Chapter Text
Somewhere in rural Maine, a small woodsy town, and further off that, sits a gas station, worn down and decrepit.
That's where I work.
The late shift, from eleven pm to eight am.
I make minimum wage, I clean spills, I deal with late night crackheads and suspicious characters.
Six years ive wasted in this shithole, but thats fine, i have a decent enough place, inherited from a dead uncle who hated his own kids, and a decent enough car, a 2001 regular cab with a wicked case of rustitis and a check engine light thats been on since i bought the thing.
All around, my life's boring but peaceful, odd at times, strange figures that lurk around me, odd gaps in my memory.
They started a few years back, after an.. Incident? I can't quite remember.
I remember interrogation rooms, cops stationing themselves around my house, local news outlets and gazettes following me around.
Eventually life settled, went back to normal, a few medical issues i cant remember the cause of, like the perpetual limp in my left leg, the shaking of my hands, chronic migraines, and such.
Tonight's one of those shifts that feels longer than it should, what was supposed to have been my night off ended up cut short when Catherine, my older coworker, in her forties I believe, called to ask if I'd cover her, a family emergency or something. Roy, in his early thirties, had asked her to cover originally. I was the only option left, as Cory, a freshly 17 year old, can't work alone, let alone work third shift.
I’d agreed, simply because I like Cathy, and quite frankly, I'd rather work than sit at home and wallow.
Fluorescent lights flicker, the fridges that line the back wall hum, there's no cars, three AM off the backroads, not a soul traverses this little sector so late, so I resign myself to reading porno mags behind the counter on my uncomfortable wood stool.
A truck pulls up to one of four pumps. I can see it through the slightly yellowed glass window by the counter, a truck I recognize, a red 1985 chevy silverado with a white stripe on the hood.
Another strange thing about this job, is these guys, regulars, every single night, around three or four, these three men come in, a shorter, burly guy, who reeks of cigarettes, with sideburns to kill, a younger kid, early twenties id say, who twitches and jerks, occasionally makes random sounds or parrots sentences, scraggly facial hair and a stutter, and the tallest one, dirty blond, quiet, unnerving in a way i dont think about, noticeably southern when he speaks.
They always buy the same items, a medium coffee, a snack, a pack of Marlboro reds, and twenty to thirty bucks on whatever pump they're on. Always in cash.
Usually they come in together, occasionally only one does, which i prefer, one third of the trio staring you down is significantly less uncomfortable then the whole posse.
Tonight is one of those nights, and tonight, it's the tall one, Brian, as he'd introduced himself a few years ago. I'd come to know all their names in my time.
I set my magazine aside when he struts his way up to the counter, setting a medium coffee, and a bag of sour gummy worms on the counter.
“A pack of reds and twenty-five on three, please.” he says, a soft, friendly smile on his face. Brian is.. Disturbing, uncanny, even. He's fake nice, southern hospitality if the south was hell.
You'd never be able to tell from a distance, but up close, when you look at him, really look, you can tell there's something inhuman beneath the surface.
I grab the cigarettes off the back wall with a nod, sliding them to the small pile on the counter, typing into the register.
“40.61 is your total, anything else?” I hum, doing my best impression of friendly as I glance at him, he glances at me, like he's picking apart my being with a scalpel.
He hands me a fifty.
“No, that's all” he shakes his head, i slide his 9.39 in change across the counter with his bag of items. Ignoring his eyes on me.
“Have a nice night.” said with an uncomfortable lit, he parrots the wish as he walks out with a “you to.”
I watch for a while through the window as he dishes out items, leaning on the hood of the truck as the shorter man, Tim, pumps gas, leisurely chatting, before going back to reading the dirty magazine I'd set aside.
The trio had started showing up shortly after the incident, they're familiar in a strange way, like i remember them from somewhere, and if i tried hard enough i could pinpoint it.
Brian is the one who I feel is right on the precipice of my memory, maybe it's his accent. Briefly, on occasion, I've wondered if we grew up in the same area, or went to school together, I've debated asking but never did.
He strikes an odd fear into me, albeit unwarranted, he's never been anything but cordial to me.
Gaptoothed smiles and the occasional odd joke.
But something about him and his buddies, it's like being dissected, monitored, and mildly threatened.
None of my coworkers seem to recall the group, it's like they only show up on nights I work, not even Roy, the other nightshifter, knows them.
Which, being the paranoid son of a bitch I am, does make me a tad suspicious, though I have no grounds for it despite that fact, which could just be coincidence.
It's nearly four by now ,which means it's nearly my break time, and their truck is still sitting by the pump, not abnormal, ive grown used to it, taking my breaks while being monitored by something other than the busted cameras from the 80’s.
At 4:20, I step out for my break. The truck had moved to one of the empty parking spots left of the door, not just any though, the one right beside my own. I hesitate by the door, dim, flickering blue light on my back from the neon sight that says ‘Liquor’ on the glass by the door. I can see all three sitting in the vehicle, feel their eyes as I move, adjusting the worn, dirty at the seams jacket, on my shoulders, ignoring the following stares as I grab the pack of cigarettes from my cup holder.
I get myself situated on the curb in front of the store, to the right of the door, just in front of the ice cooler, fiery embers burning brighter as I inhale, breath visible with each exhale as smoke curls around my face.
I absently scroll through my phone, ignoring the indistinct, muffled, speaking coming from the truck. And the twin smoke curling from the driver's side window.
Emails from true crime podcasts, news outlets, missed calls from unknown numbers, i read through them but dont respond to any of them.
Over the years I’d sort of put together a rough idea of what happened, I was a witness to something I think. I got injured real bad and spent a week or two in a coma. That much I know. My doctor at the time believed that was the reason for my mild amnesia, that and my trauma riddled brain blocking out the whole event.
I have bouts of panic for reasons I can't pinpoint, a smell or sound that makes me panic, nightmares of shadow clad figures who I can't remember.
The sound of a creaky truck door opening drags my attention off an email begging me to talk on their podcast I would've ignored anyway.
I glance up from my spot on the concrete to the man making his way over to me, the shorter one, Tim, burly, and awkward. The leader of the pack as far as i can tell.
A cigarette hangs from his lips, a mirror of my own.
He stands over me, looking down at me
“Hey” he says after a moment of uncomfortable staring.
“... Hey?” I respond, hesitant, suspicious.
“Know any good places to get a bite around here?”
He asks, slowly, like it's not what he actually wanted to ask, but he needs to say something now that he's come this far.
“Uhm, there’s a bar a ways down the road, they don't open for a while yet. Not many places around these parts unless you want mcdonalds” i gesture to the distance with a shrug, tucking my phone into my jacket pocket, crossing my arms over my lap as I lean forward.
His buddies are watching from the truck, I feel like a zoo exhibit, I feel like I'm being analized, studied.
I swallow hard after a moment of his uncomfortable silence.
“What time do they open?” as he flicks ash to the ground.
I snuff the butt of my own on the ground.
“Eleven i believe” i say as i push off the ground with a small wobble in my footing, adjusting my weight to the right.
I don't notice the small, amused grin on his face as he watches, like he's proud of something.
He corrects his face when I look back at him, but his eyes stay trained on the ridges and lumps of the knee brace under my jeans.
“Right, thanks.” he mumbles, turning and walking off.
Strange.
I go back inside, getting myself settled behind the counter for the remaining three hours of my shift, a different porno mag spread out in front of me.
Around six, there's a small influx of customers, and at eight, Roy comes to relieve me.
Clocked out and exhausted, I sat in my truck for a while with a cigarette before heading home.
I ignore the red truck that pulls out of a driveway behind me, just someone going to work probably. It's nothing to be concerned about.
My phone buzzes in my pocket on occasion, either spam or more true crimers getting my number somehow.
Nine or so, back at home, with a rather sad bowl of cereal, a pill organizer, and a searing migraine, I check my messages, as I suspected, it's mostly spam.
Though one message catches my eye, an image, and a note.
“You looked nice tonight :)”
“We missed you, we’ll see you soon!”
Right under the picture, which is of me, hours ago, sitting behind the counter, oblivious and monitored.
My breath catches and I have to set my spoon down.
Something strange, and familiar settles in my gut, panic, fear, disgust. A series of crashing waves of nausea.
I don't respond to any of them. Powering off my phone the second those three little typing bubbles start.
The number is saved in my contacts, but there's no prior messages, under the name ‘:)’.
Which isn't any clue.
I slide the device across the counter as far as I can, burning holes in it with my mind.
Why is this so familiar? It's just some kid pranking me I bet.
My cereal is finished in a paranoid blur, setting the bowl in the sink and making quick work of locking every door and window in my home before I sleep.
Sending a message to a cop friend, and making sure there's not a soul alive within 50 feet of me just in case.
The next few weeks are a blur of work, sleep, and panic.
My medications seem to be running out faster, and I feel watched, like there's people in my house, shadows darting around every corner.
Neon sticky notes stuck to random things i own, either with notes or cryptic doodles, codes i can't understand, and don't bother to, simply throwing them away immediately.
My cop friend, Officer Fillmore, sits outside my house occasionally, his coworkers too, they'd jumped on it the second i said something.
Something or other about potentially closing the case i’d apparently been a part of if this is what they think it is.
That's what they'd said originally.
They claim they haven't seen anyone enter or exit my home, but every time I come home, there's notes, pictures, random items relocated or missing.
Now all that comes out of their mouths is: ‘are you taking your meds?’ ‘have you seen your doctor lately?’
Pity and concern, like I'm having a mental break. Going crazy.
I sure feel like I am.
Today, I called Fillmore, I told him not to bother with the patrols, I told him I'm probably just stressed and that I'll consult my therapist.
Mostly i just didnt wanna ‘boy who cried wolf’ myself, and not have anyone show up on the off chance something is going on.
I show up to work a few minutes early tonight, chatting with Catherine as she gets ready to clock out.
“So, I heard you've been having some issues lately? How're you holding out?” she says as she wipes down the counter, watching me with those soft, motherly eyes of a woman who's dealt with her fair share of kids scared of monsters in the closet.
It's no surprise she’s heard, she's married to officer Fillmore afterall, she's how we met.
I sigh and lean over the counter, watching her lazily
“I'm fine, it's just… stress. I probably just need to up my meds” i shrug, picking at my nails, ignoring my buzzing phone.
“If you say so,” she mumbles hesitantly, “if you need anything, please don't hesitate to call me or Roger." she says after a moment, sweet and careful, like im a feral dog or something.
“Yes ma’am, i will” i hum, attempting to sate her need to help.
She nods in approval with a burning smile, soft crows feet twinging up with it.
I clock in just before she leaves, leaning into her soft touch as she hugs me before leaving with a small wave. Climbing into her Ford suv and driving off.
The early night is slow, only the occasional odd gaggle of teens loitering, tired truckers, or passers by.
After twelve, there's really not much activity, just crickets and the purr of near burnt fluorescent lights.
I sit on my stool with a hunting magazine, my phone buzzes occasionally, and I'll be honest, I haven't looked at it hardly at all since that first set of messages. Too scared to bother.
Tonight is a slow night, 2:30AM on a Wednesday.
Country plays quietly off a crackling radio somewhere in the back room, occasionally I feel I hear talking, or footsteps over it, and I glance into the back or the aisles, standing occasionally to look, before deciding I'm imagining it and going back to my post.
At three, the tell tale sound of a truck with no muffler pulls in, and a few minutes later my phone buzzes again, I ignore it.
All three men walk in, I can't hardly remember seeing them the past two weeks, but I know they've been here, they always are.
They split in the aisles, a whispered spat between Toby and Tim catches my attention for a moment before I take my eyes away, back to my magazine.
The three of them eventually come to the counter, Tim leading the pack.
The youngest giggles every time he looks at me, I ignore it.
“Can I get twenty on four, and a pack of reds?” tim huffs, gruff and clearly tired,
I grab the pack.
“Sure thing” mumbled absently, ringing them up, Toby’s bag of jerky and Brian's coffee.
“42.99 is your total” I say, accidentally making eye contact with the youngest, who goes wild eyed at me, grinning like a madman as his shoulder jerks to the side harshly.
Tim hands me two twenties and three singles. I gave him a penny back.
“Hee- hey, y-you don't look so hhh..hot, somethin’ w-slow down-wrong?” he's grinning as he says it. The youngest. His voice is raspy, he doesn't often speak to me, just parroted words that cut off his sentences or random noises. His stutter is the biggest thing though, silent blocks, repetition, and elongation.
Brian nudges him with an annoyed look and a faux apologetic smile, but I can see it in his eyes. He also wants to know.
“Hm? Oh, yea im fine, work stress ‘s all” i shrug, sliding the bag of items across the counter to Tim, Brian holds his own coffee.
I enter a mild staring contest with Toby, like waiting to see who’ll strike first.
He grins wilder, leaning in close as he can from behind Brian.
“Hm, you lll..look like you’ve suh- seen a mmm-murder or something.” he chuckles, and i respond with an awkward attempt at a laugh
“Uh, yea, I guess so.” I hum, watching as the three boys leave, the shorter one whacking Toby upside the head, who takes it with a noisy bark of laughter.
I watch them and go back to reading, ignoring the weird interaction, and the sudden buzzing of my phone.
Not much happens the rest of the night, the truck fully disappears, no weird loitering tonight.
At 4:20 i take my break, and at eight i clock out, leaving Roy and cory to take over.
I sit in my truck with a cigarette, working up the nerve to open my phone.
When I finally do, I'm bombarded with emails, messages, and missed calls.
The calls are mostly spam or friends, emails of subscriptions or guest requests for podcasts.
The texts though, are mostly from ‘:)’
Messages and images.
The most recent though, is from a couple hours ago.
Taken from inside my house, a picture, a faceless body on my bed, not a dead body, i can tell despite the blood, that the form is taking the picture, the photo has a message above it like a caption.
“Isnt this familiar? Do you miss us like we miss you?;)”
I send a screenshot of the message to Fillmore and power off my phone again, too disturbed to look at the other 20 or so messages.