4 Disturbing Night Shift Horror Stories

Late night bites with friends? Already hard to beat. That first too hot bite of fries you couldn't wait for, followed by ice cold Pepsi. Now that hits different. Suddenly, the energy kicks back in. The night goes longer and the laughs don't stop because Pepsi brings out more flavor, more fun, and more of the moment. Food deserves Pepsi. Grab a Pepsi Zero Sugar today. Hey, you get on that download, buddy. I will. Loading. Download the Exxon Mobile Rewards Plus app and join today. Exxon. Trust the Tiger. For details, visit ExxonOffer.com. Tonight, I have some disturbing stories from people working the night shift. When most of the world is asleep, the buildings are empty, and help may be farther away than you think. Working alone after dark can make even an ordinary job feel unsettling. But sometimes, the things that happen during those quiet early morning hours are more than just an overactive imagination. If you enjoy scary stories, subscribe and turn on notifications so you don't miss our next episode. You can also listen on Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts. Leaving a rating or review helps us grow the show. So turn off the lights and get comfortable. Now, on to the stories. I've driven a tow truck for close to 19 years. Most of that time has been around Bakersfield, California. I've handled wrecks, repossessions, dead batteries, overheated cars, and people who locked their keys inside with the engine running. I've been cursed at and had a bottle thrown at me. Until this job came through, nobody had ever ordered a truck because they wanted the driver. This was in late August, when it was still hot, and I was in a hurry. It was hot after midnight. I was working for a company I'll call South Valley Towing. We ran two trucks overnight. The other driver covered the highway north of town, and I stayed near the industrial area on the east side. Our dispatcher, Raina, worked from home. At 3.17 in the morning, a roadside assistance request appeared on my tablet. The customer was listed as Natalie Brooks. It was on a service road off Edison Highway, behind a row of closed warehouses. There was nothing odd about the request on the screen. It had a membership number, a callback number, the car's year, and a note saying the customer was a woman by herself. The location had been submitted through the Motor Club's app, so I had a PIN instead of a normal street address. Our company had added cameras to the trucks, after one of the repo drivers was accused of damaging a car. There was one facing forward, one looking back over the wheel lift, and a smaller camera. There was another camera mounted beneath each mirror. I didn't think of them as safety equipment. They were there to settle insurance disputes and prove whether a customer had threatened us. I checked the indicator lights at the beginning of every shift, because the owner would write us up if a camera wasn't recording. We also had a procedure for isolated calls. Dispatch knew when I arrived, and I was supposed to mark the job complete before leaving. It wasn't a system designed for an ambush. If I stopped responding, Raina could call the police. But nobody would know I needed help until I had already missed a check-in. I accepted it, and told Raina I was headed over. For people who haven't driven a wrecker, a lot of overnight calls end up in places that look suspicious. Cars break down wherever they break down. I've changed tires under bridges and pulled vehicles out of empty fields. If I rejected every job because the area was dark, I wouldn't have lasted a week. The pin led me past a recycling business and a pallet yard. At the end of the pavement, the road widened into a turnaround beside a drainage channel. A woman stood next to the rear door. She wore jeans and a light-colored sweatshirt even though it was warm. I put her somewhere in her late 20s. She lifted one arm when she saw my amber lights. I stopped about 30 feet short of her car and left the truck pointed toward the way I had come in. That was habit. You don't nose into a dead end. Unless you have to. The woman didn't walk over. She pointed at the Nissan's rear tire and made a spinning motion with her finger. From where I sat, none of the tires looked flat. I rolled my window down two inches and asked her to come to the driver's side with her membership card and license. She said she had left her purse in the car. I told her to get it. She opened the rear door and leaned inside. She stayed that way longer than it should take to grab a bag. I used the time to look over the area. The Altima didn't have a rear plate. There was no temporary paper tag in the window, either. Its hood was cold enough that I couldn't see any heat moving above it. Though that didn't mean much at that distance. What mattered was the tire. It wasn't low. It had plenty of air. I called Raina on the truck radio and asked her to verify the service type. She read back that it was a flat tire change on a white Nissan. Then she asked why. I said the tire wasn't flat and the customer wouldn't approach the truck. Raina told me to stay put while she contacted the motor club. I locked the doors, though they were already supposed to lock automatically once I moved. The woman straightened up without a purse. She walked several steps in my direction and stopped beyond the reach of my headlights. She asked if I could come look because the lug nuts had been stripped. That gave me another reason not to get out. If the lug nuts were stripped…. There was nothing I could fix on the roadside. The car would need to be loaded. I told her to bring me her identification first. She folded her arms and looked back toward the drainage channel. It was a quick glance. If I hadn't already been watching her closely, I might have missed it. Raina returned on the radio. Her voice sounded different. "Grant, do not leave the cab," she said. The real Natalie Brooks had called the motor club after receiving a notification. Her phone had been taken from a restaurant earlier that night, and her actual vehicle was a blue Honda Pilot. I put the transmission in drive. Right then, headlights came on behind me. A dark pickup had been parked with its lights off along the side of the pallet yard. It was positioned across most of the road I needed to use. At the same time, a man stood up from the concrete drainage channel on my passenger side. He had been close enough to throw something at the truck. The woman quit pretending. She ran to my driver's door and pulled the handle. When it didn't open, she slapped the window and yelled that I needed to help her. The man from the channel went to the other side and tried that door. I had three options. I could back farther into the turnaround, I could ram the pickup, or I could try the dirt shoulder between the truck and the fence. The shoulder had a drainage dip, but it was wide enough to hold the truck. It was wide enough for my passenger tires. I chose the shoulder. The front of a tow truck isn't especially fast, but it is heavy. I steered around the pickup with the right side of my truck off the pavement. Branches scraped the mirror. The man at my passenger door jumped away, then struck the glass with a metal object. It left a white chip near the bottom corner without breaking through. The pickup moved forward to close the gap. Its driver misjudged the length of my wheel lift. The lift caught the edge of the truck. He pulled over on the edge of his front bumper and tore part of the plastic loose as I went past. I got all four tires back onto the road and accelerated. Raina was already calling law enforcement. I gave her my direction and told her the pickup was coming after me. It followed for about four miles. I couldn't make out the whole plate because its high beams filled my mirrors. I could see that the passenger was leaning out the window with a phone. They weren't just following. They were filming me. They were trying to read the company information printed on the back of the truck. The pickup moved into the opposing lane twice as though it meant to come alongside me. Each time another vehicle appeared in the distance and forced it back. I kept the tow truck near the center line so they couldn't get even with my cab. I wasn't trying to outrun them. A loaded diesel wrecker wasn't going to win that contest. I only needed to reach a place where stopping wouldn't leave me alone with them. Raina stayed on the radio. She made me answer every few seconds. She told me deputies were coming from the south and asked whether I could see a unit. I couldn't. All I saw were the pickup's lights and my own amber bar flashing against the roadside businesses. I headed toward an all-night truck stop near the highway. I knew it would have cameras, drivers, and enough open space that the pickup couldn't block me in. When I turned onto the access road, the pickup slowed. It made a U-turn. and went back the other way. parked directly in front of the fuel desk and stayed inside until a sheriff's deputy arrived. My hands worked normally while I explained everything, but the muscles in my legs kept jumping. I had pressed the brake so hard during the drive that my right knee hurt for the rest of the week. Two long-haul drivers saw the condition I was in and stood beside the truck until law enforcement arrived. One of them brought me a bottle of water through the window. I couldn't make myself open the door for him. He seemed to understand and set it on the step instead. The deputy inspected the mark on the passenger window. He said the man may have used a spring-loaded glass breaker. They're small enough to hold in one hand and can shatter a side window almost instantly if they hit the right spot. The glass probably survived because he struck too low and the truck was moving. My cameras had recorded most of the encounter. The forward camera caught me and I was able to see what was going on. I was able to see what was going on. clearly when she walked into the headlights. A side camera showed the man climbing out of the channel. He wore gloves and there was a fabric mask pulled below his chin. He raised it just before he hit my window. The Nissan was gone when deputies reached the service road. They found pieces from the pickup's bumper and a cheap phone in the dirt. The phone belonged to the real roadside assistance customer. Whoever created the request had kept it long enough to watch my progress on the app. Then tossed it when they left. I heard nothing for six days. Then a detective called me and asked if I would look at photographs. Officers in another county had arrested a woman and two men after a mobile mechanic reported a similar call. They had used a stolen insurance account to send him to an orchard road. He realized there was no disabled vehicle and left before they could surround his van. A patrol unit stopped their pickup later that morning. The woman in the photo was wearing a photograph was the person beside the white Nissan. One of the men had the same tattoo visible on the arm that reached for my passenger door. The pickup's damaged front bumper matched the pieces recovered near the pallet yard. Police believed the group had been doing it for at least two months. They targeted tow operators, locksmiths, and roadside mechanics because those workers often arrived alone, carried cash, and brought expensive vehicles full of tools. A wrecker was a special useful. It could be used to move stolen cars without attracting the same attention as somebody breaking into them on the street. The roadside accounts were taken from stolen phones rather than hacked remotely. With the owner's phone unlocked, the group could open the assistance app, choose a location, and watch the assigned provider approach in real time. They selected vehicles that were common enough not to stand out and stole a different car for each setup. By the time anybody traced the account, the phone and the decoy vehicle had been abandoned. My request had originally gone to another towing company. That driver declined it because he was already transporting a vehicle. The system reassigned it to South Valley. The people waiting on Edison Highway did not know who I was until my name and truck information appeared in the app. They weren't hunting me personally. I had simply been the next available driver. The detective told me about another driver who had responded to a fake jumpstart request west of Fresno. He got out of his cab before he realized anything was wrong. They hit him from behind, took his wallet and truck, and left him with a fractured skull. His truck was found stripped several days later. That information made the setup on my call clearer. The woman wasn't supposed to convince me the tire was flat. She only had to get me onto the ground and keep my attention on her side of the vehicle. The man in the drainage channel would come up behind me. The pickup would prevent the tow truck from leaving. They had a stolen car ready for me to load, too. If someone passed the entrance, it would look like a normal roadside job. I testified the following year. Two of them took plea agreements, and I don't know what happened with the third. I didn't attend every hearing. Once the court stopped requiring me to show up, I was finished giving them my time. I still drive nights. It pays better. Traffic is lighter. And I've been doing it too long to switch careers. My habits have changed, though. I stop with room to leave. I confirm the plate before stepping down. If the customer refuses to come into the light, I cancel the job. Some people get angry when I make them wait while dispatch verifies their information. I can live with that. On the service road, I was maybe ten seconds from opening my door. Ten seconds was the entire difference between being an annoyed tow operator and being the man deputies found beside an empty drainage channel. The perfect lunch combo. That first bite of your favorite sub, followed by ice-cold Pepsi. Add a couple of friends, and now that's next level. Suddenly, the laughs get louder, the stories keep flowing, and the food tastes better. Because Pepsi brings out more flavor, more fun, and more of the moment. Food deserves Pepsi. Yeah, you might want to download that Exxon Mobile Rewards Plus app. Yeah. Are you the Exxon Tiger? I am. Yeah, you know, new users can earn $10 in points, five bucks after your first purchase, and five after your second. That's a lot. That's a whole lot. It is. Well, hey, you get on that download, buddy. I will. Loading. Exxon. Trust the Tiger. I was 21 when this took place, and had only been working for the cleaning contractor for about four months. The job was with a light rail system in the Denver area. I didn't work for the transit agency itself. My company cleaned the trains, emptied the station trash, and dealt with whatever people left behind. The shift went from nine at night to five at night. I was taking community college classes during the day, and overnight work was the only schedule I could make fit. The pay wasn't great, but most of the job was easy. You wore gloves, kept your head down, and tried not to touch anything until you knew what it was. I usually worked with another cleaner. On the night this happened, my partner called out with the flu. Our supervisor, Desmond, told me I could handle the terminal by myself because only three trains needed attention. I wanted the extra hours, so I didn't complain. The station was at the end of the line. It had two open-air platforms, a small employee room, public stairs leading down to the street, and several cameras. Trains came in, passengers got off, and the operator changed ends for the return trip. After the final public run, the last train stayed at the platform while we did a basic sweep. Then the operator moved it empty to the maintenance yard. The last train arrived at 1.14. The operator that night was a woman named Sabrina Wells. I had cleaned her trains plenty of times. She was probably in her mid-thirties, and was one of the few operators who didn't treat contract cleaners like furniture. She would point out spills before leaving the cab, and sometimes bring us coffee if the weather was bad. She stepped onto the platform and told me there was a crushed soda can near the middle set of doors. Then she said, to use the restroom and complete some paperwork. I waited for the last passengers to come down the stairs. There were maybe eight of them. When the platform looked empty, I grabbed my trash bag and entered the front car. Cleaning a train at the end of the night wasn't a deep clean. I picked up bottles, newspapers, food containers, and anything large enough to be seen. A separate crew handled the floors and seats at the yard. I walked through each container, and I saw that there was a car. I checked under the benches, and made sure nobody remained on board. In the final car, I found a man sitting alone. He was in the corner seat near the rear operator's cab. His chin rested against his chest, and his arms were folded. I almost passed him because I thought he was a coat somebody had left on the seat. I told him the train was out of service. He lifted his head right away. He wasn't waking up. His eyes were already open. The guy looked somewhere between thirty and forty. He had a narrow beard and wore a black rain jacket. I remember the jacket because it hadn't rained that day, but the shoulders and sleeves were wet. He apologized and said he'd fallen asleep. I told him he had to exit at the front doors. He stood without arguing. When he passed me, I noticed a dark canvas pouch clipped to his belt. It looked like the kind of tool holder electricians use. At the doorway, he paused and asked, Is Sabrina taking this one into the yard? I said I didn't know. He smiled like I had made a joke. Then he stepped onto the platform and walked toward the stairs. At that time, I didn't understand why the question was a problem. Operators sometimes spoke over the intercom, and regular passengers recognized them. I figured Sabrina had dealt with him before. I watched until his head disappeared below street level. Then I finished the final car. The rear operator's cab was behind a metal door with a rectangular window. The public couldn't enter it. Both ends of every train had a cab, so the operator could drive in either direction without turning the entire train around. As I picked up a bottle beside the door, I saw that it wasn't fully closed. The latch rested against the frame with a gap about the width of my finger. I wasn't supposed to enter a cab. I pulled the handle just enough to check whether it would catch. The door opened. The little space inside had a driver's seat, a control console, a radio, and an emergency cabinet. The cabinet door was hanging open. Nothing obvious appeared missing, although I had no idea what was normally stored there. There were wet shoe prints on the floor. I went to find Sabrina. She came back with me and inspected the cab. The wet marks matched the direction the passenger had walked from, but there was no way to prove they belonged to him. Hundreds of employees used those cabs every month. I described the man and repeated his question. Sabrina stopped checking the cabinet. She asked if he had a short beard with a bare patch near the right side of his mouth. I said yes. Then she asked about a rain jacket and a silver watch. I hadn't noticed the watch, but everything else fit. She knew him as a passenger who rode late nights a week. He usually sat in the first car behind her operating cab. He never caused enough trouble to remove. He asked questions about the trains and once tried to give her a bag of candy. When she refused it, he seemed embarrassed and got off at the next station. Two weeks before, she found a note tucked beneath the windshield wiper of her car in the employee lot. It said she looked lonely when she drove. There was no signature. She reported it, but the lot camera didn't work. She didn't know what to do. She didn't know who left it. I asked whether we should call the transit police. Sabrina said we should at least notify control. She used the cab radio and explained that a familiar passenger had been found on board after the final stop. She also reported the unlocked rear cab. Control contacted station security. The overnight security employee reviewed the platform cameras from a different location. He said the passenger walked down the public stairs and did not return. Desmond called me a few minutes later. He had heard about the delay and wasn't happy. The train had a scheduled arrival time at the yard and holding it at the station affected the maintenance crew. He told me to perform one more sweep while Sabrina checked both cabs. We searched together. There weren't many places for an adult to hide. We looked under the seats and between the seat backs. We opened the small restroom-sized equipment area that held cleaning supplies. Sabrina checked both operator compartments. The train was empty. I asked if she wanted me to ride to the yard with her. Contract cleaners weren't allowed to ride non-revenue equipment moves without approval, but I offered anyway. She said it wasn't necessary. The passenger had left the station and control knew about him. The yard trip took less than 15 minutes. At 1.52, I removed my cart and gave Sabrina a thumbs up from the platform. She entered the forward cab and closed the door. The train pulled away. I started tying off trash bags. I felt uneasy, but I also felt stupid for it. We had searched every car. Security had watched the man leave. There was no reasonable place for him to be. The tracks curved beyond the end of the platform before running beside the employee parking lot. When a train left, I could see the traffic. I happened to look up while carrying a bag toward the dumpster. The interior lights were still on. Through the rear window, I saw somebody standing inside the unlocked operator's cab. He wasn't sitting in the driver's seat. He was pressed against the side wall, partly hidden behind the control console. The black jacket made him blend into the dark equipment around him. I dropped the bag and ran into the employee room. There was a desk telephone with direct numbers posted on the wall. I called the driver's seat. I called the driver's wall. I called rail control and said the passenger was still on the train. The controller asked how I could be certain. I told him I saw the man's face through the rear window. He contacted Sabrina over the radio without announcing the reason. He asked whether all cab doors showed secure. She checked her panel and said the rear cab indicated open. The train was already several miles from the terminal. Control instructed her to stop at a maintenance access point before the next junction. She was told to lock her cab and remain inside. Police were sent to meet the train. For the next few minutes, I had no information. Desmond called and demanded to know what I had seen. I explained it twice. He kept asking how the man could have been in the rear cab when Sabrina and I both searched it. I had no answer. Later, Sabrina told me what happened from her side. Shortly after she stopped the train, the door connecting her cab to the passenger area moved. Somebody pulled the handle once, waited, and tried again. She could see the man through the window. He stood on the other side with his face close to the glass. She asked him to step away from the cab. He told her he only wanted to talk where nobody would interrupt them. She did not respond. She held the emergency radio button and gave control her exact location. The man took a ring of keys from his pouch, and began testing them in her door. The first keys didn't fit. One entered far enough to make the lock move, but it did not open. Sabrina braced both feet against the door and kept her hands on the radio. He became angry. He said she had led him on by smiling at him and announcing his stop. Operators announce every stop. She had smiled because he was a passenger speaking to her. When the keys failed, he hit the glass with the side of his fist. He paced through the front car, returned, and tried again. Then he walked out of Sabrina's view. Police reached the access point in roughly nine minutes. Officers boarded through the rear of the train and searched each car. The passenger had locked himself inside the rear cab. They ordered him out, and when he refused, a transit supervisor used an emergency override to open it. He was lying beneath the control console. The passenger was lying beneath the control console. He was on his belt contained copied transit keys, a small knife, zip ties, and a folded employee timetable. Sabrina's name had been written beside every one of her late shifts for the coming month. Her vehicle description and license plate were written on the back. His name was Aaron Vail. He had never worked for the transit system. One of the keys belonged to a retired model of train and could open certain interior equipment panels. It could also release the rear cab door. The passenger had locked himself inside the rear cab door if the latch had not fully engaged. That was how he entered while I was farther up the train. When I found him in the passenger seat, he had already been inside the cab once. He left it, allowed me to escort him onto the platform, and waited below the stairs until I turned away. The security footage did show him going down to the street. A second camera showed what happened next. He crossed beneath the tracks and used a platform level. That staircase ended behind a wall, from the main camera's view. He waited there until I left the train to find Sabrina. Then he came around the wall, opened the exterior cab door with his key, and pulled it closed behind him. Sabrina and I searched the cab afterward, but we only looked from the doorway. He had opened an access panel beneath the console and folded himself into the space where electrical components had once been installed. The newer train equipment left part of the compartment empty. Unless someone got on the floor and shined a light inside, he couldn't be seen. Investigators reviewed older station video and identified Aaron on nine of Sabrina's previous late runs. He always boarded near the beginning of her route and stayed in the first car. On two occasions, he missed her train, waited at the station, and left after another operator arrived. He told police that he was a and only wanted to see the maintenance yard. That did not explain the timetable, her license plate, the restraints, or why he tried to enter the occupied cab after being told to leave her alone. Sabrina stopped driving nights. The agency moved her to an earlier route while the case went through court. I saw her a few times afterward, but we didn't discuss it much. She thanked me for looking back at the train. I never felt like I deserved thanks, because I was also the person who let him walk past me twice. I quit the cleaning company at the end of the semester. Nothing else happened to me, and I don't have some dramatic reason for leaving. I simply hated doing final sweeps after that. An empty train no longer looked empty, just because every seat was visible. The part I replay is the moment I first woke Aaron. He opened his eyes immediately because he had never been asleep. He had already unlocked the rear car, and I was able to see him. I was able to see him. I was able to checked the compartment where he planned to hide, and returned to the seat before I reached him. Then he asked whether Sabrina was taking the train to the university. yard. It wasn't a casual question. He was confirming that the plan he had made for her was still on schedule. Grocery stores are not creepy. I stocked freight overnight for three years, and the job is boxes, box cutters, and the same 40 songs over the ceiling speakers. Nothing about it is scary. Except for 19 nights in October at one store, which is why I am typing this instead of sleeping. Our store closed at 11 and opened at 6. Overnight crew was three people. Me and a guy I'll call Ray throwing freight on the floor, and Teresa, who came in at 4 to start the bakery. The sales floor has a wide open ceiling, girders and vents way up high. But the back of the store, the stockroom and the break room, all of that sits under a regular drop ceiling. Tiles you could push up with one hand, and above the office block there is a plywood deck and about three feet of crawl space where the mechanical stuff runs. It started with the chickens. The deli does a nightly count of rotisserie birds, and the count started coming up short. One, then none for a few days, then two. The deli manager decided the overnight crew was eating them, and we got a laminated memo about integrity taped to the time clock, which was hilarious to us right up until it stopped being hilarious. Then it was a smell in the back hallway that came and went, sour and warm. Ray said sewer gas. Then it was Teresa's half sandwich disappearing out of the break room fridge, and we accused each other for a week, and honestly we had fun with it, which is the part that gets to me now. Then it was the sounds. Thumps above the drop ceiling, always somewhere between 2 and 3 in the morning. We blamed rats. Rats got blamed for everything in that store, but rats are quick and light. What we kept hearing was slow and heavy, and it stopped whenever we stopped talking. I never put any of it together. Nobody puts that together, because the true answer is not on the list of answers a normal person keeps in their head. On the Wednesday of the third week, Ray called out with the flu, and Teresa did not start until 4, and that was the last thing I could do. Then a second one, insulation dust. I looked up, and the tile over the office door was sitting crooked in its frame, maybe half an inch off. I got the rolling ladder. I am going to be honest about why. I was 26, alone in a big bright building, and I flat out did not believe anything was up there. You do not go and check a thing you believe in. Checking was how I planned to prove it was rats, and text Ray about it. I pushed the tile up and slid it aside and put my phone light through the gap, and then my head. The smell hit before my eyes adjusted. Body odor and old food, thick and close. The light found the plywood deck over the office block, and on the deck, laid out neatly, was a dark green sleeping bag, unzipped. Two plastic jugs of water. A grocery bag from our own store with the top rolled down. A phone charger, plugged into the utility box. A utility outlet up there. And past all of it, at the edge of where my light reached, a man was lying flat on his stomach with his chin resting on his hands, looking at me. Not scrambling, not surprised. Already looking, already facing the hole, because he had listened to me roll the ladder over, and he had turned himself toward the sound, and waited for my head to come through. We looked at each other for a second that I cannot put a length on. Then he raised one finger off the back of his hand. And pressed it to his lips. I do not remember getting down the ladder. I remember being at the bottom of it with my legs doing the work by themselves. And I remember one clear thought. Which was that the only door in that building with an inside lock is the cash office. So that is where I went. And I turned the deadbolt. And I called 911. And while I was reading the address off the paperwork taped to the wall, I heard the plywood shift directly over my head. And understood what happened. And understood what I had done. The crawlspace runs over the office block. I had locked myself underneath him. The dispatcher kept me talking. Above me the weight moved from one side of the office to the other, slow, in no hurry at all. Then it traveled away toward the hallway. And I heard a tile lift somewhere down by receiving. And then the sound of two feet landing on hard floor. Footsteps passed the office door without pausing. The push bar on the receiving door closed. And the door clunked. And the door closed behind him. He did not slam it. He eased it shut so it barely clicked. And out of that whole night, the quiet click of that door is the thing my brain decided to keep. Two officers cleared the building. And a while later a dog went through the crawlspace. The sleeping bag left with him. But everything else stayed. The jugs. Wrappers going back weeks. A bucket I am not going to describe. And two more things. Directly over the breakroom table, one tile had a hole pushed through it from above, about the width of a pencil. And lying by the sleeping bag's outline in the dust, was a page torn out of the schedule binder from the office. Our names and our shifts, with a small pencil line under some of the names. Mine had a line under it. The deli's own count logs put the start of the missing chickens at 23 days earlier, and the dated receipts in the trash up there matched. 23 days. 19 of those nights I was in that building. And for some part of every one of them, a man was on his stomach above the breakroom, one pencil width of ceiling tile away, watching us eat and listening to us blame the rats. They caught him 12 days later above a nail salon in a shopping plaza two towns over. Same arrangement, same brand of water jugs, and his prints matched the ones from our crawlspace. It came out that he had walked in through our open receiving dock, behind a vendor delivery one morning, and simply never left. He pleaded guilty in January, burglary and stalking and a stack of lesser charges, and the judge gave him four years. The company sent a crew to screw down every tile over the office block. The breakroom tile with the hole in it just got flipped over and put back, which tells you everything about the company, and no, I did not eat lunch under it again. I transferred to days in November and to a different store in the spring. I still throw freight. I still love the quiet of a store at night. But I count crooked ceiling tiles in every building I walk into now, and when people ask why I look up so much, I tell them the short version, and then I tell them the number that matters. 19 nights. He watched me for 19 nights before I ever saw him, and the only reason I ever saw him at all is a half inch of crooked tile and a flake of dust the same day. And the only reason I ever saw him at all is a half inch of crooked tile and a flake of dust the same day. He served his four years, and got released to a supervision program three states away, with a condition in his file that he cannot hold overnight or maintenance work in any commercial building. And the officer who called to tell me that, also told me the man admitted to every night of it, all twenty-three, in a flat voice, and could not give one reason. The ceiling in my house is drywall. Solid. Nailed. Painted. I checked anyway, once, on a ladder, feeling ridiculous. And then I got down and put the ladder away and slept fine. And I have slept fine since. Food deserves Pepsi. Grab a Pepsi zero-sugar today. Yeah, yeah, you might want to download that Exxon Mobile Rewards Plus app. Yeah. I am. Yeah, you know, new users can earn ten dollars in points, five bucks after your first purchase, and five after your second. That's a lot. That's a whole lot. It is. I will. Loading. Exxon. Trust the Tiger. This happened a few years ago when I was 21 and working the night shift at a gas station out in the country. I have told the whole thing out loud exactly twice, once to a deputy and once to a judge, and both times I had to stop in the same spot. I am hoping that writing it down goes better. People hear the word "stalker" and they picture something from a movie, somebody in the bushes with binoculars, and the truth is, I would have preferred that. What I got instead was a polite man in a canvas coat who paid an exact change and thought he was doing me a favor. The station was called Hartley's, and it sat on a two-lane state route between two farm towns, about 11 miles from anything you could call a neighborhood. Two pumps out front, four short aisles inside, a coffee counter, a cooler wall, and a little hallway in the back that led to the stockroom and the restroom. Dale Hartley owned it, and his father had owned it before him, and Dale kept it open all night, mostly because the milk haulers and the long haul guys had been stopping there at three in the morning since before I was born. At night, it was the only lit building for miles in either direction. From behind the register, looking out the front glass, you could see the pumps, the edge of the lot, one dusk-to-dawn light on a wooden pole, and then the tree line across the road, which at night was just a long black shape against a slightly less black sky. I took the job the summer after I turned 21. I was doing classes at the community college two mornings a week and saving up to transfer, and the overnight paid $1.50 more an hour than days did. I worked 10 at night to 6 in the morning, four or five nights a week. I rented a little two-bedroom house at the edge of town with a beagle mix named Biscuit and a porch that leaned. And my sister Anna lived 15 minutes from me, and my mom was two towns over, and honestly, my life was small and quiet, and I liked it that way. The shift had a shape to it, and I should lay that shape out, because the shape is what this whole story is actually about. At 10.15, I started a fresh pot of coffee, because the haulers could tell the difference, and they would say so. Between 11 and midnight, I walked the aisles and faced the shelves. Around 2, I went into the back hallway to count cigarette cartons in the stockroom, and when I came out, I locked the stockroom door behind me. That door had a bad latch and a habit of drifting open on its own, and Dale had asked me to keep it locked overnight, and somewhere along the way, I had picked up a little tick about it. I would lock it, and then I would put my hand on the knob and check it, and then I would check it again. Twice, every night the same way. I knew I did it. It was just one of those things a person does alone at 2 in the morning without ever thinking a single soul on earth is keeping track. Around 3, I took my break, and I took it in my car. The break room at Hartley's was a folding chair next to the mop sink, and it smelled of mop water, so from my first week, I just went out to my car instead. A grey four-door, parked around the left side of the building past the ice machine, where employee parking had always been. I would put the seat back, keep the radio low, and read a paperback by the dome light for 20 minutes. In the summer, I sat with the windows cracked and the engine off. That was the one slice of the night that belonged to me and not to the store, and I looked forward to it, and I want to be honest, that I was never once scared out there. It never crossed my mind to be. The lot was empty. The road was empty. There was nobody for 11 miles to be scared of. The regulars were part of the shape, too. Gus the milk hauler came through at 4, bought two coffees for one truck, and complained about his knees. A sheriff's deputy named Reyes swung in some nights around 1 to top off his thermos. A handful of shift workers from the plant over in Deerfield came through at odd hours. I knew their trucks by sound before they hit the door. Dale had a camera system once upon a time, but it had died years before I started and he never replaced it. And he liked to joke that in 40 years, the worst crime at Hartley's was a stolen air freshener. I am telling you all of this so you understand what kind of place it was. It was the kind of place where nothing happened. That was the whole point of it. Mike came in for the first time on a Tuesday night, and I was surprised. It was late at night in October, a little after 1 in the morning. I heard the door sensor beep and looked up from my textbook, and there was a man I had never seen before. Late 30s, maybe 40. Brown canvas coat. Clean jeans. Hair combed. He nodded at me once and went to the coffee counter. And he took his time with it. And then he picked up a pack of gum, and brought both to the register. He paid with cash. Exact change. And then he gave it to me. He took his time with it. he said the cold comes on faster than people think and besides anybody could walk right up on a person sitting out there with her eyes closed then he said and this is the part i repeated to the judge that at least i'd had the sense to start leaving it running now that the nights had turned i had never told a living soul at that station about my brakes not dale not gus not reyes my car sat behind the ice machine invisible from the road invisible from the pumps and he was right all through the warm months i had sat with the engine off and the first week of november i had started leaving it running for the heater he knew the habit and he knew the change in the habit he had not guessed something about me he had updated something about me i don't remember what i said back i remember his face which was the same calm open face and i remember his face which was the same calm open face and i remember his face which was the same calm open face and i remember his face which was the same calm open faintly pleased face he had for every tip he ever passed me and i remember that my hands were cold for the rest of the shift no matter what i did and that i locked the stock room and checked it and checked it again and then went up front and did something new which was checking the deadbolt on a front door that had to stay unlocked just to feel my hand do it i told dale everything the next afternoon sitting in his office with my then i had started writing them down every date and time i could reconstruct in a spiral notebook from aisle three dale heard me out and he was not unkind about it but he said what i have since learned every girl in this situation gets told first he hasn't done anything he buys coffee and he talks too much if he ever puts a hand on you or says something threatening we call the county and until then his money spends i want to be fair to dale who felt terrible later in his 40 years the worst thing that store had ever seen was a stolen air freshener he did not have a shelf in his head to put this on i was starting to i told my mom that weekend and my mom did not need it explained twice she drove over monday with a canister of pepper spray for my key chain and made me test it into the wind ditch behind my house so i would know the reach of it i moved a box cutter from the counter drawer into my hoodie pocket and kept it there every shift i asked deputy reyes about it one night at one in the morning thermos in his hand and he listened to all of it and told me the honest truth which is that a man buying coffee and knowing my name was not a crime he could act on and then he told me the useful truth which is to keep writing everything down dates and times and words used because paper is what turns a feeling into a case so i kept my notebook going i did not know yet that on the bench seat of a faded blue picture mine had a twin and i changed things i parked directly under the dusk to dawn light front of the building where dale said employees never park and dale said nothing two visits later mike glanced out at my car sitting in that pool of light and told me he was glad i'd finally moved it that the left side was no good and he said it warmly and the warmth was the worst part that was the moment i understood the trap all the way down there was no move i could make that took me anywhere he was not already watching park in the dark he watched me do it park in the light because i was afraid of him he watched me do that too and approved then came the porch light it was early december bitter out and he stopped at the door on his way out and he was not even looking at me when he said it he said my porch light had been out three nights running and i ought to see to that before the ice came because the steps get slick my house is 11 miles from hartley's on a dead end street at the edge of town and my porch bulb had burned out on sunday and i had been meaning to get to it and it was wednesday i did not say one word he gave the door frame a little tap twice and walked out to the pickup and i stood behind that register in the brightest building for 11 miles and understood that the building had never been the thing he was visiting i did not go home after that shift i drove to anna's in the gray of six in the morning with biscuits leash and food already in the trunk because some part of me had packed the car three days earlier without ever saying to myself why i stayed at my sister's for most of that winter i put up curtains in a house that wasn't mine i started texting anna when i left the station and when i arrived anywhere little gray bubbles that just said leaving now here now i stopped walking biscuit on the rail trail and i dropped my tuesday class because it let out after dark anna kept saying you have to tell them it's him in the truck on the county road and i kept saying i can't prove that because twice on my drive home i had passed an old pickup parked dead on the shoulder a mile or two from the station lights off a shape at the wheel and both times i had come up on it too fast and been too scared to slow down and be sure that is the misery of it you know you absolutely know and you can prove nothing and after enough weeks the not proving starts to feel in your worst hours dishonest on your side of it which is exactly backwards and happens anyway he stayed away for nine days in the middle of december the longest gap there had ever been and i am ashamed of what those nine days did to me which was make me wonder if i had built the whole thing in my head out of coffee and coincidence i actually reread my own notebook at the kitchen table at anna's to convince myself of my own life then on the 10th night the door sensor beeped at 2 15 and there was the coat and the gum and the exact change and he asked how my sister was doing these days and the nine days were gone and everything they had let me half believe went with them the polaroid came on a friday in january i finished my shift at six locked the register drawer handed off to the morning girl and walked out into that blue cold you only get right before sunrise my car sat under the pole light where it always sat now frost on the glass and folded once under the driver's side wiper blade was a small white square i remember assuming it was a flyer i remember my bare fingers on the frost and then i was holding a photograph of myself it was me that night hours earlier in the driver's seat on my break my head back against the rest my eyes closed my paperback open against the wheel where it had sunk when i dozed i was lit up soft and yellow by my own dome light the one bright thing in a black frame and the picture had been taken through the windshield from just in front of the hood six feet from my sleeping face maybe less no flash because none was needed i had been reading by that little light every night for months making a lit box of myself in a dark lot and somewhere out past the glass close enough to touch the hood he had stood in the cold and watched me sleep and taken his time framing it there was nothing written on it that was almost the worst part it did not need a message the photograph was the message and the message was i am closer than you have ever once imagined and i can prove it i did not go home i drove straight to the county sheriff's office and sat in the lot until they unlocked the doors and i put the photograph and my spiral notebook on the counter and i talked for an hour and this time nobody told me he hadn't done anything a detective named whitmer went through my notebook page by page dates and times in my own handwriting going back to october and she looked at the picture a long while and then she told me the truth which is that a photograph proves someone took a photograph and until we could put it in mike's hand it was not an arrest but she said the word we she said next time he walks in you call and we will be there before his coffee cools and dale when i showed him went gray in the face and stopped talking about air fresheners for good and from that night on he slept on the cot in his office during my shifts with the door cracked an old man's apology and i have never in my life been so grateful for the sound of somebody else's snoring mike came in three nights later at twenty to three in the morning coat coffee counter all of it the same as the first tuesday in october and i looked at him and felt strangely horribly calm the calm you land on when the waiting finally ends while his back was to me at the coffee maker i lifted the store phone off its cradle dialed nine one one said the name hartley's low and clear and set the handset on the shelf under the register with the line open exactly as whitmer had walked me through it then he came to the counter with his cup and i did not ring it up i told him i knew he had taken the picture of me i told him i knew about the corner of the lot by the air pump and the shoulder of the county road and my porch my voice stayed level the whole way through which still surprises me he did not deny one word of it he did not get angry he looked at me with mild patient concern and he said I've just been looking out for you. And then, because I said nothing, thing, he explained it calmly, the whole shape of his thinking, and I will not lay all of it out, because I have decided he does not get his speech repeated in full. The short of it is that he had stopped for gas one night in September, and seen a girl alone in a lit building on an empty road, and decided, somewhere in whatever passes for his heart, that somebody ought to keep an eye on that, and that nobody else was doing it, and so the job was his, the lot, the road, the house. He listed them the way a man lists chores he has kept up on. He was not confessing, he was reporting. I told him the police were already on the way. He nodded, unbothered, and said, good, you can't be too careful. He approved. That is the sentence I had to stop on, both times I told this out loud. I called for help against him, and he approved, because a girl being careful was the whole point of him. He filled the silence by counting his exact change onto the counter for the coffee, and then he went and stood by the door with his cup, and waited, patient, while Dale came up the back hallway in his socks, and the lot filled with headlights. Reyes came through the door first with a deputy I didn't know, and Whitmer's sedan pulled in behind them, and Mike set his coffee on the windowsill. Thanked me for the refills over all these months, and walked out between them without anyone having to touch him. The notebook was on the bench seat of the pickup, in plain view, next to a Polaroid camera, and an unopened pack of film. A spiral notebook, the same brand we sold on aisle three. That first bite of your favorite sub, followed by ice cold Pepsi. Laughs get louder, the stories keep flowing, and the food tastes better, because Pepsi brings out more flavor, more fun, and more of the moment. Food deserves Pepsi. Yeah, yeah, you might want to download that Exxon Mobile Rewards Plus app, yeah. I am. That's a lot. That's a whole lot. It is. I will. Loading. Exxon. Trust the Tiger. Whitmer showed me photographs of the pages weeks later, in a conference room, because I asked her to, and I will tell you what was in it, and then I am done with it. Dates and times, in small, tidy handwriting, going back to the middle of September. I started at Hartley's on September 4th. The first entry about me was dated September 11th. He had been watching me for almost a month before the first time he ever walked in and let me see his face. He had my schedule to the quarter hour. He had, word for word, locks the back door at 2, checks the handle twice. He knew about the checking twice. He had my brakes, my paperbacks, the night I moved the car, the night the porch went dark, the week I went to my sister's, her street name. All of it logged in flat, careful language, with no feeling in it anywhere. And the last 11 pages had no entries at all, just my name. Kate, printed small and careful and all the same size, row after row after row, hundreds of times, filling the pages edge to edge, and not one of them was scrawled, and I would have given anything. I would have given anything for a scrawl, because a scrawl would have meant a feeling, and what those pages showed instead was practice. He turned out to be a delivery driver for a feed supplier, which is why an old blue pickup on the shoulder of a farm road never looked out of place to anyone, including me, 41 years old, steady job, no record, a landlord who called him quiet and squared away. The county attorney charged him with felony stalking, and between the photograph, the notebook, and my own spiral pages matching his date for date, there was nothing for a lawyer to work with, and in March, he pleaded guilty. 180 days in the county jail, five years of supervised probation, a psychological evaluation, and a permanent order of protection with my name on it. The evaluation came back, Whitmer told me, with nothing in it anybody could hand me. No history, no event, no explanation. He told the defense, and the deputies the same sentence he told me, and he told it to the judge at sentencing, in the same mild voice, and the judge asked him if he understood why he was being sentenced, and he said yes, and I sat two rows back, and knew that he did not. I finished the semester from Anna's kitchen table, and transferred in the fall, the move I had been saving for all along, just two years early, and for the wrong reason. I live a little over 200 miles away now, in a town with sidewalks, and streetlights, and neighbors close enough to hear. The state has a program that lets people in my situation keep their home address off the public records, and I am in it, and my mail goes to a lockbox with a number instead of a street. I work days now, at a desk, in a building full of people. The order is permanent. He served his time and lives where his probation says he lives, far from me, and every box a person can check has been checked, and still, I have not sat in a parked car to rest, not once, in all the years since. The dome light in my car has never been on after dark, not even for a second, not even to find a dropped key. I lock my doors at night, and I check them, and I check them again, the same small habit I carried into Hartley's at 21, except, now I know what a habit is. A habit is a thing that can be seen, and written down, and kept by someone you have never met. Everyone tells me it is over, and on paper they are right, and I keep the paper in a fireproof box to prove it. But he taught me one thing for good, standing in the cold six feet from my sleeping face, and it is this: the dark outside a bright window is not empty just because it looks empty. So I sit where I can see the glass, I count the cars that pass twice, and when a polite stranger tells me to have a drink, I stand very still inside myself, until I am sure, all the way down, that he does not know my name. This is my story. This is my story. This is my story. This is my story. Oh, my God. Join for just $20 at bjs.com slash mesquite and save 10 cents per gallon for six months. Open soon. Limited time offer. New members only. BJ's, home of the save. Hello. Look what TJ Maxx dragged in. The Devil Wears Prada 2 is now streaming on Disney Plus and Hulu. We are digital. We are downloadable. We are streamable. The fashion event of the year is certified fresh. Pull yourself together. We have work to do. Critics say it's smart and witty and the perfect sequel. That's all. Get runway ready for The Devil Wears Prada 2 on Disney Plus and Hulu. Rated PG-13. This episode is brought to you by TXU Energy. 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