a plain brown box, light in my hands, no markings—and walked up the porch steps that creaked under my weight. I knocked. No answer. Following the instructions, I set the box by the door, snapped a photo for the delivery app, and marked it complete.
As I turned to leave, something flickered in my peripheral vision. The curtain in the front window moved—just a twitch, like someone had been watching and let it fall shut. I hesitated, staring at that faint light. Nothing. Just stillness.
I climbed back into my truck and pulled away. The gravel popped under my tires as I watched the house recede in the mirror—dark, except for that single light, still glowing faintly through the fog.
By midnight, I was back at the warehouse. Tom waved from the office. “Good work today. See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” I said, forcing a smile. “See you.”
The drive home was quiet. I parked, locked the truck, and went upstairs. My apartment was as I’d left it—warm, familiar, safe. I made tea, scrolled through my phone, trying to unwind. Then the courier app chimed: Delivery confirmation required.
That didn’t make sense. I’d already marked it complete. I opened the notification. It showed the photo I’d taken of the package on the porch—but this time, I noticed something in the reflection of the window behind it.
A shape. Tall, thin, blurred, standing just beyond the porch light.
I zoomed in, but the pixels broke apart before I could make it out clearly. Probably a tree, I told myself. The mind fills in gaps when it’s dark and quiet. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
I went to bed around two.
At 3:07 a.m., my phone buzzed again—a text from an unknown number:
You forgot something.
Attached was a cropped version of the same delivery photo, except the figure was clearer now—long-limbed, humanoid, half-hidden behind the porch post. Watching.
I sat up, heart pounding. I typed back, Who is this? Wrong number.
No response.
I checked my locks. Windows. Everything sealed. But sleep didn’t come easily after that. Every creak in the old building made me flinch.
The next morning, I showed Tom the messages. He frowned, scratching his chin.
“Weird. No sender listed for that drop in the system. Maybe a glitch. Just block the number.”
I did. But that night, while out on my run, another text came—from a different number.
Same message. Same words.
This time, the photo showed my truck from behind, brake lights glowing red through the fog—taken from somewhere in the trees. The timestamp matched the exact moment I was leaving that farmhouse.
How did you get this? I typed, hands trembling.
No reply.
I finished early and went straight home, parking under the brightest light in the lot. I locked every door, every window, drew the blinds tight. For hours, I sat listening—heater humming, clock ticking.
Then, around 11 p.m., I heard it. Gravel shifting outside. Slow, deliberate.
I peeked through the blinds.
A tall silhouette stood near my truck, facing up toward my window. Motionless. Head tilted slightly, as if studying me.
I stepped back, heart hammering. Called Tom.
“Tom—it’s me. There’s someone outside my apartment.”
“Calm down,” he said. “If you’re sure, call the police. Maybe it’s a neighbor.”
But I knew it wasn’t.
The shape didn’t move. Then it did—drifting closer to the building, footsteps soft but distinct. The stairs groaned.
Three knocks at my door.
“Hello?” a voice said, low and even. “Delivery for you.”
My blood froze.
I didn’t answer.
The silence stretched, broken by the faint scrape of metal at my window latch. I ran to the bathroom, locked the door, and whispered to 911: “There’s someone trying to get into my apartment. Please—hurry.”
The operator kept me calm, told me to stay put. I sat in the dark, phone pressed to my ear, heart pounding in my throat. The scratching stopped. Then—footsteps retreating, down the stairs.
Sirens approached. When police arrived, I opened the door with shaking hands.
“Ma’am, we checked the area,” one officer said. “No one around. But there are footprints—bare feet—under your window.”
I showed them the texts and photos. They exchanged a look.
“We’ll file a report. You might want to stay somewhere else tonight.”
I did. I drove an hour to my brother’s house.
He opened the door, half-asleep. “Jesus, what happened?”
I told him everything. The delivery. The photos. The figure.
“Stay here,” he said. “You’re not going back there tonight.”
We sat up talking for hours. When I finally dozed off on the couch, it was close to three.
That’s when my phone lit up again.
A new photo.
Taken from outside the living room window.
I was in it—sleeping on the couch.
Timestamp: one minute ago.
I woke my brother. He rushed outside with a flashlight, shouting into the darkness. Nothing. Just the sound of the wind.
The next morning, I went back to the warehouse. Tom pulled me aside.
“Corporate looked into that address,” he said quietly. “There’s no record of any house near Hullbrook. That property doesn’t exist.”
He handed me an envelope. My name written on it in block letters.
Inside was a printed photo—me standing beside my truck on that gravel road. In the background, barely visible through the trees, was that same tall figure.
“Found this in your slot,” Tom said. “You okay?”
I quit that day.
I moved across town, changed my number, switched jobs—daytime only. But every so often, my phone buzzes with a text from an unlisted number.
Delivery incomplete.
I delete them. Always. But the dread lingers.
Because I still see that porch sometimes—flashes of it in my dreams, that red mailbox fading into fog. And when I wake up in the middle of the night, I can’t help but check the window.
Just to be sure no one’s there.
"Room 12":
I started working as a delivery driver a few nights a week to make some extra money after my day job. The app was simple—pick up food, drop it off, hope for a decent tip. Most nights were uneventful. The worst that usually happened was a customer not answering their door or an address that took forever to find. But one night in April changed the way I saw everything.
It was close to 10 p.m., my last delivery of the shift. The order was simple—a burger and fries from a small diner downtown. The address was a rundown roadside motel on the far edge of town, the kind of place with weekly rates and half-lit signs. The customer’s note said: Bring it to Room 12.
As I turned into the cracked asphalt lot, my headlights swept across faded parking lines and sagging curtains. A few cars sat scattered around, windows fogged, engines cold. One of the lights above the walkway flickered, buzzing like a dying fly. I parked near the office and grabbed the paper bag from the passenger seat. The smell of grease and onions filled the car. My phone buzzed—a reminder from the app: Confirm delivery upon arrival.
Room 12 was near the back, half-hidden from the street. I knocked once, lightly. No answer. I waited a moment, then knocked again, louder this time.
“Who is it?” a man’s voice called from inside—rough, hoarse, like he’d been drinking or sleeping too long.
“Delivery,” I said. “Your food’s here.”
The door opened a few inches. A man peered out—a tall figure with messy hair, dark circles under his eyes, and a T-shirt stained with something I didn’t want to guess. His eyes darted left and right before fixing on me.
“You’re late,” he muttered.
“Sorry about that. Traffic was bad.” I held up the bag.
He didn’t take it. Instead, he stepped back and swung the door open wider. “Come in. I need to check if it’s right.”
I hesitated. The app said to leave it at the door unless the customer asked otherwise, but sometimes people wanted to verify their order. He sounded impatient. I told myself it would be quick. “It’s all there—burger, no onions, fries, ketchup packets.”
“Just come in for a second.” His tone shifted—firmer now, insistent. He looked over my shoulder, scanning the parking lot.
My gut told me to walk away. But the night was quiet, and I didn’t want to deal with a bad review. So I stepped inside—just one step, enough to hand off the bag.
The smell hit me immediately—stale smoke, sweat, and something faintly metallic. The room was dim, lit by a single lamp beside an unmade bed. Clothes were scattered across the floor. He closed the door behind me. Not a slam—just a slow, final click that made my chest tighten.
“Let me see,” he said, taking the bag from my hands.
He opened it, looking inside longer than necessary. “Looks okay,” he said, setting it on the table. But he didn’t move. He just stood there, between me and the door.
“Is there anything else?” I asked, my voice unsteady. My phone buzzed in my pocket again.
He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You work alone at night? That’s brave. Lots of weird people out there.”
I forced a laugh. “Yeah, I’ve met a few. I should get going though—long shift.”
He took a small step closer. “Sit down for a second. You look tired.”
“No, really, I can’t.” I reached for the doorknob.
His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. Not painfully—at first. But firm. Possessive. “Don’t rush off,” he said quietly. “We’re just talking.”
My heart kicked into overdrive. “Let go.”
His expression shifted—his smile gone, replaced by something darker. “You deliver to places like this all the time? Alone?”
I yanked free and backed up. “I need to leave. Now.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out something small and metallic. Under the yellow light, it gleamed. My stomach dropped.
“Don’t make this hard,” he said softly, almost whispering. “Get in the car outside. We’re going for a drive.”
It was a knife. Not big, but sharp. He held it low, steady.
My throat tightened. I wanted to scream, but the sound wouldn’t come out.
He grabbed my arm again, guiding me toward the door. “Move,” he hissed. “You do what I say, and you’ll be fine.”
Outside, the lot was dead silent. My shoes scraped the concrete as he pushed me toward a rusted sedan parked a few feet away.
“Get in the passenger side,” he said.
“Please,” I whispered. “I have family waiting for me.”
“Then do as I say.”
He slid into the driver’s seat, the knife resting in his lap. He held out his hand. “Phone.”
I gave it to him, shaking. “Unlock it.”
I did. He scrolled for a moment, then tossed it into the backseat. “No calls.”
He started the car, pulling out of the lot. My mind spun, searching for a way out. We passed empty gas stations and shuttered stores, each street darker than the last.
After a few turns, he pointed ahead. “Stop at that ATM.”
It was in an empty strip mall, the lights buzzing faintly overhead.
“Get out and withdraw everything,” he said.
“I don’t have much,” I said weakly.
“Do it.”
He followed close behind, the knife hidden in his sleeve. My hands shook as I slid my card in. The machine spit out the last $200 in my account. I handed it to him, and we got back in the car.
He smiled faintly. “Good. See? We’re getting along.”
We drove for several minutes, turning into a quiet apartment complex where most of the windows were dark. He parked in the shadows.
“Out,” he said.
He led me up a narrow stairway, unlocking a door with his own key. The apartment was bare—peeling walls, beer cans, and the faint smell of mold.
“Sit.”
I sat on the couch, muscles coiled tight. He stood over me, pacing slowly, the knife glinting in his hand.
“You ever think about how dangerous this job is?” he asked. “A girl like you, walking up to strangers’ doors in the dark…”
I didn’t answer. My eyes scanned the room—windows, a lamp, the door still slightly ajar.
He sat down beside me, too close. “Relax. We’re just talking.”
His hand brushed my shoulder. That was it. I pushed him away.
He grabbed me, hard this time. I screamed. He tried to cover my mouth, but I bit his hand and kicked, connecting with his knee. He grunted and swung the knife wildly—catching my arm, shallow but enough to sting.
I shoved him back with everything I had and bolted for the door. He grabbed at my shirt, ripping the fabric, but I slipped free and ran down the stairs, barefoot, screaming for help.
A light flicked on in one of the units. A man stepped out, confused.
“Please!” I shouted. “He’s got a knife!”
The man in the doorway froze, then darted back inside.
I ran to the street, waving frantically at a passing car. It stopped—a silver sedan driven by an older woman.
“Call the police!” I gasped. “He kidnapped me!”
She unlocked the door and pulled me in. “It’s okay, honey. You’re safe now.” She dialed 911.
The police came within minutes. I told them everything—every turn, every stop, the ATM, the apartment. My arm was bleeding, but not badly. They took me to the hospital for treatment and statements.
They caught him a few days later—Joseph Miller. He’d been wanted for another violent incident, caught after firing a gun at a passing car. DNA under his nails matched the skin I’d scratched from his face. He was charged with kidnapping, robbery, and assault.
I quit delivery work for good. I can’t drive past that motel anymore without feeling my chest tighten. Sometimes, I still hear his voice—calm, casual, just before everything went wrong.
Now I keep my doors locked, every night, even when I’m home. Because the truth is, it’s not the dark alleys or strangers that scare me most. It’s the quiet moments—the knock on the door, the simple order, the way something normal can turn into a nightmare in seconds.
"The Hug":
I’d been doing grocery deliveries for about a year—just enough to help cover bills and fit around my kids’ schedules. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was steady. Most people were polite enough: leave the bags, snap a photo, done. Easy money.
That Sunday morning felt no different from a hundred others. The air was cool, sun climbing slow through a hazy sky. I loaded my car with the usual mix of produce and paper towels, coffee and cereal. The app pinged with a new order—snacks, beer, cleaning supplies. Just another delivery to just another quiet neighborhood.
When I pulled up around eleven, the street looked ordinary—tidy lawns, wind chimes, a sprinkler hissing in the distance. The house itself was unremarkable: white siding, a few wilted petunias by the steps. I grabbed the bags, including the alcohol, which meant I’d need to check an ID in person.
I set the bags down by the door and knocked lightly. Footsteps came from inside—quick, uneven, urgent. Then the door opened, and a woman stood there wrapped in a large towel, damp hair clinging to her neck. She looked mid-forties, maybe, her face puffy, eyes red from crying.
“Oh, thank God you’re here,” she said, voice trembling. “You have no idea what kind of morning I’ve had.”
I hesitated, awkward, holding up my phone. “No problem. Just need to scan your ID for the beer.”
She blinked, eyes darting to the bags and back to me. “Wait—can I… could I have a hug? Please? You just—you showed up right when I needed someone.”
I froze. That wasn’t part of the job, but something in her voice—raw, pleading—made me pause. Maybe she’d lost someone, or just needed a human moment. Against my better judgment, I gave a small nod.
“Um… sure. Just for a second.”
I stepped forward. The towel smelled faintly of soap and something sour. Her arms came around me—and then tightened.
Too tight.
Before I could react, she yanked my wrists, dragging me forward. My foot caught on the threshold, and suddenly I was inside.
“Hey—what are you—?” I stammered, but she kicked the door shut, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet house.
The curtains were half drawn, the living room dim. Her grip on me didn’t loosen. Panic surged in my chest.
“Let go! What’s going on?”
Her expression changed—grief melting into something colder, sharper. “You’re not leaving,” she whispered. “You think you can just drop things and go? I need company.”
I tried to twist away, but her strength was shocking. She hauled me down a narrow hallway, into a room that smelled of damp towels and old perfume. My pulse thundered in my ears.
“Stop! I have other deliveries—”
She shoved me hard, and I stumbled backward onto an unmade bed. Before I could stand, pain exploded behind my eyes—a fist slamming into the back of my head. The world tilted, sound warping.
“Why are you doing this?” I gasped, clutching my head.
“Because I can.” Her voice was low, almost gleeful. Then her hands were around my throat, fingers digging in. Her towel slipped to the floor, but she didn’t even seem to notice.
I clawed at her wrists, choking, vision tunneling. My lungs screamed for air. My hand fumbled at my pocket, found my phone. I managed to press the emergency button.
“911, what’s your emergency?” came a faint voice.
“Help! I’m—”
She saw the phone and ripped it from my hand, throwing it across the room. The screen cracked against the wall.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she hissed. Her thumbs pressed harder on my windpipe.
Black spots bloomed. I kicked wildly, my knee connecting with her ribs. She grunted, loosening her hold just enough for me to shove her off. I staggered to my feet, dizzy, gasping.
I bolted for the hallway. She lunged, catching the back of my shirt, nails scraping my skin. “Come back here!”
I tore free, reaching the front door. The locks—there were so many. Deadbolt. Chain. Slide. My fingers fumbled, trembling. One open. Two.
Then she was on me again, clawing, screaming, her weight dragging me down.
“No!” I shouted, slamming an elbow into her side. She yelped, slipping. I wrenched the final lock loose and burst through the door, tumbling onto the porch.
The cold air hit my face like salvation.
“Help! Somebody call the police!” I screamed, voice cracking.
Somewhere, a curtain moved. A door opened. Maybe someone had already heard the 911 call. Because within minutes, sirens echoed down the street.
I collapsed onto the grass, gasping, neck throbbing, vision swimming. The woman stood in the doorway, glaring, towel half undone, eyes wild but distant—like she’d drifted somewhere else entirely.
Two squad cars skidded to a stop. Officers rushed in. One helped me up while another sprinted inside. Shouts, a crash, then the click of handcuffs.
“She dragged me in,” I said hoarsely. “She—she hit me, choked me. I thought she was going to kill me.”
They found my cracked phone on the bedroom floor, 911 still faintly connected. They took photos of the bruises on my neck, the scratches on my face. The officer’s light felt blinding against my swollen eyes.
An ambulance came, but I refused the hospital. I just wanted to go home.
They told me later she had a record—mental health episodes, restraining orders. Nothing about that mattered in the moment, though. She could have killed me.
That night, when I finally got back to my apartment, the silence was unbearable. The kids were at their dad’s, thank God, but every sound—a creak, a car door—sent my heart racing. I locked every window, wedged a chair under the doorknob, sat awake until dawn.
I quit deliveries the next day.
Now, when I order groceries, I always choose no-contact. I leave a note that says, “Just drop it at the door.” Because after that day, I learned something I’ll never forget:
you never really know what’s waiting behind a normal-looking door.