I used to work at a popular chain bookstore in southern Pennsylvania. It was a large three-story building with hundreds of thousands of books. I loved exploring the place because there would always be a hidden gem among the piles—books that’d been there since the old store closed. You know the ones: ten-dollar price stickers that look like they belong in the 90s, authors with one hit wonder novels, and those Choose Your Own Adventure books; the list went on.
The pay was terrible, but decent for a college student. Most nights, our manager let us have free cups of espresso to help us shuffle along through the closing shift. He was an okay guy—the type that would nod his head and say “sure, we can talk about your raise” and hope you forgot about the conversation when the time came. He wasn’t usually at the store when I was there.
The store would close at midnight every day. When the lights went down, the expansive hallways that seemed welcoming and warm when well-lit would become quiet and cold. Shadows from shelves stacked high would crawl across the tile floors, and the silence in the usually creaky building was eerie.
One winter evening, there was a blizzard forecast. I was scheduled to close, but another coworker called in “sick” (probably enjoying the snow day we all hoped for but didn’t get). Knowing full well she was flaking on us—an appropriately placed turn of phrase given the circumstances—I covered her shift at the request of my manager.
So, the night began. Slowly, fewer customers would walk in. Those old ladies that would browse dollar rack and bring twenty books to buy, only to sit and sift through them for an hour and purchase one, they’d leave.
Then, night settled. No one came in. The roads were basically empty; there weren’t a lot of other stores in that area open late other than a 24-hour grocery store across the short plaza we shared. It was nice: I could read some manga on the clock and hack away at the remains of a very large birthday cake that the team left in the break room earlier that day.
The night grew later. At 11:45, I locked the front door. I went to get the giant rolling ladder to reach a heavy-looking box on our display shelves. This box needed to be retrieved and placed in the stock room for our morning shift to deal with—the joys of store displays. The snow was really heavy outside; no one was even walking by the window.
Then, I had a feeling I couldn’t shake. I kept looking back. I felt like someone was watching me move the ladder months ago, and it kept nagging at me.
I headed to the back stock room for a moment, latched the door shut, then stood against the wall. I grabbed an old broom that was in the corner and took down one of the boxes of packing peanuts. I dipped the broom in it, and with a curse and a smile, tossed it up in the air. These peanuts, light as they are, made a subtle noise as they strike the ground. I then grabbed a few loose ones and dropped them on the ground, letting them scatter near the back entrance.
At least someone calling it a night will startle. I reasoned.
Right on cue.
“Stop. Don’t do anything stupid.”
My heart dropped. I’d caught someone in the act on their way out.
Pathetic.
“We’re closed, lady. It’s not the end of the world.”
I opened the door, and the roar of the blizzard outside almost drowned out her voice.
“No!” She pointed at the floor. “You don’t understand. Stop! He can tell now.”
I looked down, unimpressed, staring at the peanuts. “Miss,” my voice cracked trying its hardest to be stern. “This is just a prank. You need to go.”
She was pleading now, trying to grab me by the arm. A mess of tangled hair obscured her face; I could see streaking mascara in the outline of her eye. She didn’t seem like she was here to steal any self-help book. Her expression was one of pure despair.
“He’ll notice,” she kept mumbling frantically. I finally began to realize this woman had experienced true horror.
My heart started pounding again. I moved to close the door, but something made me hesitate. The snowstorm had grown wild outside, and I couldn’t just leave her there with the knowledge that I’d abandoned her. If it weren’t for the pure panic in her voice, I would’ve just locked the door and called it quits; but that dread—deep, primal—felt like an omen to embrace.
I turned off the light and pressed the number for the intercom for the building management, but the woman shook her head.
“No. You’ve already closed. He’ll hear.”
Silent, I walked her out through the back hallway. The remains of the packing peanuts stuck to our feet. I unlocked the door, and she shuddered at the sound. I gave her my phone and she hurried away.
Keep it together, I thought. Just need to clean up the back, take one good look around the store, and go home. The ride back to my apartment was a blur. I stumbled in and made sure to slide every lock and deadbolt I had. I tried to sleep, but tremors wracked my body every time I closed my eyes.
The next day at work, I noticed splashes of color hiding under a thick layer of packing peanuts; shades of rust and deep crimson.
Just another shitty day at the bookstore. Yeah, that’s all.
snap
crack
I couldn’t sit still. I tried to tell myself it was all nothing. Just a woman scaring herself in a snowstorm.
Then I got a text from an unknown number.
“Those peanuts you left in the back, they’re stained now. The one searching, he’s trying to find us. And he’s getting closer.” The text sent a shiver down my spine. I read it over and over again, blood slowly turning cold in my veins. Every hair on the back of my neck prickled up. Anxious sweat beaded on my forehead, and I found myself compulsively glancing over my shoulder, as if someone might be there watching me. I felt sick to my stomach.
It can’t be real, I thought. This is stupid. It’s just some crazy lady.
I tried to go about my day as usual, stocking shelves and pretending everything was fine. But that icy pit in my stomach wouldn’t go away. I remembered the woman’s eyes - eyes full of terror, pain, and despair - and it was like a stone in my gut that weighed me down all day.
The one searching, he’s trying to find us.
“Who?” I texted back hesitantly, not knowing if I should get involved or just completely abandon the situation. My thumb hovered over the send button for several long moments, wrestling with fear and curiosity. But as the world around me grew quiet and the uneasiness continued to haunt me, I couldn’t take it anymore.
Who? I sent the text, and immediately regretted it.
I stared at the phone, waiting nervously for a response. Minutes ticked by, each one feeling like an eternity, before my phone finally buzzed with a new message.
*“I wish I knew. Someone - or something - hunts us. Having left those markings behind and the peanuts, we sealed our fate.”
So now I’m scared, what is out there.