8 True Creepy Gas Station Horror Stories | "The Attendant Knew My Name… But I’d Never Been There" 😱 That Will Make You Avoid Late-Night Fuel Stops

Hello everyone and welcome back to horror stories. I know many of you use these episodes to fall asleep so before you drift off, I'd love it if you could leave a comment letting me know where you're listening from around the world. Also don't forget to like and subscribe if you're enjoying the episodes. 3-1 By late October 2022, I was working back to back shifts at a gas station just beyond Columbus, Ohio, scrambling to put away enough cash to finally get out of my sister's basement. I had turned 32 months before and the occasion had amounted to a cupcake from the station and a message from my mother, asking when I planned to straighten out my life. After dropping out of nursing school, it wasn't exactly the kind of milestone birthday I had imagined. Still the overnight hours paid fairly well and once midnight passed people usually left me alone. The station stood where Route 23 met some back road whose name I had never cared enough to remember. Cornfield surrounded the place, broken only by the occasional farmhouse with warm yellow light shining from its windows in the distance. That particular Thursday had been quiet since about 9 p.m. I was restocking the energy drinks and watching the clock, waiting for the moment when I could turn the sign around and lock the doors at 2 o'clock in the morning. The woman walked in at exactly 147. I know the precise time because I had just looked at my phone to calculate how long I had left before I could shut down the register and begin mopping. She eased through the entrance so silently that the bell above it hardly rang. It made only a faint metallic whisper, just loud enough to pull my attention away from the inventory clipboard. She had on a long beige coat that extended below her knees, the style my grandmother used to refer to as a duster. Her dark hair fell in a perfectly straight sheet, as though she had run a brush through it a hundred times immediately before coming inside. What caught me first though was the way she walked. She crossed the floor without making any of the sounds customers normally made. There were no rubber souls squealing against the tile and no heels tapping. Said she moved with an unnatural gliding motion, almost like someone skating across ice. When she arrived at the counter, she said nothing for perhaps ten seconds. She simply stood there, fixing her gaze on some spot just behind my left ear. Then when she finally spoke, the words came in an even carefully measured cadence, as if she were reciting a line she had learned by heart. Could I please have the key to your bathroom? The word left her mouth with precisely the same interval after it. She didn't hurry, pause or seem to draw a breath. The mechanical delivery somehow made the fluorescent lights overhead feel far too bright. Her hands remained buried in the pockets of her coat the entire time. I also realized that she hadn't blinked once since entering. Her brown eyes stayed stretched wide with white visible all the way around them, as if someone had ordered her to hold them open. Find me the bathroom key hung from an absurdly large wooden paddle. My manager Gary had introduced that system after too many customers left with the key. I turned around to take it from its hook, and while my back was to the woman, I sensed that she had shifted nearer to the counter. I never heard her move, but her smell reached me then. It wasn't exactly foul. It was simply wrong. She smelled like clean laundry detergent blended with something metallic, the same sort of taste that appears in your mouth in the seconds before you pass out. When I offered her the key, her fingers slid out of her pocket to accept it. Under the store's severe lighting, her skin looked pale, almost blue, and her fingernails had been trimmed or filed down until practically nothing remained. She curled her hand around the wooden paddle without truly taking hold of it, letting it sit loosely against her palm. Then she turned and glided toward the bathroom at the rear of the store. It was only about 30 feet from the register, beyond the coffee machines and the wall lined with bags of chips. I kept my eyes on her for the entire distance, still expecting to hear a footstep. Nothing came. The only noises were the low drone of the refrigerators, and the buzzing of the damaged light fixture beside the ATM. At the bathroom, she rotated the handle with that same slack grip and slipped inside. The door shut behind her with a deep, heavy thud that sounded much too loud for the gentle way she had moved it. Then the store fell quiet again. I remained behind the counter, trying to understand why my chest had begun to feel so constricted. Five minutes went by, followed by ten, and closing time started to worry me. I still had to count the register and mop the floors. There was also an entire checklist to finish, and Gary would look through the security recordings if I failed to complete it. The woman still hadn't returned, though, and customers were required to bring the bathroom key back to the counter. That was the whole reason it was attached to an enormous wooden paddle in the first place. Once fifteen minutes had passed, I went to the bathroom door. I knocked gently at first, then more firmly when she didn't answer. "Mam, are you all right in there? We've already passed closing time." There was no reply. I couldn't hear a faucet running or a toilet flushing. There was only absolute silence, the kind that made me lean in and place my ear against the door. The wood was called against my skin. Far colder than it had any reason to be, as if a freezer had been left standing open on the other side. That was when I heard the slam. It sounded like the bathroom door had crashed into something solid after being thrown open with incredible force. Yet I was right in front of it, with my hands still resting on the handle, and the door hadn't shifted even an inch. The impact had come from inside, from somewhere beyond the very door I was touching. That was impossible. The room contained a toilet, a sink, and three walls. There was nothing else back there. I recoiled and waited for the woman to emerge, expecting her to look embarrassed because she had dropped something or taken a fall. The door, however, remained closed. After a full minute crept pass before I tested the handle, naturally it was locked. Our bathroom was set up so that the key was needed both to enter and to get back out. The master key was kept in the office, and as I headed there to retrieve it, I repeatedly looked over my shoulder at the bathroom, bracing for another slam that never came. The office was a narrow little room tucked behind the counter, with barely enough space for a desk and the security monitor equipment. I fumbled through the keys on the ring while keeping my eyes fixed on the bathroom through the office window. The door stayed shut. Everything remained silent. When I finally located the master key and started back, something stopped me in the middle of a step. The coffee pot was giving off steam. I had switched it off an hour earlier. It wasn't brewing. Steam was merely rising from it, as if someone had filled the empty carafe with boiling water. The odor of scorched metal had spread through that part of the store, forcing me to cover my nose as I passed. At the bathroom door I paused with the key in my hand. All at once I didn't want to discover what might be waiting on the other side, but I couldn't simply leave it unchecked. Gary would go through the camera footage the next day, and how was I supposed to justify abandoning a customer inside a locked bathroom for the entire night? The master key turned without resistance. I opened the door and found an empty room. The bathroom was spotless, almost as if someone had just finished cleaning it. There was no woman wearing a beige coat and no indication that anybody had entered at all. The toilet seat was down. The sink was completely dry. Even the waste basket held nothing except the fresh liner I had placed in it earlier during my shift. The key with the wooden paddle was gone, too. It wasn't beside the sink, lying on the floor or anywhere else in the room. The fluorescent tube over the mirror blinked once. Its flicker threw strange shadows across the walls, and I backed out in a hurry. I stood in the aisle of chips staring into the vacant bathroom and struggling to arrange what had happened into anything sensible. That woman had gone inside. I had seen her do it. I had personally placed the key in her hand, and I had heard the door slam from within. So where could she possibly have disappeared to? The bathroom had no window and no second exit. There were only three walls and a seven-foot ceiling made of panels that hadn't been disturbed in years. My first impulse was to search outside. Maybe she had somehow slipped by while I was inside the office, although I had been watching the bathroom door through the window the entire time. Beyond the store, the parking lot was deserted beneath harsh sodium lamps that stained everything orange. My battered forwards sat there, and the dumpster behind the building stretched long shadows over the pavement. There were no other vehicles. No woman in a long coat was making her way down Route 23. I saw nothing except rows of cornstock shifting in the October wind. The temperature had dropped probably into the forties, and each breath left my mouth in a small white cloud while I circled the building. That was when I noticed it. The wooden paddle and bathroom key were hanging from the exterior door handle. They rock slowly back and forth, as if someone had placed them there only seconds before. The paddle hadn't been tossed or dropped. It had been deliberately looped over the handle from outside. my stomach gave a strange lurch when I took it down. The wood still held the same unnatural chill I had felt in the bathroom door. I went back into the station, locked the entrance, and headed directly to the office to review the surveillance recordings. There were four cameras, one aimed at the cash register, another at the front door, a third covering the sales floor, and an outdoor camera watching the pumps. I rewound the video to 147. On the screen I was behind the counter taking inventory and then nothing happened. No woman walked into the building. The entrance never opened and the bell above it didn't move. Yet the recording showed me lifting my head from the clipboard and looking at absolutely empty space. What followed was worse. I watched myself turn, remove the oversized wooden paddle from its hook, and extend it toward no one. My hand opened and closed on the footage as though I were taking something back from an invisible person. Then the paddle moved out of sight, apparently handed over to nobody at all. According to the cameras I carried on an entire conversation with thin air. I nodded and followed something across the station with my eyes, even though nothing was visible there. On the camera overlooking the store floor, the bathroom door swung open and shut on its own. Fifteen minutes later, the recording showed me knocking and speaking to an empty room. I stayed in that office chair for 20 minutes, playing the sequence again and again as I searched for even the slightest trace of the woman in the beige coat. Every replay made my skin crawl more than the previous one, particularly the moment when I stretched out my hand and the paddle simply vanished into empty air. The timestamp remained steady. The image never skipped or glitched. Everything in the recording appeared completely ordinary, aside from the fact that I was plainly interacting with a person who did not exist on camera. My thoughts tore through every explanation I could produce, a hallucination, a gas leak, sleep deprivation from working too many double ships, perhaps even a fault in the surveillance system. But the missing key had been real. The frozen bathroom door had been real, and I had unquestionably heard that violent slam from inside. I even opened the audio track from the camera by the entrance. My part of the exchange could be heard perfectly clearly, but when the sentence could I please have the key to your bathroom, played it came from my own voice. Afterward there was only silence in the place where her answer should have been. I never told Gary what occurred that night. How could I have explained it? The recording made me appear insane, and I depended on that job far too much to gamble it away over an event I couldn't make sense of. So I completed the shift. I washed the floors, counted the money in the register, and left every part of the station exactly as it was supposed to be. But I couldn't get the woman out of my thoughts. The noiseless way she traveled across the floor. Her unnaturally precise voice and those wide, unblinking eyes that had looked completely real while she stood in front of me. For several weeks after that my body would tighten whenever a customer entered late at night, especially if it was a woman wearing a long coat. The bathroom key still hangs from that wooden paddle behind the register. Sometimes when I'm alone on a shift I find myself staring at it and returning to that night in October. Nothing like it has happened to me since, and to be honest, I hope nothing ever does. Some experiences don't require an explanation. They only need to be endured and then left alone. Stored in the corner of your mind reserved for the things that make no sense, but that you know without question truly happened. Story 2. After making the trip twice every year for the previous five years, the road from Phoenix to Denver felt almost automatic to me. I was 26, working as an accountant, and seeing my sister and her children was easily the best part of an otherwise routine and predictable life. That Friday in August began the same way all my other trips did. At around 8 o'clock that evening I tossed a duffel bag into my camera and set out with the intention of driving all the way through so I could have breakfast with my nephew on Saturday morning. Nightfall was finally easing the desert heat, and I can still remember how alert and ready I felt for the 14-hour drive I had. I had filled my phone with new podcasts packed a cooler with cans of red bull and bottles of water and felt that familiar rush that came from reaching the open highway while nearly everyone else was winding down for the night. The opening hours disappeared quickly. I sang along with old music and watched the lights of the city shrink behind me until the desert swallowed them. At about 2 a.m. after I had passed Flagstaff, but while I was still well short of the New Mexico state line, the fuel needle began lingering close to empty. The highway had been especially barren for nearly an hour. There was only my car an occasional long haul truck and mile after mile of blackness interrupted by our headlights slicing through it. According to the GPS, there was a gas station three miles ahead. It was called Desert Stop 24 and set just off exit 287. I didn't recognize the name from any of my previous drives, but stations appeared along those routes all the time, particularly bland 24-hour stops designed for people traveling overnight the way I was. When I left the highway, the station emerged ahead of me, a small building standing by itself, with four fuel pumps beneath severe fluorescent fixtures. The light bleached the color out of everything and gave the property a strange unreal appearance. Only one other vehicle was present, an old battered pickup parked to one side rather than beside a pump. I stopped at pump number three, shut off the engine and climbed into the cool desert air. The silence struck me at once. It was the total lack of noise found only in places far removed from anything else, where it seems as if even the bugs have gone to sleep. The car reader was one of those outdated machines that seems to take an eternity to authorize a payment. While it worked, I appeared through the windows of the convenience store. The lighting inside was harsher still, a sharp clinical brightness that made the aisles resemble hospital corridors instead of shelves in a roadside shop. From where I stood I could make out a person behind the register. He was mostly a silhouette, barely moving and possibly reading something. After what seemed like several minutes the machine finally accepted my card. I began pumping gas, leaned against the camera and scrolled through my phone as the figures on the display tick slowly upward. When the transaction finished the receipt came out with the unmistakable grinding noise made by an old printer. I reached to take it, then froze. Someone had written on the paper. It wasn't part of the normal printing that listed the number of gallons or the cost of each one. Across the white receipt somebody had scrolled a message in blue ink using hurried irregular letters. Don't go inside. Call 911. My immediate reaction was to assume I was being pranked. Maybe the customer before me had thought it would be funny. I scanned the property half expecting a group of teenagers to be crouched behind the dumpster, filming my response on their phones for a video they could upload to social media. No one was there. There was only me, the camera, the seemingly abandoned pickup truck, and that overly bright station sitting in the darkness like an illuminated box. The handwriting appeared recent. The blue ink was still faintly smeared in one place as if the person who wrote it had squeezed the paper too tightly in their hand. For probably 30 seconds I stood motionless and read the warning over and over. The fuel nozzle remained in my hand, already shut off because the tank was full. One part of me wanted to climb straight back into the car and drive away, but I badly needed more caffeine and after drinking three red bulls my bladder had begun demanding attention. The logical voice in my head also kept insisting that the message had to be somebody's idea of a joke. Who would put an emergency warning on a gas pump receipt? If there were real danger, why wouldn't the person simply contact the police? I returned the nozzle to the pump, crushed the receipt in my hand, pushed it into my pocket, and headed for the entrance. The automatic doors opened with a tired mechanical groan, wheezing as though no one had maintained them in years. A blast of air conditioning met me the instant across the threshold. It was far too cold for an August night in the desert, with the thermostat seemingly set to the temperature of a meat freezer. Then I noticed the odor. Industrial floor cleaner was part of it, but another smell lay underneath. Something sharp and metallic that settled at the back of my throat. The man at the register raised his head when I came in and right away the entire scene felt off. He wore a desert stop 24 uniform shirt at least two sizes smaller than he needed. The fabric strained over his chest and arms as if he had grabbed somebody else's shirt from a staff locker. The name printed on his badge was Brandon. The badge sat crooked on his chest because only one of its two pins held it in place. His face bothered me most. He wore the expression of a person who had just learned that his dog had died, but was still being forced to smile for a photograph. His gaze kept darting over my shoulder, then toward the of the shop where a door-labeled man is. employees only stood slightly at jar. After that, his eyes returned to me without ever meeting mine directly. "Help you." Even his voice sounded incorrect. It was high pitched and tight, like someone had wrapped an arm around his waist and was squeezing him. He didn't say, "Can I help you?" Or even ask how things were going. All he managed was, "Help you." It was as though he had forgotten the way a store clerk was expected to greet a customer. "I just need to use the bathroom," I told him. "I tried to make the answer sound relaxed, although every instinct I had was beginning to order me back out the door." The skin beside Brandon's left eye jerked in a quick involuntary spasm. Without speaking, he pointed toward the rear hallway. That was when his hand caught my attention. Dark reddish-brown material was packed beneath his fingernails. It might have been dried rust, but it could just as easily have been blood. Fresh scratches also crossed his knuckles. As I headed toward the restroom, a muted thump came from beyond the employee's only door, like a heavy object-changing position. Brandon immediately erupted into a fit of coughing. The coughs were loud, exaggerated, and so obviously false that no one could have believed them. He was plainly attempting to cover the other sound. The bathroom lay beyond that employee door at the end of a tight hallway, with cartons of store inventory stacked along both walls. As I passed the narrow opening, I saw movement through the gap. Someone was standing completely still inside the unlit room. I could distinguish only what seemed to be the curve of a shoulder and part of an arm press flat to the wall, as if the person were deliberately hiding just beyond my view. Every muscle in my body locked, but I made myself continue at an ordinary pace, pretending I hadn't noticed anything. The bathroom had a heavy metal door with a lock on the inside. The instant I entered, I threw the deadbolt and took out my phone. My hands shook as I retrieved the wrinkled receipt from my pocket and read it again. The blue untidy warning remained exactly where it had been. Now it looked far less like a prank, and much more like a terrified person's final effort to keep me alive. Voices had become audible through the thin walls. I recognized the tense high register of the man pretending to be Brandon, along with a second voice coming from the employee room. That one was deeper and angrier. The two men were arguing, although I couldn't understand what they were saying. Then a third voice reached me, weak and muffled. It sounded like the person said, "Please." The truth landed all at once. The person who had written the message was probably the actual Brandon, and whoever these men were, they were holding him somewhere behind that employees only door. I opened my phone's keypad and began entering 911, only to stop. The screen showed no service at all, not even a single bar. There were no windows in the bathroom. A ventilation opening sat close to the ceiling, but it was much too narrow for anyone to crawl through. My soul rude out, led back into the boxed-in hallway, directly past the employee room and the person concealed inside it. I had been trying to think for perhaps 10 seconds when footsteps entered the hallway. They were slow and purposeful, and they came to a halt immediately outside the bathroom. The handle moved once, then a second time. After that came three hard knocks, each one reverberating through the cramped room. You doing okay in there? The voice belonged to the fake Brandon, but its sound had changed. It was lower now, calm and controlled, as though he had decided to abandon the performance. You've been in there a while, friend. Is everything all right? He pronounced friend with a cold-cutting edge. There was nothing remotely friendly in it. I flushed the toilet and turned on the faucet to gain a little time. My thoughts raised through possible choices, and every one of them seemed to finish with me never getting out of that building. "Yeah, give me a minute," I called. To my surprise, my voice remained level, even though every muscle felt stretched as tight as a piano wire. The footsteps did not retreat. Beneath the door I could see the shape of his shoes in the narrow gap. He was simply standing there waiting. I shut off the water and understood that I had only moments to decide. Remaining behind the lock wouldn't save me. Eventually, they would break the door open or stay there until I had no choice but to emerge. My car keys were still in my pocket. The camera was parked perhaps 40 feet from the store's entrance, freshly fueled, and running smoothly. But if either man chose to keep me from reaching it, those 40 feet might as well have been 40 miles. Then I thought about the beaten-up pickup sitting to the side. If these people had come by vehicle, it almost certainly belonged to them. That suggested there were at least two of them, and possibly more. The shadow below the door changed position. I heard the man place his weight against the metal and test it with a restrained push. The door creaked under the pressure. I was running out of time. The note in my pocket seemed to burn against my leg. Somebody's last attempt to stop the precise situation now unfolding around me. I chose. After one deep breath, I released the lock and yanked the door open, fast and decisive, like tearing away a bandage. The man posing as Brandon staggered backward. He clearly hadn't expected me to come out so abruptly. "Sorry, man," I said, making myself laugh even though the sounds seemed empty to my own ears. Those gas station burritos I ate earlier really messed me up. For a second, he studied me with a flat calculating stair. Then he moved to the side and allowed me through. Crossing that hallway felt like waiting through quicksand. I controlled every step, keeping each movement calm and deliberate while every part of me screamed a run. The employee door was fully closed now. Through it, however, I heard shuffling and movement, followed by a noise that sounded like a body being pulled along the floor. The false Brandon stayed directly behind me. He followed closely enough for me to hear his rough uneven breathing, as if he were struggling to keep himself under control. When we entered the main part of the store I saw the other man. He was tall and narrow with a shaved scalp. Despite the August warmth he had on jeans and a black jacket. He stood beside the entrance as though he had been posted there the entire time waiting. "Bathroom's free," I said to no one in particular. I tried to project effortless indifference while my legs carried me toward the exit. The tall man adjusted his position. He didn't completely obstruct the doors. But he placed himself so that I would have to squeeze past him to get outside. At close range I noticed a tattoo extending up the side of his neck. It looked like a snake or perhaps a dragon and the rest of the design vanished beneath his collar. His eyes were bloodshot as if he hadn't slept for several days. "You forgot something," he said in a low gravelly voice. "You didn't pay for your gas." My heart came close to stopping. Somehow I took the receipt from my pocket. The same one carrying the warning and lifted it for him to see. I made certain the handwritten side remained turned toward me. "I already paid at the pump," I said. He examined the receipt, then looked at me. And finally glanced toward the imitation Brandon, who had returned to his place behind the register. Five seconds passed. They felt more like five hours. No one made a move. At last the tall man shifted just far enough to allow me to press by him. "Drive safe," he said. The two ordinary words sounded less like a courteous fare well than a threat. As soon as the automatic doors opened, I walked quickly toward my car. I resisted the urge to sprint because running would prove that I understood something was terribly wrong. I struggled with my keys. Behind me I heard the entrance wheeze open once more. When I glanced over my shoulder, both men were standing immediately inside the doors, staring at me through the glass. The camera turned over on my first attempt. I backed away from the pump's far faster than was safe. The tires shrieking over the concrete. Once I reached the access road, I checked the rear view mirror. The men had not moved. They remained two black shapes framed by the station's merciless fluorescent glare. My phone vibrated when its signal returned as I joined the highway. About a mile farther on, I pulled to the shoulder. Now that the adrenaline was fading, my entire body had begun to shake. The 911 dispatcher picked up after the second ring. I explained everything. The handwritten warning. The employee who wasn't really Brandon. The voices from the room in back. And the second man guarding the entrance. She kept me connected while officers were sent to the location. I remained on the roadside and repeatedly checked my mirrors, terrified that the battered pickup might appear behind me. 20 minutes later, I was recounting the incident to a state trooper. Three police cruisers and an ambulance surrounded the gas station, making it resemble a scene staged for a movie. Inside the storage room officers discovered the real Brandon. He was a 19-year-old working the overnight shift. The men had restrained him with zip ties and duct tape and beaten him severely, but he was alive. The two attackers were brothers named Jason and Kyle Brennan. Both were wanted on outstanding armed robbery warrants from Nevada. and they had apparently been targeting isolated service stations along distant stretches of highway. When the brothers first entered and threatened him with a gun, Brandon had managed to scribble the warning across a stack of receipt paper. He hoped somebody would notice it before walking inside and becoming part of their trap. The trooper told me how fortunate I had been. Most travelers would have dismissed the message as a prank or ignored it altogether. The Brennan Brothers had also grown more desperate and more violent with every robbery. They had occupied the station for three hours before I arrived. During that time they were waiting for an ideal target. One person traveling alone in the middle of the night, driving a vehicle with license plates from another state. Before the ambulance took him to the hospital, Brandon asked if he could speak with me. His face had swollen badly and one eye was sealed completely shut. "Thanks for calling," he said. His voice was horse and it cracked slightly on the final word. Story 3. Working nights at Riverside Medical Center alters you in ways you could never predict. On that particular Monday and early September 2017, the fatigue felt different from the exhaustion I was used to carrying. Three patients had gone into cardiac arrest during my shift and two of them were children. The paperwork afterward kept me at the hospital until nearly 4.30 in the morning. I had spent 12 hours watching heart monitors become straight lines, holding relatives as they cried and pressing down on chests that refused to respond. All of it settles like a physical weight across your shoulders during the long trip home. The highway enrolled in front of me like a strip of black ribbon. My head lights carved paths through banks of fog drifting in from the cornfields on both sides. Renting a place 40 miles beyond the city gave me cheaper housing but on mornings like that one. I wondered whether saving $600 every month justified the drive. I was 32 and had kept up that routine for three years. By then my body had begun openly resisting it. For the previous 10 miles the fuel needle had floated close to empty. The orange warning lamp stared at me like an accusation and I knew I had tested my luck for too long. The Valero appeared in the mist as if the fog itself had produced it. It was one of those roadside places you can pass a hundred times without ever truly noticing. The station stood roughly 15 miles from Riverside and another 25 from my apartment. It was tucked between two enormous tracks of farmland where a county road met highway 47. Bright fluorescent lights still burned beneath the canopy. That surprised me because most businesses so far outside town closed by midnight. I felt an immediate wave of relief as I turned in. In the otherwise absolute quiet the gravel beneath my tires sounded much louder than it should have. My Corolla coughs slightly while I guided it to pump number 3. By that point it was probably surviving on fumes. The station looked worn and neglected. Rust had spread along the metal supports and one numeral on the fuel price displayed dangled at an angle. But when your tank is empty at four o'clock in the morning you aren't in a position to be selective. I took my debit card and climbed out into the damp September air. The humidity was the thick clinging kind that made my scrubs adhere to my skin almost instantly. The first thing I registered was the silence. There were no insects humming and no vehicles in the distance. The only sound came from the electrical drone of the lights above me. I lifted the nozzle but the pump did not respond. Its display remained black. No instructions appeared and the card reader never illuminated. I checked pump 4 followed by pump 2 and then pump 1. Every machine was dead. Through the convenience store windows I could tell that the interior lights were on. Rose of chips and candy could be seen on the shelving although the stock appeared to have been rated. Large empty spaces separated the remaining products. A back and five minutes notice had been taped to the entrance. The paper was yellow and distorted as if it had remained there for several weeks. I pulled on the door despite the sign but the lock held firmly. My phone read 4.47 a.m. The hours printed on the glass claimed the business operated 24 hours a day seven days a week. That was when I spotted the vehicle at the distant edge of the property. It was almost hidden in the darkness outside the canopy's reach. A silver sedan, possibly a Nissan Altea, positioned diagonally across two parking spaces. Its driver's door stood completely open. The cabin light cast a weak yellow radiance that gave the surrounding fog an unhealthy color. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. That open door simply gaped into the darkness like a mouth. The sight caused a tightness in my chest. Who would abandon a vehicle with its door wide open at a deserted gas station in the middle of nowhere? For a few moments I debated whether to investigate or return to the Corolla and hope the little remaining fuel could carry me to another station. The practical part of my mind. The nursing instinct that handled emergencies every night insisted that someone might be in trouble. Perhaps the driver had suffered a medical event. Maybe the person was inside the store. I approached the sedan. My white nursing shoes squealing softly over the wet concrete. The fog was denser near that end of the lot. It curled around my ankles like icy fingers. As the car came into clearer view I saw discarded fast food packaging across the passenger seat. A phone cable remained connected to the power outlet. It's free and hanging loose. There were no keys in the ignition. I saw no blood and no evidence of a fight. The vehicle was simply deserted. The rear seats were vacant as wall but a purse lay open on the floor. Its contents had spilled around it. Lipstick receipts and a wallet hanging open. "Hello?" I called uncertainly. My voice seemed to travel only a few feet before the fog and that suffocating quiet absorbed it. I rested my palm on the hood. The metal was stone cold. Whatever had taken place there had not happened recently. Behind the station lay only darkness and more agricultural land. Corn stocks could just be distinguished in the distance, standing like an army made of shadows. As I returned toward the shop I chose to look around the side of the building. There might have been a staff entrance. An employee could have been outside smoking or working on stock in a room at the rear. The concrete along the side was fractured and irregular with weeds forcing their way through some of the cracks. A dumpster rested against the wall. Its lid slightly crooked. There were no additional cars in the employee parking area. An odd detail for a store that was supposedly open. Around the next corner I discovered a rear entrance. It was a scratched metal door with a small window positioned at about eye level. I pounded against it and each knock bounced between the brick walls. "Hey is anybody working? I need fuel." No answer came. I rose on to the tips of my shoes and looked through the little pain, forming a shield around my eyes with both hands to keep out the glare. The room beyond appeared to be used for storage. Cardboard boxes filled metal racks and a mop bucket stood in one corner. Passed them another doorway opened into the main sales area. The store lights were unquestionably on. In their brightness I could distinguish the end of the counter, a lottery ticket stand, and the display of cigarettes behind the register. Then I noticed a dim blue light be on the counter. It was separate from the brutal white glow overhead and pulsed faintly, much like a television screen or a computer display. If a clerk was on duty I reason they might be sitting back there entering inventory or monitoring the security system. I continued along the rear wall, searching for a second window that would give me a clearer line of sight. I found one that was smaller and much dirtier. Its location allowed me to see farther behind the register, but only if I flatten myself against the brickwork and stretched my neck. My calf muscles began to wake from balancing on my toes. My breathing clouded the pain and I had to clean the glass twice with my sleeve before the view became clear. Several screens sat behind the counter. They displayed feeds from the surveillance cameras, each showing another part of the property. The images were low quality and monochrome, but I could still identify the pumps, the lot and the inside of the shop. One monitor showed the silver sedan, its driver's door still hanging open. Another displayed the convenience store aisles and the same half empty shelves I had observed through the front windows. Then I located the feed aimed at the back of the building, the exact place where I was standing. The timestamp along the lower edge said 4.52 am, the present time. On the screen I appeared as a small person in medical scrubs pressed close to the window. Something about the picture was not right. Initially I blamed the camera's poor resolution. I wondered if the image had a delay or some kind of trailing ghost-like distortion, but it wasn't a technical flaw. Another shape stood in the frame around 10 feet behind me. It did not move. It remained completely motionless, watching me peer into the window. My entire body seized every muscle tightens simultaneously. I was unable to move and could barely breathe. All I could do was stare at the monitor, which showed someone or something directly behind me at that very moment. The silhouette stayed still in the darkness near the outer boundary of the camera's view. I made myself rotate my head, slowly and then even more slowly, until I could see the area at my back. There was nothing there. The empty parking lot extended into the darkness and mist. I ended the cornfields were barely visible. My heart pounded with such force that it's rushing filled my ears. The way the ocean seems to roar when a seashell is held to your head. I snapped my gaze back toward the security screen. The figure had vanished from the feet as well. Now the image contained only me, shaking against the grimy window. That was when another monitor caught my attention. This camera covered the candy aisle inside the store. A person was standing between the shelves. It was a woman with long dark hair falling in a straight line down her back. She faced away from the camera and wore something pale, either a light dress or perhaps a hospital gown. She wasn't browsing and didn't shift at all. She simply stood there with the stillness of a display mannequin. I adjusted my position and narrowed my eyes trying to make out more through the dirty pain. The woman's head began to rotate. The motion was slow and mechanical, like a device programmed to turn on a timer. Her head continued moving until her face pointed directly toward the camera. Even through the unclear black and white recording in the filth covering the window, I knew that she was looking precisely at the spot where the camera had been mounted. She was looking into the monitor. She was looking at me as I watched her. I lurched away from the glass and caught my heel in a break in the concrete. The woman on the screen became motionless again. She remained facing the camera with both arms hanging loosely beside her. The grainy footage hid the details of her face, but her stance and the peculiar way she carried herself stirred a prickling sense that I recognized her. It was like spotting the back of someone in a crowd and believing for one instant that you know them. The brief flash of familiarity before your mind has enough time to understand why. I had to leave. The fuel no longer mattered. I would drive until the corolla stopped and solve that problem wherever it happened. As I began retreating toward the car I heard a sound. It was the electronic alert of a door opening that recognizable two-tone note used by nearly every convenience store. My gaze jumped to the front entrance. The same door that had been locked solid five minutes earlier now stood fully open. White light poured from the store and spread over the concrete. Every instinct demanded that I run from my car, yet for a moment I couldn't move. The doorway remained open and inviting, with no person visible from where I stood. The back in five minutes sign had disappeared. It wasn't on the door lying nearby. It was simply gone, as if it had never existed. Music drifted from the store. It sounded like a generic instrumental arrangement of a song I couldn't identify. Played so quietly in with so much distortion that it seemed tiny and distant. At last my legs obeyed and I headed toward the corolla without taking my eyes from the open entrance. To reach the car, however, I had to cross directly in front of the store. The closer I came, the more of the interior I could see. The ceiling lights buzzed. On the coffee machine an LED clock flashed twelve o'clock, as if its power had only just been restored. The woman from the camera feed was now behind the register. She stood facing the cash register, keeping her back toward me. I saw the same straight dark hair and the same pale clothing. Both of her hands rested on the counter with the fingers spread far apart. She did not move in any way. Her body didn't rise with a breath and she never adjusted her balance. It was as though someone had frozen her in the middle of an action. I was roughly fifteen feet from the corolla when she spoke. Her voice wasn't loud but it crossed the open doorway in the humid night air with perfect clarity. Pump 3 is ready now, honey. The voice was wrong. It was excessively level and deliberate, like a person sounding out an unfamiliar language from a phonetic cue card. She still did not turn. I dug for the car keys in my pocket, sweat made them slide against my fingers. I don't need gas anymore, I managed to answer in my voice breaking. Thank you. The woman laughed. It was an empty hollow noise that lasted one beat longer than a natural laugh should. Then she finally began to turn around. I did not remain there long enough to see her face. I tore open the corolla's door, forced the key into the ignition, and the engine started on my first attempt. I accelerated out of the lot, throwing gravel behind me. In the rear view mirror, the woman stood in the gas station's doorway. Despite the distance and the darkness before dawn, I could now see the sight my mind refused to accept. She was dressed in medical scrubs, not a gown. They were the exact blue shade of the ones I wore, but the same hospital emblem printed over the chest. And then there was her face. I saw it for only a second before reaching the highway, but a second was enough. Looking at her was like seeing a photograph of myself after it had soaked in water for too long. The features were softened, distorted, and subtly incorrect. Yet the face was unmistakably mine. Seven miles farther down the highway my corolla finally exhausted the last of its fuel. I coasted onto the shoulder and called 911. With all the doors locked, I remained inside until sunrise, when a state trooper arrived carrying a gas can. When I described the Valero station he gave me an odd look. He said no gas station existed anywhere along that section of road, and that none had operated there for years. The closest open station was 12 miles back in the opposite direction. I insisted that he return with me to the location. He drove ahead, and I followed in my own car. He had been right. There was no functioning service station, only an overgrown property in the concrete base of a building that had once stood there. Plants and weeds pushed up through its fissures. A corroded chain-linked fence enclosed the grounds. There were no gasoline pumps, no illuminated canopy, and no convenience store. There was only unused land and a historical sign I had failed to see in the dark. It read, "Sight of Morning Glory Truck Stop." Demolished in 2003 after a fire claimed seven lives. I reported sick for the following three nights. When I eventually returned to Riverside, I transferred permanently to the day shift. I accepted the reduction in pay without making a single complaint. I never learned what became of the woman who sedans had abandoned in the lot, assuming she had ever been real at all. I also refused to travel that part of Highway 47 now. Sometimes while washing my hands at a hospital restroom, I glimpsed myself in the mirror. In those moments I remembered the woman behind the register wearing my face, and I have to turn away. Story 4. I was 22 and close to completing my senior year of college. But Friday in early May was supposed to involve nothing more than another dull drive home. At the last possible moment, my roommate had backed out of our weekend visit to see my cousin's new baby. That left me to make the three-hour trip by myself. The interstate ahead was almost vacant. Beyond my headlights, there was only darkness in the occasional 18-wheeler rolling past. My aging Nissan Altima had produced strange noises throughout the week, mostly a harsh grinding whenever I made a left turn. I assumed it could survive one final trip before I took it to be inspected on Monday. At approximately 11.30 pm, the gas gauge fell below one quarter full. I exited at one of those isolated service stations that appeared to exist exclusively for stranded or desperate motorists like me. Fluorescent lights covered the property in the sort of unsettling glow that drained the color from everything and made ordinary objects appear unnatural. Moths repeatedly hurled themselves against the fixtures above the pumps. Of course, the card terminal at the pump didn't work, so I had to pay in doors. An older woman sat behind the register wearing heavy glasses and working through a crossword book. She scarcely looked at me when I passed her $2.20 bills for pump #3. As she calculated my change, something moving beyond the dirty front window pulled my attention outside. The man wearing a black hoodie walked beside my car. His face was lost entirely in the hood's shadow. He traveled with a peculiar intentional slowness, as though examining something closely. He went behind the pumps in the far row and disappeared from sight. I expected him to reappear beside another vehicle or make his way toward the shop, but he never did. He simply vanished into the dark gap beyond the lights. The cashier gave me the change and muttered that I should be careful out there. Her gaze never properly met mine. That seemed unusual, but I let it go. She might only have been exhausted from working so late. When I reached my vehicle, I performed the instinctive check most people make in a deserted lot after dark. Before opening the door, I looked through the glass. at the rear seats. No one was inside. There was only my travel bag and a few empty water bottles sliding across the floor. The pump stopped at $38 and some change. I returned the nozzle to its holder, still wondering about the man in the hoodie. Where had he gone? Mine was the only customer vehicle at the station. The sole other car was an old dented Chevy parked along the side, and I assumed it belonged to the cashier. The hooded man could have gone to an outdoor restroom, although I hadn't noticed any sign pointing to one. It didn't concern me I told myself. I settled into the driver's seat, locked every door immediately, and rejoined the interstate. With another hour and a half left to drive, I turned the music up to keep myself alert. About 20 minutes later, just as the highways repetitive rhythm had begun to lull me, I heard something. It was a light tapping almost buried beneath the music. At first I blamed the car. Maybe the engine was making a new noise, or perhaps the grinding problem had finally worsened, but this sound was different. It had a pattern that seemed almost intentional. Tap, tap, tap. A pause. Tap, tap, tap. Another pause. It appeared to come from the passenger side. I lowered the volume and concentrated, feeling my fingers close more tightly around the steering wheel. The tapping ceased briefly then resumed. There was no question now. It came from the area around the passenger door. My mind rushed to sensible explanations. A piece of debris from the road might have become trapped somewhere, or the wind might be striking a loose component on that side of the vehicle. I increased the volume again and tried to dismiss it. Once I knew the noise existed, however, it was impossible not to hear. A green highway sign flashed through the beams of my headlights. The next exit was still 15 miles away. I kept glancing toward the passenger door, hoping to see anything that could account for the tapping. Instead, the sound became stronger and more demanding, like a person knocking because they wanted me to notice them. My entire body tightened. Without consciously deciding to do it, I leaned away from the passenger side. Then something at the edge of my vision caused me to twitch the steering wheel. The exterior handle on the passenger door was moving. The motion was slight. Tiny upward pulls as if someone outside were testing whether the latch would release. That couldn't be happening. I was traveling at 70 miles per hour on an interstate. My thoughts seemed to short circuit as I struggled to interpret the sight. The latch assembly might have been faulty. The speed could have made the handle vibrate. It could have been anything. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Without looking away from the highway, I reached across and pressed the lock control again, despite knowing that the doors were already secured. For several minutes, the car became quiet. The tapping vanished and the handle stopped lifting. All I heard was the steady roll of the tires over pavement and my own heart pounding against my chest. I began to convince myself that the whole thing had been imaginary. Finals week had been stressful. Perhaps it was finally affecting me. Then the phone and the cup holder lit up. A message had arrived from a number I didn't know. It contained only three words. Let me in. My foot lifted involuntarily from the accelerator. After a second, I forced it back down and maintained my speed. I didn't pick up the phone or send a reply. I kept driving while my thoughts spun through every possible explanation. Could somebody have obtained my number somehow? Was the message an unbelievably sick coincidence? The rational voice in my mind continued to call it a prank. The timing was simply too exact and too personal for me to believe that. A second text appeared. Getting cold out here. Part of me wanted to stop, climb out, and inspect the car so I could prove that nobody was there. Every survival instinct I possessed told me the opposite. Keep moving and do not pull over under any circumstances. At last, the exit came into view. I took the ramp much too quickly and my tires shrieked as I followed the curve. A shell station stood immediately off the highway. It was fluttered with light and thank God, occupied by other people. A family was getting into a minivan and a truck driver was filling his rig. They were ordinary people engaged in ordinary activities. I parked beneath the most powerful light I could find directly before the convenience stores windows. For one full minute, I remained in the driver's seat with the engine running and used every mirror to study the right side of the car. No one. With unsteady hands, I picked up my phone and tried to read the messages again. They had disappeared. I hadn't erased them. They were simply absent, as though they had never been received. My conversation history contained no trace of an unknown sender. The nausea in my stomach intensified. Either I was losing my mind or something genuinely up was taking place, and I couldn't decide which possibility frightened me more. A wrap against my window startled me so violently that I bit my tongue. It was only an employee from the station, a concerned looking young man of perhaps 19 or 20. I lowered the window no more than an inch. He asked whether I was all right and said I had been sitting in the same position, staring into space for nearly ten minutes. Ten minutes. To me no more than two seemed to have passed. I told him I was fine, only worn out from driving and taking a brief rest. He nodded but his attention kept moving toward my passenger door. A strange expression crossed his face. Then he asked whether I realized that the door was open. My blood seemed to turn into ice. The passenger door was a jar by one or two inches. Somehow the cabin light had not come on. I knew the door had been locked. I knew it with complete certainty because I had checked it more than once. The attendant offered to shut it and started around the front of my car. I nearly screamed at him to stop and move away. He sprang backward with both hands raised most likely convinced that I was completely unhinged. I climbed out through the driver's door on trembling legs. Keeping well away from the opening on the passenger side, I circled behind the vehicle. The employee remained nearby, now looking both bewildered and slightly afraid of me. I asked whether he had seen anyone approach the car after I arrived, struggling to hold my voice steady. He said no, I had been by myself the entire time. Then he paused and added something that nearly caused my knees to give way. "When I first pulled into the shell station," he said. The passenger seat appeared to have been pushed all the way back, as though a very tall person had occupied it. Now it had returned to its usual position. I looked through the window. The seat was exactly where I normally kept it, set to leave room for my backpack on the occasions when someone rode with me. But the floor mat showed marks from the sliding track, small depressions indicating that the seat had moved recently. New gouges were visible on the plastic rail. Scratches I had never seen before My purse always stayed on the floor in front of that seat. It was now lying on top of the cushion. It's belonging scattered as if someone had searched through it. The attendant recommended contacting the police. What could I possibly have reported? That an unknown person might have written on the exterior of my moving car. That threatening messages had appeared on my phone and then erased themselves. Any officer would assume I was intoxicated or experiencing a mental breakdown. Instead, I asked the employee to remain nearby and watch while I searched the vehicle. Using the light on my phone, I inspected beneath the front and rear seats. I even opened and checked the trunk. Nearly everything appeared normal. One exception made me want to leave the Nissan behind permanently. Dustin Paulin had accumulated around the exterior passenger door handle during the weekend trip. Now the surface contained smears, but they didn't resemble ordinary fingerprints. They were elongated drag marks, as if someone had held the handle only by their fingertips while the car traveled at speed. The person seemed to have gripped with enough force to cut entirely through the dirt. Four parallel streaks exposed the clean metal beneath. I photographed them with my phone. My hand shook so badly that most of the images were out of focus, but I needed some record proving that I hadn't invented what I saw. The employee stayed beside me while I phoned my father, whose home was around 40 minutes away. As we waited, the attendant told me a story that still returns in my nightmares. Approximately one month earlier, another young woman had arrived at the station around the same hour. She was hysterical and claimed that somebody had been hanging onto her car. They checked the surveillance recordings, but the cameras showed only the fuel pump area, not the place where she had left her vehicle. The police found nothing. She nevertheless refused to sit inside the car again and arranged for someone to take her away. Her vehicle remained in the parking lot for three days. When she finally returned with her boyfriend to retrieve it, muddy handprints covered the passenger side. Those prints had not existed when she left the car behind. According to the attendant, the strangest feature was the material mixed into the mud. It contained tiny scraps of fabric, perhaps from thick gloves or clothing. It looked as though someone had gripped the metal so fiercely that the material had worn away. Curious about what followed, the employee tried to learn more. By then, the woman had deleted all her social media accounts and seemed to have vanished. Her boyfriend told others that she had transferred to another school and moved home with her parents. She refused to discuss the incident. My father eventually arrived in his pickup. A baseball bat was clearly visible through the rear window, and he looked prepared to fight a war. He had brought my older brother with him. While I waited inside the truck, the two of them examined every inch of my car with flashlights. They discovered additional scratches beneath the passenger door handle. Similar marks appeared inside the wheel well, in spots where a person could theoretically cling if they were unstable enough to attempt it. My brother had always been the skeptic in our family, and he repeatedly argued that some reasonable explanation had to exist. Even he stopped speaking when he saw the arrangement of the scratches and how intentional the marks looked. We left the Nissan at the shell station for the rest of the night. I rode home wedged between my father and brother in the pickup. It was the safest I had felt in hours. Yet I still checked the side mirrors over and over. The following morning we returned with my uncle who worked as a mechanic. We hoped he might uncover a mechanical cause for at least some of what had happened. When we arrived, my vehicle was not where we had left it. It hadn't been stolen. It had simply been moved approximately three spaces away and parked in a perfectly straight line. The employee who helped me during the night was off duty. The day shift attendant said the Nissan had already been in that space when he started work at 6 am. He had no idea it had ever occupied a different spot. My uncle examined the odometer. It displayed three additional miles. Three miles had been driven even though the keys had stayed inside my pocket throughout the night. Two days later we sold the car to a salvage yard. I couldn't make myself sit in it again, merely seeing it made me nauseous. My parents helped me purchase another secondhand vehicle. During the final weeks of college I chose entirely different roads, used only crowded and brightly illuminated service stations, and avoided driving by myself after dark whenever possible. The report I submitted to the police produced nothing. Predictably it was treated as one more bizarre occurrence without evidence that any actual offense had taken place. Then approximately six months later, a detective called me from a town about 50 miles from the station where I had stopped. Officers there had arrested a man for breaking into vehicles at highway rest areas. When they searched his apartment they discovered hundreds of printed photographs. Some of the pictures showed car doors, specifically passenger doors. Photographed from odd low viewpoints. Other showed women driving alone at night captured through their passenger side windows. One box contained a collection of vehicle registration forms and insurance cards. Every item came from a different car and every car belonged to a young woman. My own paperwork was among them. I knew without doubt that it had been in the glove compartment when I sold the Nissan. The detective said the suspect refused to answer questions or offer any explanation. He repeated only that he liked to practice. Practice what? No one knew. Prosecutors could charge him only for the vehicle breakings they were able to prove. He received an 18-month sentence. He has been released now somewhere. Sometimes I wonder whether he has chosen another gas station as his hunting ground? I wonder if he is still practicing and what the hell he was preparing himself to do. Story 5 Last summer shortly after I turned 21, I began working overnight at a shabby gas station roughly 40 miles beyond Tucson. It stood beside Highway 89, on one of those lonely sections of road where an entire hour could pass without another person appearing. My hours were 11 o'clock at night until 7 o'clock the following morning. On an average shift I might serve three or four people in total. The owner was an older man named Frank. He paid me cash under the table, an arrangement that suited me because I needed money quickly for my student loan payments. There was nothing remarkable about the station itself. It had only two fuel pumps and a cramped convenience store area illuminated by fluorescent tubes that flickered constantly. The restroom always wreaked of bleach regardless of how thoroughly or how often I scrubbed it. Most nights I passed the time with paperback novels or videos on my phone. The goal was simply to remain awake while desert gusts shook the windows. The man arrived on a Wednesday night in July. His feet were the first detail I noticed. He wasn't wearing shoes. Both feet were coated in reddish dirt from the desert. And every step left another dusty mark across the white linoleum I had moped only an hour before. He appeared to be around 35. Loose jeans and a simple white t-shirt hung from his narrow body. His hair juttered out at awkward angles, as though he had just risen after sleeping outdoors. Dust covered him from his scalp to his bare toes, making it seem as if he had been tumbling through the soil. What unsettled me most, however, was the way he looked at me. His eyes were stretched wide and never blinked. From the instant he entered, they remained fixed directly on me. There was no obvious anger or hostility in the stare. It was only steady and deeply unnatural, and it created an urge in me to turn my gaze elsewhere. The electronic bell had beeped when he crossed the entrance. It was the same irritating tone that sounded for every visitor. But in the stillness of the store I remember it seeming unusually loud. He came directly to the register. He didn't inspect the shelves or glance at anything around him. He followed a straight line to the counter as though he already knew exactly where he intended to stand. When he was approximately three feet away, he stopped. He said nothing. Those fully open eyes continued to stare, and not once did the lids close. I waited for him to request fuel, cigarettes, or any ordinary item. After what seemed like a very long time, but was probably only ten seconds, I cleared my throat and asked whether he needed help. He inclined his head to one side, much like a dog reacting to an unfamiliar sound. Then, in a level voice without any emotion, he asked, "You've seen me before, haven't you?" I told him no, I didn't believe that I had. I attempted to keep my answer even despite the prickling sensation spreading over my skin. He offered no response. He only watched me. His eyes still refusing to blink for even the smallest fraction of a second. The fluorescent fixtures droned above us. In the far corner I heard the ice machine begin another cycle. They were ordinary background noises, but the silence separating us made each one seem far too prominent. Without looking away from me, the stranger put a hand into his pocket and removed a wrinkled $20 bill. With deliberate care he latered on the counter. "One lighter," he said. He indicated the display behind me where the inexpensive big lighters were stored. I turned and chose a blue one. When I faced him again, he had bent across the counter. His face hovered perhaps a foot from the place where my own head had been moments earlier. His eyes remained open and unwavering. That was when his odor reached me. It wasn't quite the smell of an unwashed body. It was a peculiar combination of metal, dry soil, and another scent I couldn't identify. The closest comparison I can make is scorched rubber. Trying to behave as though nothing were unusual, I entered the sale and told him the lighter cost $3.49. I began counting the money he was owed. Throughout the transaction, he whispered the same sentence repeatedly. "You've seen me before, haven't you? You've seen me before, haven't you?" It continued in an endless loop. Every repetition delivered with precisely the same pitch and rhythm, like a damaged recording. I nearly tossed the change at him because I wandered him out of the store so badly. Coins and bills totalling $16.51 spread across the warrant for Mike a counter. He never looked down at the money. Instead, he lifted the blue lighter toward the fluorescent glow and studied it as if it were an expensive jewel. He rolled the wheel, producing a small flame. The fire shone in his unblinking eyes. Two orange points appeared in the centers of his pupils, making his face even more disturbing. "Fire remembers," he said while continuing to watch the flame, even when people forget. He lowered the lighter, extinguished it with a click, and placed it inside his pocket. Then he turned toward the exit. I watched him cross the floor following the line of dusty footprints he had made. Immediately before reaching the door, he stopped and glanced back over one shoulder. "You'll see me again," he told me. His words did not sound exactly like a warning. He spoke with the casual certainty of someone announcing that morning would follow the night. The entry bell sounded as he left. Through the window, I watched him continue beyond the gas pumps and vanish into the blackness outside the parking lot lights. For about a minute, I remained behind the counter and attempted to understand what had happened. My first explanation was drugs. It had to be methamphetamine or something even stronger. We occasionally had customers arrive intoxicated, babbling nonsense and behaving as though everyone was pursuing them. This encounter felt unlike those. I couldn't stop thinking about his eyes or the fact that he hadn't blinked a single time during the five or six minutes he spent inside. I retrieved the mop to remove the red footprints. As I did, my gaze drifted to the surveillance display attached to the wall behind the register. The station had three security cameras. One covered the pumps, another watched the entrance, and the third recorded the counter. On the counter feed, I could see myself cleaning the floor exactly as expected. But the barefoot man was still visible in the precise place where he had been standing. This was not a stalled frame or an obvious software error. His body moved a little, maintaining the same faint swing motion he had made at the register. The timestamp beneath the video continued advancing second by second in real time. The mop handle slipped from my hands and struck the floor. Its clatter reverberated through the vacant shop. My heart hammered as I moved nearer to the monitor. I tried to convince myself that a smear marked the screen or that the relentless overhead lights had caused my vision to distort. They hadn't. The image plainly showed him beside the counter. Although my own eyes showed me that the physical space was empty. His mouth moved on the silent recording. Our inexpensive system didn't capture audio, but I could read what his lips formed. He was still repeating the question. You've seen me before, haven't you? I pressed a finger against the screen and then struck the side, the way people once lapped older television sets to repair the picture. Nothing altered. The stranger remained at the register. His neck tilted at that peculiar angle and his eyes still wide and lidless in the fuzzy black and white feed. I took out my phone and called Frank. I knew he would be furious about being awakened at two o'clock in the morning. The phone rang four times before he answered. His voice sounded heavy with sleep and irritation. I tried to describe what I was witnessing. It was clear that he believed I was either intoxicated or playing some kind of joke. Restart the system, he muttered. The controls are beneath the counter. Use the red switch beside the safe. I found the switch, turned the system off, counter to tennis, instructed, and restored the power. Every display went dark. Then the feeds returned one after another. The first camera showed the empty fuel area. The next showed the entrance. On the counter monitor, the dusty man was still present, gently rocking and silently repeating the same phrase. Now another part of the image was wrong. I could see myself behind the register, but the version of me on the screen stood absolutely motionless. In the actual store, I was walking back and forth and waving both arms to test the camera. My recorded image did none of those things. The following three hours were the longest I have ever endured. I attempted every solution that came to mind. I removed the monitor's plug from the outlet, covered the camera lens with tape, and even opened the security recordings on the ancient office computer in the back room. Every display produced the same scene. The man at the counter and my own image frozen behind it like a mannequin. The worst part was that customers entered during those hours. A truck driver stopped for coffee at approximately 330. Shortly after four, a woman came into purchase cigarettes. On the surveillance footage, both customers look normal. They moved naturally and interacted with the real version of me. Even though the system did not depict my movements correctly, the barefoot man remained in their path. They passed directly through his body as though he were an apparition and never gave any indication that they could see him. While assisting them in the physical store, I repeatedly glance toward the monitor. Each time I looked, the man's head turned slightly within the feed to follow me. His eyes tracked every movement despite his absence from the room. At around 5am, the recording changed. The stationary version of me suddenly began to move. It did not copy anything I was doing in reality. Instead, it walked out from behind the register and took a place beside the shoeless stranger. Both figures face the security camera. They stared through it at me. Then my duplicate began shaping words with its mouth. The phrase differed from the man's, but my image repeated it with the same mechanical pattern. I couldn't determine what my other self was saying. The barefoot man's message also changed. His lips now form the words. You'll remember me now. Both figures turned away and walked toward the exit. The screen showed them leaving, and on the entrance feed, the doorbell indicator illuminated when they crossed the doorway. Inside the real store, the electronic bell made no sound. I watched the exterior camera as the pair moved beyond the pumps and into the desert. They diminished in the distance until the approaching dawn swallowed them. After they disappeared, the monitors returned to ordinary operation. My live image moved when I moved. Every gesture synchronized perfectly again, as though the system had never malfunctioned. Frank came in at 6.45 am to take over. I made another attempt to explain the incident, but he dismissed it with an eye roll and blamed the outdated cameras. That setup is from 2001, he said while inspecting the cash drawer. It probably needs to be replaced anyway. He showed no concern about the man's dusty footprints. By then, the marks had hardened into a strange red stain across the linoleum. No amount of scrubbing could remove it. Frank also refused to examine the recordings. He said he had more important things to do than sit through security video that showed nothing. I drove away that morning as the sun rose, exhausted and disoriented. During the ride, I tried to persuade myself that I had witnessed an intricate prank. Perhaps I had fallen asleep briefly and dreamed everything. Three days later, I resigned. I told Frank that my class timetable had changed and that overnight work was no longer possible for me. But the next part is what continues to bother me. It is the reason I decided to write the entire experience down. Around one month later, I went shopping at a Walmart on the opposite side of town. It was the middle of the afternoon with full daylight outside an entirely ordinary day. I was examining flashlights in the camping department when I noticed him three miles away. He had the same dirt-covered bare feet, the same white shirt, and the same fixed, unblinking stare. He held a camping lantern and studied it as though it were the most interesting object he had ever encountered. When he realized that I was looking at him, he smiled. It was the only expression I ever saw appear on his face. He raised the lantern, switched it on, and silently formed the words again. You've seen me before. Then he returned the lantern to the shelf, turned, and walked away. I didn't follow him. I didn't summon store security. I did nothing except leave my cart where it stood and walked straight out of the building. I have not encountered him since. Even so, I find myself inspecting surveillance monitors wherever I go, at service stations, supermarkets, and nearly anywhere else, just to confirm that my image moves when I do. Up to now it always has, so far. Story 6. On the night when everything fell apart, I had just completed a 16-hour shift at the repair garage on Highway 12, approximately 40 miles outside Bakersfield. My knuckles were cracked and bleeding after I spent the afternoon fighting with a transmission that refused to cooperate. The only reason I remained awake was the energy drink I bought from the vending machine before closing the shop. The garage occupies an odd dead stretch between two little towns. Almond groves in Bakentfield surrounded for miles in every direction. Most evenings, mine would be the sole car on that section of road during the entire journey home. My only company was whichever podcast I had downloaded for the drive. My girlfriend had always hated those late hours. She said 32 was too old to keep ruining my health for a little over time. She wasn't wrong, but our expenses weren't going to cover themselves. About halfway home, I stopped at the Texaco station. The one with a blinking sign that its managers never seemed interested in repairing. The place had always made me uneasy, particularly after dark, when its fluorescent lighting drained the color from everything and gave the property a pale, unhealthy appearance. Only one other vehicle was present when I arrived. It was a battered green pickup from the 1970s, possibly an old dodge. Rust had eaten holes around the wheel wells and duct tape held the shattered windshield together. The truck looked as if it had traveled into hell and somehow returned. Thick mud covered the tires and long scratches ran across both side panels. I assumed its owner worked in agriculture or construction. One of those occupations that punished a vehicle every day. The windows had been tinted so heavily that I couldn't see anything inside. That seemed like a ridiculous modification for a truck in such terrible condition. I went into the store to prepare for fuel and by coffee. Behind the register was a young clerk who couldn't have been more than 19. I gave him a nod as I entered. The building smelled of stale hot dogs mixed with the strange chemical cleanser commonly used in service station restaurants. rooms. While the machine coughed out a liquid that only barely deserved to be called coffee, I glanced through the window and realized someone had entered the green pickup. Its drivers doors stood open, and the overhead light glowed inside. The person remained concealed behind the nearly black tent, though. All I could distinguish was a pair of worthboots resting on the pavement. They were enormous, perhaps size 13 or 14, and red clay filled the groups in their souls. The boots didn't shift during the entire time I waited for the machine to finish. They remained perfectly planted, as if whoever sat in that seat were silently observing someone or something. By the time I returned outside to use the pump, the truck store had closed. Its engine was running, producing a ragged and inconsistent idle that badly needed attention. From 20 feet away I could hear the motor knocking. It had the recognizable rhythm of an engine firing on perhaps five of its six cylinders. Because I was a mechanic, sounds like that always irritated me. Hearing them was like listening to fingernails being dragged across a chalkboard. I dispensed the $30 of gasoline I had paid for and made an effort not to stare at the pickup. Still, quick motion kept appearing at the edge of my vision. The drivers seemed to be changing or adjusting something on the dashboard. The movements were sharp and spasmodic in a way that didn't look natural. Once I finished fueling and sat inside my own car, the truck's headlights abruptly came on. They were the round old-fashioned kind that cast yellow illumination rather than white. For one second they flooded the entire interior of my car before dropping to their ordinary brightness. I left the property and returned to the highway. At the red light I checked my phone and found three unanswered calls from my girlfriend. The dashboard clock displayed 11.47 pm. She had probably fallen asleep by then. Roughly one mile farther down the road, a pair of lights appeared in my rear view mirror. Headlights behind me were not unusual. What mattered was their yellow color. They were the same lamps I had seen on the pickup at Texaco. The truck stayed about three vehicle lengths back and matched my movement exactly. Before allowing that space to increase or decrease, when I accelerated to 70 it accelerated to. When I slowed to 55 as a test, the two yellow beams reduced speed with me. The strangest behavior was the driver's use of the high beams, two extended flashes, three brief ones, then a pause lasting approximately 30 seconds before the sequence began again. Initially I tried to believe the driver was simply another person returning home late, perhaps drunk and unaware of how closely he was following. But an intoxicated motorist does not hold an exact distance for 10 consecutive miles. A drunk doesn't respond to every change in speed with that degree of accuracy. Near mile marker 47 I chose the Miller road exit, although the detour would extend my drive by 20 minutes. The pickup took the same ramp. It hit the bend far too quickly, and it's tires screamed against the roadway. That eliminated any remaining doubt. No one mistakenly follows another car onto an exit that serves almost nothing except farmland in a handful of scattered homes. My mouth had gone dry. Sweat began soaking my work shirt despite the air conditioner sending cold air directly into my face. Miller road is an old agricultural route that receives very little maintenance. Potholes cover it. Street lights don't exist, and endless lines of grapevines border both sides. About two miles ahead was an unpaved shortcut that reconnected with the main highway. I had taken it many times during harvest season when I wanted to avoid traffic. The truck remained close behind me. By then its yellow glow completely filled my rear window. The damaged engine had grown louder, as if the driver were deliberately revving it. Every few seconds the high beams repeated their pattern. Then I became aware of something else. Between the bursts of light came tiny taps from the horn, so faint that I initially wondered whether I had imagined them. It sounded as if the driver were attempting to send a message, or simply trying to break me down psychologically. I made the turn onto the dirt track at nearly 40 miles per hour. The rear of my car slid sideways before the tires found traction in the gravel. Dust erupted around us, forming a dense cloud that should have blinded anyone behind me for at least 10 seconds. This was my opportunity to create some space. Perhaps even leave the psychopath lost in the dirt and darkness. I switched off my headlights and pressed the accelerator, relying only on moonlight to guide me along the thin path between irrigation channels. The bottom of my car slammed into a deep groove. I heard the exhaust drag across stones, but I kept going. The area behind me contained only blackness and settling dust. The yellow lights had vanished. I couldn't hear the pickup's engine. There was only gravel snapping beneath my tires in the sound of my breathing. I continued for another minute before the uncertainty became unbearable. I needed to know whether I had actually escaped. Beside an abandoned water tower that had gone on use since the drought began, I pulled over and turned the engine all the way off. The silence felt almost solid. Crickets chirped outside while the cooling engine made small ticking noises. For perhaps five minutes I stared into the mirrors and listened for the battered motor. Nothing approached. My phone had no service in that area, which wasn't surprising. It did mean that asking anyone for help was impossible. I began to laugh although the sound was nervous, unstable, and nothing like my usual voice. There I was. A grown man concealed in the dark because I was afraid of a stranger in an old truck. My girlfriend had been right. I needed work with reasonable hours. A job where bizarre like this didn't happen. Eventually I gathered enough courage to restart the car. I decided I would go directly to a police station rather than return home. That was when two circles of yellow appeared in the reflection of my rear window. They hovered in the darkness about ten feet behind the car. The pickup was there. Its engine was completely silent. It sat in the center of the dirt road as if it had formed out of empty air. There had been no cloud of dust, no approaching motor, and no warning of any kind. The truck's lamps weren't actually switched on. What I saw was the red light from my own taillights reflecting from its round glass headlamp lenses. Every part of my body locked. I couldn't move, and I couldn't make myself turn around for a direct look. Then the pickup strivers door creaked open. The same massive boots I had observed at the station landed on the gravel with a damp thump. Footsteps began advancing toward me. They were measured and unhurried with a slight drag in the gate as if one leg were longer than the other. Each step produced a wet squelching noise. It sounded like the boots had been saturated with some dense substance. The walking ceased immediately beside my driver's door. At the edge of my side, I could make out a shadow. It was tall and wrong in some indefinable way. Its physical proportions didn't appear entirely human, even though logic insisted that they had to be. An odor began leaking through the closed windows as well. It combined engine oil with something living that had decayed, like an animal carcass left beneath the sun for several days. Then the figure tapped against the glass. These weren't heavy knocks. They were delicate strikes made by something metallic, perhaps a ring or a tool. The tapping followed the exact code the high beams had used earlier. Two long sounds followed by three short ones. At last, I forced my head to turn. The person outside wore a mechanics coveralls identical to mine. They were the same blue and displayed the same company emblem over the chest. The face made no sense. Its features appeared smeared and indistinct as if I viewed them through frosted glass. Only the eyes were sharply visible. They were unnaturally bright and reflected illumination that didn't exist. The smile was worse than everything else. It stretched far too wide and exposed far too many teeth. Every tooth had been sharpened into a point the way an animal's might be. My instinct to survive finally overcame the paralysis. I twisted the ignition through the transmission into drive and forced the accelerator to the floor. The wheels spun through loose gravel before gripping and the car launched into the night. In the mirror, the figure remained standing in the road. It didn't chase me or make any attempt to return to the trunk. For the following ten minutes, I drove recklessly. I intentionally made three incorrect turns and doubled back twice, doing anything I could to ensure I wasn't still being pursued. It was nearly 2 am when I reached home. Even then, I stayed in the driveway for another hour with every door locked, watching the street from movement. I called out sick for the next three days. I could not force myself to travel that route again. I never encountered the green pickup after that night. I never discovered what the figure wanted or why it wore a uniform from my garage. But sometimes while I'm locking up late, random noises still recreate that sequence. Too long, three short. Whenever I hear it, every muscle in my body tightens. Stories I had already spent hours behind the wheel, traveling toward the small town where my aunts funeral was scheduled for later that morning. The highway seemed to have no end. It was little more than a thin strip of fractured pavement disappearing into the darkness. The dashboard clock has to dim glow and showed that it was shortly after four o'clock. The horizon remained black as ink, with only the faintest hint that dawn might be approaching. I hadn't passed another vehicle in what felt like forever. The only thing beside the road was an unbroken line of utility poles and wires fading into emptiness. It was the sort of silence that made the beat of my own heart noticeable. The low-fuel warning had been illuminated for some time. I kept reassuring myself that another station had to appear soon. Then the engine coughed. The car lost momentum and rolled to a complete stop, and it felt as though the atmosphere around me suddenly gained weight. For a moment I remained in the driver's seat and looked down at the steering wheel. The only noise was the quiet ticking of the engine as it cooled. Beyond the windows the world appeared drained of color. The light was so weak and uncertain that I couldn't tell whether I was watching the final minutes of night or the first moments of morning. I climbed out and rested against the open door, inhaling air that smelled of dirt and chilled metal. The road extended in both directions with the precision of a ruler. There wasn't a single indication that anyone else was alive out there. That was when I noticed the light. Farther ahead something flickered. A weak electrical glow buzzed in the distance, like an ancient neon tube struggling not to die. The gas station seemed as if it had been deserted for several decades. One fuel pumped leaned at an angle outside. Its peeling paint was that faded shade of green found only on objects that had been neglected for years. Above the entrance a sign displayed the word "open." One of its letters flashed more slowly than the others, creating a peculiar and uneven rhythm. Dust streaked the glass door. Through it I could distinguish shelves holding sunfaded packages of snacks, a cooler rimmed with frost, and an old rotary telephone resting on the counter. The entire building belonged to the wrong period, walking toward it felt like stepping into an old photograph that no one had remembered to bring into the present. I opened the door. The small bell mounted above it produced a frail jingle that seemed to reverberate far longer than it should have. Inside the stagnant air smelt of cardboard and coffee that had been sitting for years. At first the man behind the counter didn't react to my arrival. He leaned over an open ledger with sparse grey hair standing in strange directions. The shirt hanging from his shoulders appeared two sizes too large. When he eventually raised his head his eyes looked weary and lifeless. Beneath that exhaustion however something sharpened instantly as if he had just awakened. His voice was slow and rough when he spoke. You came back. For a second I assumed he had confused me with a different person. I told him that I hadn't returned because I had never visited the station before. My car had run out of fuel I explained and I needed to telephone someone. He only studied me. His expression suggested that he was trying to determine whether I was dishonest or simply bewildered. I moved nearer and indicated the rotary phone on the counter. "Could I use that?" I asked. I meant for the question to sound composed but my voice came out weaker and higher than I intended. The man waited before responding. About taking his eyes from my face he used two fingers to push the telephone toward me. The quiet inside that room bore down on me more heavily than the darkness beyond its walls. Somehow the telephone functioned. A low dial tone hummed through the receiver. I dialed the roadside assistance number printed on my membership card. The line rang and rang but no one answered. I tried a second time and received exactly the same result. The man continued leaning against the counter, watching me. Then he asked, "Did you ever find your brother?" The sentence struck me with physical force. I stared at him. My mouth suddenly dry. "I don't have a brother," I said. He tipped his head slightly to one side like someone who had heard a joke but failed to understand it. Reaching beneath the counter he retrieved a crushed piece of paper. It was an old fuel receipt, yellow and brittle around the edges. He smoothed it beneath his palm and slid it toward me. "You sign this," he said. I looked down, prepared to tell him again that he was mistaken. Then I saw my own name printed across the bottom in the tidy thermal lettering used by gas station registers. The date on the receipt was exactly one year before that morning. For what seemed like an endless stretch of time I stared at the paper while my thoughts twisted around the impossibility of it. "That can't be real," I whispered. The man gave a small shrug. "You said the same thing last time," he murmured, almost as if speaking only to himself. His gaze shifted beyond me toward the front window, and he watched it as though another person might enter at any moment. Outside the open sign flickered once more. It's changing light washed over his features in separate frames. Calm then darkness, then brightness again, like an aging film reel skipping through its images. The room grew colder. The air seemed denser. I demanded to know where the receipt had come from, but he didn't reply. Instead he slowly and intentionally reached below the counter again. A drawer slid open, and the noise echoed across the motionless store. I retreated one step. The boards beneath my boots groaned. When the man looked up again, he held an old Polaroid photograph. He set it down beside the receipt. This was you. He set in a quiet voice. The photograph showed a woman beside the same tilted gas pump outside. Her vehicle was identical to mine in both modeling color. Even the dent beside the rear bumper was the same. Her face stopped my breath. She looked exactly like me, including the little scar near my eyebrow that I had carried since childhood. I leaned closer, nearly persuaded that the image had to be some kind of trick, but the Polaroid paper was aged in yellow and its corners curled upward. The man's hands shook faintly when he drew them away. You always say that, he muttered. Every year just before dawn, I told him I was leaving. There had to be another service station somewhere close by. He made no attempt to keep me there. As I turned toward the entrance, however, he spoke again. You won't remember any of this by the time the sun comes up. His voice was empty and accepting. The voice of someone reciting a sentence he had already delivered a thousand times. Outside, Grey had begun to spread across the horizon. A low line of morning light stretched over the asphalt. My car remained exactly where I had abandoned it. When I tested the ignition, the engine started immediately, as though the tank had never run dry. The fuel gauge indicated full. I didn't pause to question it. I drove away. The station disappeared from the rear-view mirror much faster than distance should have allowed. I blinked once and the building was gone, as if the desert had closed over it completely. By the time I reached the town, its roads were still vacant. The lights inside the church flickered to life while I parked. I remained in the car for a long while, looking at my own reflection in the windshield. My hair carried a faint odor of gasoline. When I lowered my eyes, a single piece of paper lay on the passenger seat. It was a receipt bearing the same date as the one the man had shown me at the station. This copy had no signature. I still possess it. Every year, at approximately the same time, the paper turns up somewhere different. I have discovered it in my mailbox and inside the glove compartment. Once it appeared in the pocket of my jacket, I tried to burn it on one occasion. The printing did not vanish. The ink only became darker. My aunt's funeral has faded into a distant, indistinct memory. That morning, beside the highway, however, has never lost its clarity. I have never traveled that route again. Sometimes when I awaken before daybreak, the electric buzzing of the neon sign returns inside my head. For one brief moment, I can smell dirt and gasoline, and I hear the faint remnant of a voice asking. You came back. Story 8. After midnight, a particular kind of silence settled over the gas stop where I worked. It wasn't a soothing silence. It vibrated beneath the fluorescent tubes and gave every small noise a cutting edge. The steady hum of the refrigerators, the faint mechanical clicking of the fuel pumps, and even the radiostatic behind the register. Together, those sounds created a rhythm familiar only to people who spend their nights working while everyone else sleeps. I had been employed at that station for approximately a year. I took the overnight shift because it came with slightly better pay and none of my co-workers wandered it. On most nights, the parking lot remained vacant, apart from a handful of long haul drivers who came inside for coffee or a restroom break. During one particular week, however, the stillness changed. It felt denser somehow as if the night were holding information I had not yet learned. I first noticed the van. in the farthest corner of the lot, where the final light pole barely reached. It was an ordinary white cargo van with no windows along its sides. A dirty streak marked one door and a metal ladder had been fastened to the rear. The motor was running, but the headlights were dark. I remember finding that unusual. Still travelers often left the interstate to sleep for a while or make telephone calls, so I didn't spend much time considering it. At about 3am I went outside to replenish the windshield cleaning fluid beside the pumps. The van remained in the same place. Its engine quietly idling. When I checked the lot one hour later, it had disappeared. The following night it returned. It was the same van in the same corner with its engine humming in every light switched off. Nothing about it had changed. Even the streak of grime across its bumper looked identical. I leaned against the counter and observed it through the station window. Moisture slowly collected across the windshield, but the vehicle itself never shifted. No one stepped out. No one climbed inside. Once dawn colored the sky pink, the van was gone again. I tried to explain it as a delivery worker sleeping between jobs. Even so, I began looking toward that part of the property more frequently than I intended, almost waiting for the vehicle to appear. By the fourth night, it was more than another object in the landscape. It became the first thing I searched for whenever I walked outside. That area of the lot seemed colder than the rest, as though the heat stored in the asphalt couldn't spread far enough to reach it. On one occasion, I aimed my flashlight toward the windows and attempted to see into the cab. The glare reflected directly back at me. I saw no silhouette, movement, or sign of anyone inside. The low vibration of the engine merged with the station's nighttime noises until I could hardly decide whether I was truly hearing it. The precision disturbed me most. The van came at the same hour and occupied the same exact place every time, as if an invisible chalk outline had been drawn on the pavement, and it was allowed to park nowhere else. One evening, a delivery driver named Eli stopped for coffee. He mentioned seeing the white van arrive once again. He made a joke about how unsettling it looked sitting in the shadows with the engine running. His laughter faded when I didn't laugh with him. Eli asked whether I had approached it to see what was going on. No, I told him. It isn't my concern, as long as whoever's in there pays for fuel. He gave a shrug and walked out. The bell above the entrance rang behind him. I remained at the register and looked through the window toward the van. I couldn't rid myself of the feeling that someone in the dark driver's seat was staring back at me. By the sixth night, I had decided to approach it. Curiosity had combined with the unease accumulating inside me throughout the week, and I needed an answer. At around 2am, I took my flashlight and went outside. The air was moist and cold enough to hurt the ends of my fingers. Every footstep across the empty lot reverberated through the quiet more loudly than I expected. When I arrived beside the van, its engine was operating. I could feel the faint mechanical tremor rising through the souls of my shoes. I tapped gently against the driver's window. There was no response. I walked around to the rear and discovered that the van had no license plates. A length of duct tape covered the space where a plate should have been mounted. I remember that minor feature with complete clarity because it appeared intentional. Whoever used the vehicle did not want anyone to identify or locate it. The next day, I described the situation to my manager. She contacted the local police. They promised to send an officer to investigate, but no one arrived that night. I completed the shift in the ordinary way. The van came back at its usual time and stopped in its usual corner. This time, I remained indoors and kept it with insight through the glass entrance. Its motor blended with the surrounding hum. Eventually, I could no longer hear it at all. There seemed to be only silence. I waited for a person to emerge, but the vehicle stayed motionless. At the first trace of sunrise, it vanished again. The police finally appeared the next night. At approximately 2.30 AM, two patrol vehicles entered the lot. Their flashing red and blue lights reflected across the station windows. From behind the counter, I watched the officers walk toward the van with their flashlights cutting through the darkness. They remained beside it for a long time. Then one officer signaled to the other. Several minutes later, the older of the two came into the store and asked whether I was the person who had called. I explained that my manager had been the one who contacted the police. He advised me to remain behind the register. His voice sounded composed, but there was something unsettling in it. The rehearsed calm of someone trained to hide concern, which only made me more anxious. The officers opened the driver's door. One of them recoiled immediately and raised a hand over his mouth. When the beam of a flashlight changed direction, I caught a brief view of the interior. A man had collapsed over the steering wheel. His skin was gray and his eyes were partly open, as though he had spent an extremely long time gazing at an empty point in front of him. The motor continued to run. That seemed impossible. If the van had truly been returning for days, the engine couldn't have operated continuously for that entire period. Then the odor reached me. It was weak at that distance, but strong enough to constrict my throat. The officers cordoned off the corner and requested additional units. I watched from inside as they opened the cargo doors at the back. One officer gave a low whistle, the sound of someone who had discovered something even worse than the body in the front. Later, another officer entered to record my statement. He explained that a false compartment had been built beneath the van's floor. It contained stolen electronics, hundreds of mobile phones, cameras, and tablets. Many of them still unopened in their original packaging. The dead man's wallet held no identification. There was no driver's license or any document that could reveal his name. Investigators believed he might have belonged to an organized theft operation and used the interstate to transport stolen merchandise. They said his death appeared to have resulted from natural causes. No one could determine how long he had occupied the driver's seat before somebody finally looked inside. The officers thought he had probably died several days before I first noticed the van. That possibility has remained with me ever since. I had passed the vehicle every night, sometimes at a distance close enough for my hand to reach its door, without realizing that a dead man was inside. Whenever I went outside to sweep the property or refill the windshield washer fluid, I must have walked within only a few feet of him. Even now the idea weighs on me. Something so terrible had remained silently visible, while I completed my normal duties and behaved as though the world were orderly and understandable. For a long while after that week, I expected another pair of headlights to enter the lot and stop in that same corner, with an engine murmuring gently in the dark. I no longer work at the station. But whenever I travel past that interstate exit, I find myself looking toward the gas stop without consciously deciding to do it. The lamp beside the place where the van used to park still flickers sometimes, or perhaps it flickered all along, and I simply never noticed it before.