I Work the Night Shift at a Gas Station. Last Night, a Customer Came In at 3:33 AM.

 

Nobody came into the gas station at 3:33 in the morning.

Especially not on a Tuesday.

The town was practically asleep by midnight, and by three in the morning, the only sounds were the hum of the refrigerators and the rain hitting the windows.

So when the front-door bell rang, I looked up immediately.

An old man walked inside.

He was wearing a long raincoat, and water dripped from his shoes onto the floor. He didn't browse the shelves or look around. He walked straight toward the counter.

"Pump six," he said.

I glanced at the monitor.

"Pump six hasn't worked in two years."

He smiled.

"I know."

Then he added, "I'm not here for gas."

Before I could ask what he meant, he pulled a photograph from inside his coat and placed it on the counter.

I picked it up.

My stomach dropped.

It was a picture of me standing behind the register.

The picture had clearly been taken through the front window. I could see myself in the exact position I was standing in now, staring at the same register, wearing the same uniform.

"Where did you get this?" I asked.

The old man tapped the photograph.

"Eleven minutes ago."

I slowly looked toward the windows.

There was nobody outside.

The parking lot was empty. The pumps were barely visible through the rain and fog.

I turned back toward him.

"What do you want?"

He stared at me for several seconds.

"The same thing you want."

"And what's that?"

"To go home."

Something about the way he said it made my skin crawl.

Then he pointed toward the security monitor.

"Look."

I turned around.

The camera feed showed the inside of the store.

The register.

The aisles.

The front door.

And me.

Except something was wrong.

The person standing behind the register on the screen wasn't moving.

I watched for several seconds.

No blinking.

No shifting from one foot to the other.

Nothing.

Just standing there.

Staring directly at the camera.

I looked at the person beside me.

Then back at the screen.

The old man spoke quietly.

"That's not you."

My mouth went dry.

"Then who is it?"

He leaned closer.

"Something that has been wearing people's shifts for a very long time."

I didn't understand.

He continued anyway.

"It started here in 1987. Every few years, someone working the night shift disappears. No struggle. No explanation. They simply don't go home."

I looked at the monitor again.

The figure behind the counter still hadn't moved.

"It feeds on routine," he whispered. "The same hours. The same conversations. The empty nights. Eventually, it learns you well enough to take your place."

I looked down at my hands.

They looked completely normal.

Then I noticed my name tag.

I froze.

The name printed on it wasn't mine.

I touched it with trembling fingers.

The old man grabbed my wrist.

"Don't look at the camera again."

"Why?"

"Because it knows you've noticed."

I looked toward the front door.

The rain had stopped.

The store was completely silent.

Then the bell above the door moved slightly.

The old man's expression changed.

"Run."

I didn't move.

"Now."

The bell chimed.

I ran.

I don't remember much after that.

I remember pushing through the door.

I remember running across the parking lot without looking back.

I remember hearing the bell behind me one more time.

Then nothing.

That was three nights ago.

I'm staying at a motel in another town now. I haven't gone back. I haven't called anyone from the station. I haven't even checked whether the place is still open.

I've changed my name.

I've changed my phone number.

I'm trying to convince myself that whatever happened was some kind of nightmare.

But tonight, something happened that I can't explain.

My phone showed a notification for a job application.

I opened it.

It was for a night-shift position at a gas station.

The application had already been submitted.

The starting time was 10:00 p.m.

And the applicant's name wasn't mine.

I don't remember applying.

But apparently, someone did.